Category Archives: On Reflection

Why I write about my life

Why am I compelled to write about my life? Why, after a day rife with deadline anxiety, the inevitable awkward door encounter and fear of never finding a big-girl job, would I rather write a blog post than break open a bottle of something strong (per the college social scene in which I currently exist)? Life writing, frankly, is one of the few realms in which I feel validated. Worthy. When I write about my life, I am good enough.

When Ander Monson wrote an entire chapter about his love of flavored Doritos in Vanishing Point, I realized I could capture the time I got hit in the head with a bowling ball in ninth-grade gym (it really happened). The time I fell hard for a European guy after only knowing him for my brief journey abroad — like a character straight out of the romantic comedies I frequently call unrealistic but love anyway. The time I qualified for the state tennis tournament as a high school senior and learned I may be down, but I’m never out.

I write about my life because I’m permitted to explore the same experience, suspended in a single moment, time and time again. Life writing and I both know I’ll never fully capture or comprehend it, and that fact neither agonizes nor deters me. It invites me to explore and redefine my existence on my own timeline.

I write about my life in all its minutiae to encourage other people that their experiences, too, are worth exploring on the page. The act of capturing identity in writing is a conversation between past and present selves, a friendly battle that is never resolved.

My senior capstone project began strictly as an analytical portrait of tennis memoirs, but my experience of the game crept into it, eventually weaving its way through the narrative. Life writing is automatic, and in the end, I realized I like writing about tennis more than I ever enjoyed playing it.

My identity as a tennis fan is no longer limited to the physical act of hammering forehand after forehand, botching volley after volley. Thanks to my friend life writing, it’s more nuanced, manifesting differently in my fan, player, spectator and writer identities. Life writing is my faithful source of self-discovery, growth and recovery.

On embracing life’s lingering tensions

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After baking another round of apple cinnamon muffins while watching “Mean Girls” (and reciting the Kevin G. rap with alarming finesse, I might add), I felt the compulsion to produce some sort of epiphany, proof of my personal growth in the past year. I’m 22 today, after all.

Naturally, that quest led me to life writing, a realm in which I am at once challenged and comfortable. I have no grand epiphany or a syrupy sweet list of, “The 22 Things Every Girl Should Learn by Age 22.” (Hey, fellow 20-somethings, can we please get over the how-to-live-your-life article format?)

While it does not feel like a perfect night to dress up like a hipster (though I am on board with the whole breakfast at midnight thing), per Taylor Swift, one part of “22” is on point: the word “confused.” As the dreaded question, “What are you doing after graduation?” swirls around me, I admit I’ve been feigning certainty, that I have my proverbial adult act together.

“I’m going to continue working part-time and continue the post-grad job hunt,” I reply with a smile, quickly changing the subject to how awkward I look in my graduation gown or how I plan to continue learning Arabic after I graduate.

All the while, I really want to say, “Uh, um, ah, not sure yet. Please let me flounder and fret in peace, thank you!” In my work in autobiography/memoir, however, lingering tensions and unresolved issues are not problematic. They’re positive, enriching and strengthening the act of capturing oneself in writing.

My entire life feels like a lingering tension/unresolved issue at the moment, and that basic principle of life writing challenged my perception of uncertainty. I’m not a failure, despite the uncomfortable, obligatory response of, “Well, I’m sure you’ll find a job in no time! You’re a good writer.”

From now on, I think I’ll reply, “I don’t really know,” to the formidable, menacing senior-year question. Because right now, the only thing I’m certain about is that I’m passionate about writing, journalism and telling stories (and inhaling pancakes at unconventional hours — thanks for the tip, T. Swift). And that’s good enough for me.

Identity: ever evolving and ever the same

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I turn 22 on Monday. I’ll complete an internship I’ve loved on Dec. 5. I graduate eight days later. It’s no surprise themes of change and growth have pervaded my recent writing, morphing from thoughtful commentary to trite ‘motivational’ sayings and back again.

You know, that dreadful ‘artwork’ that lined the hallway of your elementary school? I’m talking the posters with vague words like “perseverance” or “determination” in some, “I will bestow knowledge upon you, young peasant!” font.

Amid all my meditation on change and growth, it’s easy to overlook the ways in which I haven’t changed. As a life writer/perpetual reflector, I like to think of myself as some ever-evolving, improving being. I’m in college, after all, the socially sanctioned place for visceral transformation (Sounds like something in a university mission statement, doesn’t it?).

