First things first: I have finally finished Within a Budding Grove, and, leaving a lovestruck Marcel pining after Albertine in a cold Balbec hotel room, moved on to The Guermantes Way. We are still terribly behind, but this, my dear readers, is what you call progress (though I must say that Nora, who just got a full-time job and is being awesome and kick-ass round-the-clock, deserves a little more applause than does my reading of seventy pages!). We carry on, Marcel. Just you watch us.
This spring has been the coldest I can remember, including the four winters I spent in upstate New York. After a relatively mild winter, March came bearing down like the lion my mother always claimed it was, and we have had snow every few days for the last several weeks. The days are longer now, and I sometimes get out of bed at seven and pull up my blinds to the most dazzling shade of blue. It is sometimes so sunny that I forget it is still thirty-five degrees, and go outside to a bitter cold reminder.
Today I decided to wear a dress. For the first time since October, I wanted to feel unconstrained by corduroys and zippers, and layered
thick tights and a thermal shirt under a blue cotton dress I inherited from Elizabeth, as I boarded the F train to Brooklyn. Nick and Sam and I went to see the El Anatsui retrospective, a show about a contemporary Ghanaian artist who makes shimmering, fluid, mosaic-like walls of rippling metal out of African liquor caps. After a stunning show at the Venice Biannale six years ago, he has been gaining popularity, and I went to write about the exhibit for Hyperallergic, an online magazine based in Brooklyn. We wandered from room to room and then out through Park Slope and across Prospect Park, where the trees were thinking about budding.
Five years ago, I wrote a letter to myself upon the occasion of my high school graduation. We were promised that these would be mailed to us the spring of our first year out of college—our five-year reunion. I have been thinking a lot about that letter lately, mostly pondering what could possibly be inside, as I have absolutely no memory of what I wrote. What could eighteen-year-old Maeve have to say? Did she wish me luck in college, tell me to be brave and take risks, urge me not to forget those wonderful and terrible years when she felt so lost and so loved? And what, more importantly (and more frightening),
would she think of me now, living in Manhattan (a city I never pondered moving to until the summer I lived here and fell in love on the second day), working as a hostess, applying to almost a hundred jobs from coffee-shop tables and library desks? Would she be shocked, that Maeve who had never been kissed, whose parents were married, who drove through the summer nights with her three best friends, blasting Brand New and soaking up the hot summer air and wondering what alcohol felt like when it touched your throat? Would she think I have grown up, become jaded, succeeded or failed?
This week I learned that I did not get what I thought might be my dream job, an intensive internship at a major newspaper, and for a good two hours, I stared at my computer screen and wondered how to do this thing that seems to want to evade me. I wondered, for the very first time in my life, if I am meant to be a writer, when no one but me seems to want to hire me to do so. And then I started to think about eighteen-year-old Maeve, who may have been naive and a little quixotic, but who had no doubt how hard this would be. And I thought of something Nick had said to me that morning, as I stressed about hearing from HR. “If anyone can do this, you can.”
So I got out my computer, and began to write. I googled small newspapers and New York Times articles. I went through the entire masthead of the Brooklyn Paper and wrote to every editor. I wrote to Frank Bruni, my favorite Times columnist, and asked him for advice. The next morning, he wrote me back, wishing me luck. I put on my purple button-down and went to the public library and printed out my clips and went into the offices of the Brooklyn Paper and told them I wanted to learn. I called different editorial departments and finally spoke to a man at a series of small neighborhood newspapers in downtown Manhattan. And as of Monday, April 1st, I will be interning there, fact-checking and copy-editing and doing all of the little gritty things that I need to learn. And, best news yet: they cannot pay me much (I will, in fact, have to get another part-time job), but they are going to let me write. I called my mom, and she told me I should do it.
I don’t know if it’s spring finally coming and the sunshine, or that red-headed stubbornness that I always seem to forget until I really
need it, or having the most wonderful people on Earth around me to support me in what is sometimes an impossible time, but I feel as
if things are changing. And as someone who does not do well at all with change, this is a remarkably wonderful thing. Liz texted me on Tuesday, when I told her my new plan, “as a wise teacher once said, sometimes in order to wake up, you have to mess up the pattern.” So this is my attempt. It is not ideal; it will hardly be glamorous. But the thought of going in to a real newspaper office twice a week makes me smile. It will be a new experience, and I am very ready for that.
So there you have it, eighteen-year-old Maeve. Your life is still very much a work in progress. You have by no means figured it out, but
you are having a blast along the way. Some of your very best friends, you don’t even know yet. Some of your favorite places you haven’t even seen. But get excited, and be proud of what you will do, and don’t stop even when it gets really hard.
Oh, and one more thing. One day you are going to try to read a really really long book, and then regret it for a while and then plunge back in and then hate it again. But don’t give up.