I haven’t posted much here in 2017, not because I wasn’t writing, but because for the first time since grad school, I was writing for more than the three of you who read this, and most magazines and literary journals won’t accept work that I publish here first. Despite all the disappointments of this year, writing more is one thing I feel really good about.
This is the 5th New Year’s post I’ve written in which I reveal the obsessive degree to which I document and hoard memories. The years have started to blur together now, and it’s the changing locations that help me to keep track of a timeline.
2017 was a blur of emotional extremes. There was the inauguration, the resulting fear, shock, and anger. There was the birth of my niece, train rides, and friend reunions. I spent half the year working in D.C. and half the year in Mississippi, where I never expected to be for quite so long and where I’ve been unexpectedly content. I moved out of one of my favorite apartments and away from one of my favorite cities—my 8th cross-country move. I met literary agents in New York City, read my work to strangers in Baltimore, climbed a mountain in Virginia, and hunted ghosts in Gettysburg. I participated in the Women’s March, the Climate March, the Immigration Protest, and so many other empowering and hopeful gatherings. I spent three surreal days at my 5 year college reunion. I saw the partial eclipse, fall colors in Canada, and snow in Mississippi. I learned how to hold a baby without being horrified and went on more field trips than I can count with the coolest 11-month-old on Earth. I spent 215 hours (including 7 nights) on trains, 41 hours on buses, and slept in 8 states and 2 countries. I mailed several hundred brownies/cookies and mailed a letter every day for a month. I interviewed 23 college applicants and wrote what feels like 4 million cover letters. I read 55 books.
I turned 28 last month, and though I’m not sure how 28 is supposed to feel, I don’t think I feel it. If it’s supposed to feel grown up or successful or accomplished, I don’t feel it. If it’s supposed to feel stable or settled or maternal, then I definitely don’t feel it—a fact I’m perfectly fine with. What it does feel like is that I make very good brownies, and like I’ve gotten much better at packing suitcases, and like I’m physically stronger than I look, and like I’m not as bad at talking to strangers as I once was. I count these as victories.
Right now 2018 feels very uncertain. I don’t have a plan, don’t know where I’ll be in a month. But that has stopped feeling like as much of a problem as it once did. There are so many things to be excited about.
