That’s why I’m so dangerous—I could get shunned, and I wouldn’t even care.
Some days you like your job. Some days you don’t. Here are 16 things that probably won’t have any noticeable effect on how you feel about your life’s work.
- Making to-do lists on subpar stationary.
- Reading stories about Florida teenagers who murdered their parents. Yikes, bro. Yikes.
- Loudly attempting to clarify your order to a distraught barista who has fled halfway across the room because the toaster just caught fire. “Sir, I meant half whole milk, not half-and-half,” you wail, but he has fled, and he hears you not.
- Mosquito nets, even though I’ll be the first to admit that they are pretty.
- Finding typos in online New Yorker articles. I see you, double space. I see you.
- Biking up very low but very long hills, the worst activity in the free world.
- Stretching in public.
- Getting bitten by rabid dogs.
- Glaring back at the dude who glared at you because you mildly bumped his table at the coffee shop, thus creating a tiny wave in his coffee and APPARENTLY HE CAN’T GO ON LIVING LIKE THIS.
- When the coat of the person sitting next to you on a plane is just barely touching your elbow and you know they’re doing it on purpose to encroach on your personal space but what can you do? You’d sound like a psychopath if you accused them of anything. So you nudge the coat slightly with your elbow. They notice nothing.
- A Yogi Tea bag that says “I am beautiful, I am bountiful, I am blissful.”
- A well-timed fax.
- Counting your blessings.
- Books that literary people “enjoy.”
Me: “Would you say that your logic is different than everyone else’s logic?”
Charlie: “No. My logic is the mother logic.”
Charlie’s Opinions is a column dictated by Charlie, who can be found playing romantic improvised music when he’s not staggering under the weight of all his opinions.
I’ve tried to update this blog—this PORTFOLIO, sorry, this portfolio—a million times this summer and fall, but I’ve been wracked with that weird form of writer’s block that comes from having too much to say and too much money to be bothered to write it down and too many conflicting celebrity birthday party invitations to attend them all which has resulted in a lot of very hurt, very famous feelings, as you can imagine.
The past twelve months have been full of so many changes. For example, I lost some skin cells and grew new ones. I also started washing my hair with yarrow root and researched video games. Exciting statistic: I’ve officially been a full-time freelance writer for a year! Yeah, it was right around the start of football season that I quit my hilariously lucrative, moonshine-soaked waitressing job so that I could write full-time, and by “write full-time” I mean “write fashion news blurbs for almost no money full-time.” But the journey of a thousand miles starts with one underpaid gig, compatriots.
So it’s been a year of thinking about writing in a much more tangible, practical way than I ever thought about writing before. It’s not so much, “Ooh I like writing OOH HERE’S A GOOD TITLE FOR A POEM: EARL GREY RAINWATER,” it’s much more, “What do I want to write? What am I good at writing? What role do I want writing to play in my life? How do I want to write? Is there a void in the world that only my writing can fill?” (Yes there is, and it’s called TARANTINO’S GHOSTWRITER.)
In short, it’s been a year of thinking about my calling, which is sensitive term that I used once in an awkward meeting with an Indiana University administrator. I told him I didn’t want to be a teacher because being a teacher wasn’t “my calling.” He actually laughed at me.
“You believe in callings?” he asked. I didn’t say anything, but what I should have told that sad, incredulous man is, “How can you not?”
So I’ve decided to write down my thoughts on the subject of writing like a bored housewife keeping a diary on the back of her grocery receipts during the awful summer heat of Arizona, 1964. I’ll make it a series: writing as all sorts of different things. I’m sure you’ll disagree with some of them, but this is what writing means to me at this moment in time as I sit in my air-conditioned mansion and count my millions and, well, I could write about it all day.
HELLO, COUNTRYMEN. The last time I posted something here, I was in Spain, but the second I got home from Europe, normal life swallowed me whole—except you can’t un-see “Guernica” and you can’t undo moments spent alone in Istanbul’s Basilica Cistern and thank God for that. I do have big plans for this little blog, I do—odd series and introspective think pieces and enough Charlie’s Opinions to keep you stressed out for weeks. But I’ve just been so busy trying to become a tiny bit legit that I haven’t had the time to write anything that doesn’t immediately pay ten million dollars.
Here’s what I’ve been up to for the past few months. I currently have a terrible head cold, so I’m busy feeling sorry for myself, but in the grand scheme of things, I am so, so grateful.
1. I scrambled around Paris/Spain/Portugual/Turkey on a writer’s budget, with a writer’s slightly cracked camera.
2. I flew to LA to see my amazing baby sister play Jo from Little Women. She was TRULY GREAT.
6. I reviewed Michael Cunningham’s latest novel.
8. I wrote a list of the 13 most annoying writers you’ll ever meet. It sorta went viral. The Pen/Faulkner award mentioned it on Facebook.
12. I interviewed the Editor-in-Chief of Guernica (the magazine, not the painting, bro). The interview isn’t up yet but you’ll definitely hear about it when it is.