Exploring the ways I haven’t changed in the last three-and-a-half years isn’t admission of failure but of humanity, of the beautiful fact that identity is fluid, forever evolving and forever the same, all at once.

The self, I’ve learned, isn’t something one can organize or color-code, as I do every other aspect of my life. It’s darker, messier. Maybe that’s why I’ve spent the last four years writing about my life and others’ lives. There’s eternal tension on the page no matter how fancy my word choice, no matter how ‘smart’ that Hamlet reference.

And perhaps most importantly, there’s tangibility in experience that organically guides me beyond it, a space that permits me to explore past and present identity in conversation rather than isolation.

While my understanding of identity has evolved, my journalistic philosophy hasn’t changed, thanks to late Drake School of Journalism and Mass Communication professor Rick Tapscott. Even as new forces, new stresses, new pressures emerge (Cue the now-expected, “So, Taylor, do you have a job? Are you dating anyone? Have you bought a house? So are you ruling your own country yet?” OK, kidding about the last two.), Rick’s wise words echo daily in my mind, a constant amid the chaos of almost-post-grad life: “It’ll all work out. It always does.”

Nearly a year after his death, I have yet to completely shift from present to past tense when I refer to him. His gruff, concise wisdom meanders its way through my life both in and beyond the newsroom, a classic Rick one-liner the remedy for my 20-something angst.

I admit I’ve questioned my career choice numerous times in the past year. Even on the days I struggle to piece together my words on the page — the act to which I’ve dedicated my existence — I return to the Rick quote that has influenced my life more than any other: “If you go into journalism for the right reasons, it’s a fun and honorable profession.”

Birthdays provide tangible proof of personal growth

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Funfetti cake. Brief peril in the proximity of my crazy hair to birthday candles. The yearly barrage of, “Hey, [@EveryTennisProEver]! It’s my birthday — please tweet at me!”

I love birthdays. There’s something irresistible about their innate tangibility.

Whether I’m flipping my calendar from November 2013 to now or mentally preparing myself for 24 hours of Taylor Swift’s “22,” I crave tangible proof I’ve grown in the past year.

And yet, the tangible things I’ve counted on over the years have lost some of their luster this time. Fear not, I’ll still bake Funfetti cake with blindingly pink frosting, and Roger Federer will tweet at me this year (wishful thinking italicized for dramatic effect). This birthday, though, I’ve reinvented some of the tangible experiences I once clung to for evidence of personal growth.

Like tennis. When I quit playing my junior year of college, courtesy of homework/work/life in general, I felt lost. The physical act of playing tennis was ingrained in my identity. It provided a go-to means of relieving whatever trauma I faced that day.

Thanks to my senior capstone for my English writing degree, I’ve realized newfound complexity in the game of tennis. Though I can’t hit a forehand with the same finesse as my 17-year-old self, I’ve realized I love writing about tennis far more than I ever enjoyed playing it.

Plus, there’s a bizarre dichotomy in tennis. It’s intensely private and public, simultaneously. The player is alone on the court, as fans, coaches, photographers and even the umpire experience the narrative from a different vantage point. A fan-sanctioned form of solitary confinement.

Exploring this complexity in writing has renewed tennis’ purpose in my life.

Birthdays remind me it’s OK to be ridiculous (i.e. fangirl tweeting at Roger Federer while inhaling one-too-many Funfetti cupcakes), but they also remind me that personal growth transcends those 24 hours. It blurs into something more nuanced, in which the tangible and intangible are inextricable.

The agony and triumph of writing a cover letter

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All right, I’d better fact-check my name. “T-a-y-l-o-r.” Better check it one more time. Golden.

Now, time to capture the essence of personality, professional experience and skills in one page. I’m a writing major — I can do it!

Wait, should I start with one of those business-y, “Please accept my application,” intros or something snarkier?

Maybe, I’ll tell the employer a comical story of transformation. Like the time I was relegated to the outfield in first-grade T-ball. Look how far I’ve come — from the ultimate athletic rejection (at age 7, anyway) to covering sports for a living! Nah, that tale reveals little beyond my superior ability to weave a dandelion crown.

