Welcome to vvn town! Here you’ll find unhinged essays, random musings, and an occasional advice column. Think of it like an OnlyFans, except it’ll be my goopy little brain that is naked.
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In fourth grade, my teacher asked the class a question that was, in hindsight, rather strange: “If you were on the streets with no money, what would you do to survive?” When it was my turn, I paused and thought about the only thing I really really liked doing. I told everyone that I would write stories and sell them on the street.
“That’s actually not how the publishing industry works,” my classmate said (yeah, no shit, Becky1).
That day I decided two things:
Becky sucked.
I was going to become a writer.
I felt the latter with such conviction, like the universe had zapped an unescapable truth into my brain. And for what it’s worth, I did try to escape it, like when I considered pursuing a major in STEM or business. But this realization had already subsumed me, seeped into the corners of my brain I couldn’t scrub clean with notions of practicality and stability. Nothing made me feel so simultaneously grounded and stimulated; the written word has always and continues to make me feel (inb4 your eyeroll)… alive.
So I always came crawling back.
What, then, always pushes me away? Why does a game I want to play hate its player so much?2
I’m by no means a prolific writer, or even a productive one. I have never successfully integrated it as a ritual in my life, and not out of lack of trying. You know how some people have that person in their lives that they feel destined to be with, but something — timing, distance, bad haircuts — always seems to be in the way? A person they love so much it physically aches sometimes?
Well, that’s me and writing.
One of my favorite books is Where’d You Go, Bernadette? by Maria Semple. An epistolary novel, it follows the story of a washed up architect who has abandoned her craft. In an extremely long and winding letter to her former mentor, she provides excuses as to why — the failure of a beloved, social isolation, financial stress, etc.
Her mentor replies with this:
Bernadette,
Are you done? You can’t honestly believe any of this nonsense. People like you must create. If you don’t create, Bernadette, you will become a menace to society3
My mind went numb, and when I finished the book I turned on the film adaption.4 At the end, there's a scene in which Bernadette has run away and reignited her passion, and her family overhears her excitedly talking about her next project.
Me, in bed, having avoided my Google Docs folder in months — I sobbed hard, tears racing down my cheeks and spilling on the pillow below. I had never cried like that for anything other than heartbreak or grief, and this was none of those; it was happiness and guilt and gratitude and pure emotion for this… this thing. This part of me that kept slipping through my fingers but would never fully shut the door behind itself.
It is a strange, strange feeling when you can’t keep a grip on the one thing that keeps you afloat.
So much of my life now is in service of this mysterious, elusive relationship between me and the craft. I go to therapy so I have enough mental space to write. I do semi-dangerous/questionable things for the story. I work in tech so I can work from home and be financial stable — to write.
An essay I worked on for over a year is coming out this week. It’s about something really niche and goofy, but I drove 10 hours round-trip to Malibu Creek State Park to do research for it. As I was swatting away mosquitos in the heat, I realized that I had never considered this effort excessive or unnecessary — it was simply a byproduct of this main endeavor in my life. I hope I continue to think this way.
But I’ve plunged you into this journey in media res. If my craft is a wooden door floating in the Atlantic Ocean, sometimes I'm Rose and, well, sometimes I'm Jack.
Perhaps this makes me unqualified to say what I’m about to say, but screw it — if you’re also holding onto a door, if you have a thing that scares you but also makes you feel like yourself, please hold on a little longer.
I can’t guarantee a lifeboat is coming to save us, but I’ll be treading with you.
Name changed but tbh I don’t even remember which girl it was
Most realistically it’s part laziness and part depression, but this blog post is not long enough for that lmao
This direct quote is a little pretentious but I hope you get the point I’m tryna make!
The film adaptation was bad btw lol I do not recommend
Great Passion. Thanks For Sharing.
Basically this is the story of my life. In 4th grade a teacher told me I couldn’t start a sentence with “and” because I wasn’t a real writer. I was like lol okay I’ll show you