Saturday, March 12, 2005
Since we last spoke I nearly smacked into Julia Stiles in the lobby of Barnard’s library as I was returning a book titled 100 Saints. She pretended not to know me, and I appreciated having a few more moments of privacy as I set off down Broadway in the snow storm which was, god, last week? Two weeks ago? Where am I?
Spring break is here and my body waited till now to break down and get ill. I wonder about the psychology of my flu’s and colds, as I waited till the first day of winter break to get sick, too. At least I can sleep in a couple of mornings and pretend to recover from the semester so far, in which I have been working harder and getting less done. I still don’t understand that.
For my first editorial gig at the journal I was asked to tackle an essay by a woman who’s had stories published in the New Yorker. That’s like asking an MBA student to critique a business plan by Donald Trump. Kinda. In a way. But I pretended to know what I was doing, and in the end I slashed 1500 words trimmed her piece down to its hot little heart. I turned it in with more than a little trepidation. But she accepted the edit, a milestone of sorts in my ascension into the New York intelligentsia.
I know. This kind of talk gets you hot. It’s okay.
There is something surreal about a life centered entirely around the written word. Be it books, articles, xeroxes, or the glowing screen of my computer, my day-to-day existence is top-heavy with words. It’s like literary boot camp, except without bunk beds and hot jarheads. And without them, I mean what’s the point? After working all night and the next day on my workshop submissions, I emerge, blinking and stupid, into the weak winter sun, falling in step with the hurrying crowds on Broadway, the groaning buses plastered with advertisements of television shows I’ll never see. The last time my life felt this unbalanced was when I was smoking crystal meth with boys I barely knew in a car parked under a flickering streetlight outside the End-Up on a Friday night. Comparing literature and speed is a bit melodramatic, yes, but I suppose anything is unhealthy in large quantities.
For emotional support I’ve turned to the first season of Alias on dvd. Like Sydney Bristow, I believe that most grad student problems can be eased by flying to Majorca and running down high-security corridors in a wig, six-inch heels, and a gold lamé cat suit.