Line one complete. Oh, no, I started with “I.” Will the employer think I’m a narcissistic? A sociopath? A self-righteous ninny? Well, I guess I am the one applying for the job, right?

Why can’t I just write, “Hey, future employer. I can write about a lot of things, including (but not limited to) heroin abuse, non-profit organizations, rare dinosaurs from Gondwana and sports”?

I’ve resorted to Googling one of those trite cover letter “action keyword” lists. You know, that neat, alphabetized catalog that contains, “Look at me! I am a big kid!” words like “enforced,” “inspired” and “maximized.”

Their sickeningly sweet tone is too much for me. I time-travel back to the cover letter intro in high school, where my teacher circled the opening word of each sentence in thick, red pen. Is four I’s the limit — or is it five? I wonder to myself, now on my third mug of black tea.

Two sentences in. “You are a cover-letter warrior!” I exclaim. Pep talks are a staple of such a task.

After few more cups of tea and a snack break (one of those, “I wrote a solid sentence, therefore I’ve earned granola bar, 15 minutes of Facebook-creeping and an all-expense-paid trip to the Caribbean”), I finally have three paragraphs.

“Ah, this paragraph is much longer than the others!” Will that make me look inconsistent and flaky? Or will it show I’m the kind of optimistic risk-taker/free-thinkier they want in the office?

Time to sign my name. Pink Sharpie is probably a little too avant-garde. I’d better go find a black pen.

If my handwriting is too neat, they’ll probably think I’m some uptight jerk, but if it’s too messy, they’ll think I’m careless and rash.

Taylor O. Soule. Better check my name one more time.

Finally, that looming command, the one that tried to log me out 17 times while I contemplated the “I” pronoun maximum: “submit.”

* * *

Though I’ll continue to agonize over that letter for the coming days, weeks and probably, months, there’s something effortlessly raw and rewarding about capturing the self as it exists in one moment.

The agony, deliberation and psychological distress of writing a cover letter are hardly evident on the page, I imagine, cloaked in assertive “I’s” and those love/hate-worthy “action keywords.” But somewhere amid the protocol, the advice of past teachers and the professional discourse, I’d like to think a glimmer of me — the sports writer whose first athletic endeavor involved dandelion jewelry — emerges.

Small moments outshine major milestone

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I applied for graduation yesterday. You know, that major event that caps one’s college career, the newfound prestige evident in ill-fitting commencement garb.

Yet it’s in the minute details of this semester that I’ve found the most joy and fulfillment.

While writing the Arabic alphabet yesterday for an assignment, I felt confident. I knew every letter, finally. Then, I received an at-the-time-unwelcome helping of humility in the form of one realization: I didn’t know how to properly write my own name.

The ego is a peculiar thing. It simultaneously motivates and endangers us.

Every week, I write a brief 100- to 150-word preview of Drake’s and Northern Iowa’s football games. They occupy little retail in the sports section of the Des Moines Register. But they remind me that sports are about more than scores and stats. They’re about building community, and I’m grateful to be a part of that larger goal.

I walked down to the Meredith Hall basement a few days ago and experienced a number of minute but impactful moments. I remembered my initial fear — and eventual comfort — in the realm of video editing and electronic news gathering. I remembered the semester-long dismantling of my journalistic ego, captured in the following mindset: “I’m the queen of print, so why should I learn this digital rubbish?”

And I remembered that about this time a year ago, I learned my No. 1 journalistic mentor and inspiration, Rick Tapscott, was ill. I recall the time (all right — times) I panicked in his office about a source, a lede, my future (or sometimes, all the above). One of Rick’s journalistic catch phrases was, “Get the name of the dog.” Translated, it means the small details and moments matter.

For a long time, I considered him solely a journalistic mentor. When I hit “submit” on my graduation application yesterday, when I completed what’s billed as a major moment and didn’t feel a thing, I realized Rick was more than a journalistic mentor.

What he taught me transcends the 100-150 words I write about football each week. It transcends Drake University and the Des Moines Register newsroom. Before my wannabe-philosopher self launches into some winding explanation of life’s minutiae, I’ll say it the best way I know: “Get the name of the dog.”

Re-learning to appreciate the nuances of language, English and beyond

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When I edit, I communicate my irritation verbally, often in a rapid-fire rant: “Ugh, what, no, a semicolon is not used to link an independent clause and dependent clause! Why? Ugh, people!” I’m compelled to voice it for two reasons — one: the improper use of semicolons angers me, and two, I admit I feel the need to publicly assert my control over language.

