I was able to watch last night’s episode of Girls tonight. In the first episode, I became hyper-aware that Hannah was an aspiring writer, struggling to make ends meet and catch a break in New York City and simultaneously juggling her various relationships. The raw modernity and wit strikes me every time I watch. And tonight, those qualities combined with a situation that mirrored my own emotions. (And finally connected back to Hannah’s writer roots that seemed lost for a few episodes.)
The episode opens at a book release party for a girl with whom Hannah attended college–her “nemesis.” Hannah runs into a past professor, one that consistently praised her writing. He extends an invitation to an “archaic”-style reading. (I was not aware that readings were considered old-fashioned.) She admits it’s not her thing but soon changes her mind after seeing the success of her former classmate, saying some variation of: You have to do something different to get somewhere new. That’s entirely paraphrased; I can’t remember it word for word. My internal response was: Yes, Hannah. You’re so right. And that’s why I am moving to Boston. See? We’re totally on the same page. One day my life can be as witty and interesting as hers!
THEN came the part that really got me. She tells a co-worker what she plans to read at the event–a personal essay about a guy she had a crush on in college who turned out to be a hoarder. She confesses it may sound trivial initially but that she hopes it speaks to larger topics such as fear of intimacy. “Why could be more trivial than intimacy?” he asks her. Hannah, taken aback, asks what he thinks are more important topics. He offers a list of cultural and worldly topics, concluding with “death.” In the later scene, Hannah enters the reading and reveals to the audience that she has trashed her hoarder story for something she wrote on the way as she sat on the subway. The crowd shows complete disinterest. Although we only get the first few sentences, the scene concludes with her repeating (for emphasis) the word “died.” She strayed from her gut and listened to the dude from the coffee shop, much to the dismay of her professor.
Similarly, the triviality of my writing is what worries me most. Like Hannah, although she is fictional, I also write personal nonfiction essays. And even if I think, or a reader thinks, that the writing is good as well as the story, I can’t help thinking that I’m spending time writing about the unimportant. Hannah says something so honest and perfect about her “nemesis” at the event. The girls take note that the book is based on the suicide of the author’s boyfriend. Hannah’s response: “She is so lucky.” I know, I know. Inappropriate. Distasteful. Disrespectful, even. Not to mention insane. But I totally get why she said it. I know people that have been through some rough shit. People that have incredible stories they could tell about their hardship and their strength to muck through it all. But they either don’t want to tell them (the desire) or don’t know how (the skill of writing). And sometimes I just sit and think about how the events and occasions in my life that have seemed so fucking difficult seem trivial in comparison to what somebody else is dealing with. And I get that’s it’s dumb and immature to compare. My life is mine. And I have a right to my emotions and how I respond to my experiences. But I can’t help thinking, who the hell is going to want to read this shit? Who is going to care that much? How can I make my life into a story worth telling?
Me–it’s all I know how to write. Fuck fiction. Fuck poetry. I can’t do it. Yet I give heaps of credit to those who can. But it isn’t me. I need writing for cathartic purposes. But words fascinate me too much to just dump them onto a page without care or concern. It’s an art form that takes practice and creativity and diligence, and I truly believe I have all of that. I must not suck if I got into this MFA program at Emerson. And I know that. I know that I am good this…or at least have the potential. I just feel so ambivalent toward my work. I can be so incredibly proud of something and want to show it to everyone I know, but then I consider how insignificant the content must seem to anyone other than me.
Untangle 