This may be the most self-aggrandizing post of all time, but if I think it’s cool to be a little bit proud of your achievements, isn’t it? Especially when everyone says the thing you want to do for a living isn’t anything you could do, you know, in real life, and you’re like, Just let me try for two seconds?
I don’t even know where to begin. Here’s how I’ve been feeling lately: ecstatic, dopamine-fueled, like everything is happening at once, and full of that subtle but deep underlying sadness that I don’t think any thinking woman will ever be able to shake. Example: today, I saw Picasso’s “Guernica” in person. I started crying. I stood close to it for ten minutes. I stopped myself from even thinking about taking a picture. My vision was blurry. I’d had so much coffee, and so little food. I felt: so moved to be in the presence of legend, so moved to be in the presence of great art, so envious of every artist and ex-pat who’s ever lived in Europe among this deep deep artistic history that we will never be able to approximate in the US, so sad about the bombing of Guernica, so intimidated by how perfectly Picasso channeled real human suffering into art, so restless about the fact that I don’t live in a city with Guernica in it, so dreamy at the thought that I was standing in an art museum by myself in Madrid, so confused.
I walked back, buzzing with caffeine and Guernica and work, listening to something just as blood-pumping and confusing as anything: a song that my brother recommended to me for a road trip with my sister but that has come to represent, for me, my first solo trip to Europe. Buzzing is the best word for what I’ve been feeling lately. Sometimes it’s literal (wayyyyy too many gin and tonics in Portugal), sometimes it’s because I’m listening to a great song and walking extra fast, sometimes it’s because I’m angry (I recently got an EMAIL criticizing one of my articles for having a TYPO), sometimes it’s because I’m thrilled, sometimes it’s because I’m making eyes at everyone on the street and I can’t stop. I’m too obsessed with burning imagery, stigmata, flash fiction. I just stopped writing and reached for the screen. See—the big gesture of my life right now is me holding my hands out in front of me and shaking, fingers poised in a gesture that’s half-claws, half-reaching. With joy? With fear? Even I, the trembling mind inside my only body, couldn’t tell you.
Find me a man who doesn’t love getting Doritos, a Coke, and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from a gas station on a road trip and I’ll find you a liar.
Charlie’s Opinions is a column dictated by Charlie, who can be found practicing the art of iPhone photography when he’s not staggering under the weight of all his opinions.
A strange thing I was working on last year. What is it? Visual nonfiction? All dreams are technically nonfiction, aren’t they?
I wasn’t going to do anything with it, but recently I’ve been extra inspired by Andy Warhol’s idea of just cranking stuff out, letting the world deal with it as they will, and getting along to the next project. I really want to be some sort of Warhol-Zelda Fitzgerald hybrid rather than, say, a Flaubert in search of le mot juste. A fabulous hack with a quick wit.
This is a transcript of a real-life chat conversation between friends. Names have not been changed. Liberties have not been taken. Well, the scotch is a bit fictional. But isn’t it always?
ZALMAN: Meri, I have literally zero experience in romantic love, but, can I describe my current fantasy for a life partner?
ZALMAN: We meet and fall in love. In a few years we get married. A few years after we get divorced. No one gets hurt. We just decide we need to move on
MERIWETHER: How do you not at all get hurt in a divorce?
ZALMAN: STOP I’M NOT DONE.
MERIWETHER: Okay, sorry.
Meriwether returns to cutting out paper doll figurines for her Burn Book as Zalman types rapidly.
ZALMAN: I mean no one gets their heart broken. It’s mildly painful, but we move on. We stay good friends, if not best friends. We go have our own lives. Our romances. We do separate things but stay friends. Then, around age 65, we realize that all along the other person was really the one we cared about the most, and we live happily ever after.
A poignant pause.
ZALMAN: Is that weird?
MERIWETHER: No, I like it. But then what happens when one of you dies first?
ZALMAN: Happens to most couples. Anyway, possible models: 1. Siegfried and Roy. 2. Cathy Barbarian and Luciano Berio.
MERIWETHER: Do you want to hear mine?
ZALMAN: Okay, go.
MERIWETHER: So I continue my life as it is, constantly being hit on by disgusting men, rejecting them all. Only having occasional and mild interest in peers and colleagues, all of whom end up being too insecure in their own personhood and masculinity to fully deserve me. As a result of the continued anger, frustration, sense of doom, etc. I feel toward almost all bachelors who come my way, coupled with my very real desire to have a child of my own and raise it and love it, I decide to become a single mother and either hit up one of my friends (YOU) for a sperm donation, or go to a sperm bank.
Zalman chuckles, swirling a glass of Scotch on one finger.
MERIWETHER: Several years later, I am a thriving single parent. Whatever I’m doing to make money is going well. Writing couldn’t be better. My child is blossoming into a beautiful little person I love taking care of. And then SUDDENLY an older and distinguished gentleman comes into my life—details TBD. With his maturity of intellect and emotion he is able to grasp both my inherent positive traits and the struggle I have overcome as a single parent. We fall in love and get married. I am probably 40-45, he is no older than mid 50s. We live happily ever after. The end. Also, travel a lot. And hopefully he’s rich.
ZALMAN: We have the best unconventional fantasies ever!