In a world defined by uncertainty, I crave control, and for a long time, writing provided it. I could manipulate my language; therefore, I owned it. After one week into my final semester at Drake University, though, I’ve realized control over language is an illusion.

I’ve re-adopted the art of diagramming sentences. Yeah, remember that convoluted verb/noun web you hated in fifth grade? By reacquainting myself with terminology like “predicate” and “compound-complex,” I’ve realized I largely take linguistic structure and established conventions for granted.

I’ve been here forming sentences on the page but paying no attention to the underlying framework of my communication. The beauty of language, I naively thought, dwelled in word choice, content and concept.

Now back in the realm of diagrams and word webs, though, I’m consciously evaluating and appreciating the framework of what I do every day: communicate. Even when I include a “Look at me!” word, it lacks impact and meaning without structure. Humbly and quietly, structure often vanishes, blinded by the glow of a flashy word or literary device.

My perceived ‘control’ over language recently faced another wake-up call — the Arabic alphabet. What began with, “Why not learn Arabic? It could be kind of fun, right?” challenged my attitude toward the English language. Many Arabic sounds blend in my untrained ear, their variance unintelligible.

The subtle variations in Arabic revealed yet another thing I take for granted: the nuanced nature of language. Yeah, yeah, I know “said” and “claimed,” both denote the act of speaking but have dramatically different connotations. Yet, I rarely engage those nuances and instead focus on the pursuit of some enlightening concept or idea.

Each sound, noun, verb and punctuation mark determines and guides the content of writing in a way I too often take for granted, assuming I am somehow above such details.

Those details have humbly and quietly tolerated my ‘too-cool-for-you’ attitude for years. I hope it isn’t too late to repair the bond and maybe, improve my writing en route.

To all new Drake SJMC students: Be willing to change your goals

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It’s a natural time of year for goals — defining new goals, checking up on past goals and even abandoning them entirely.

As I bid farewell to my favorite summer ever (yeah, you’re right, that statement deserves a duck-face/sunglasses Instagram selfie), I’m not setting any goals, for once.

When I entered as a freshman (I refuse to partake in that “first-year” rubbish) in 2011, I was determined to be a big-name newspaper editor. You know, that stereotypical editor-in-chief with an eternal glare and a red pen forever in her white-knuckled grip.

That rigid goal kept me from trying new disciplines for a long time. I, Taylor Soule, future print editor-in-chief, didn’t need to learn any of that newfangled digital whatnot.

Eventually, I realized I’m not some print hotshot (or any kind of hotshot, for that matter). I abandoned that rigid, limiting goal for something more flexible, more malleable. I want to try as many elements of the journalism world as possible.

While I lament the naiveté of freshman Taylor, I’d like to leave the new Bulldogs in the Drake SJMC with a few pieces of formal advice.

Define goals, but don’t forget their innate malleability. You’re free to alter them and even ditch them altogether.

Try everything. Not a techie? Take a TV field photography class. Despite your initial reluctance, sign up for that Android app-design class. Help build a killer tablet publication.

By the way, I did all of the above during my Drake experience.

Finally, if your Drake experience doesn’t make you question your major, your passions and your life trajectory on a daily basis, you’re not doing it right.

With my final semester a day away, I can only think of one way to properly end this post — a nugget of advice from late SJMC professor Rick Tapscott: “Journalism is an honorable and fun profession if you go into it for the right reasons.”

Capstone experience reveals the power of failure, teamwork

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The final frontier (my attempt at hip lingo) of my Drake career begins on Monday. We’ve reached that dreaded part of the break where students consume inhuman amounts of ice cream/popsicles (my attempt at justifying that half-tub of Blue Bunny) and create vague, syrupy-sweet goals like, “Have my best year ever!” and, “Live it up!”

But given my life-writing fervor, I’m taking part only in the ice cream half of that equation.

Tonight, I’m meditating on my senior journalism capstone, in particular. Yeah, yeah, I know I completed it in May, but I admit I’ve felt (productively) traumatized by the experience until now and am finally realizing the extent of its impact.

Besides, had I written this post before today, it probably would have read more like, “Inman (my professor), why are you making me rewrite that damn lede? A–hole!” Fear not, we created a ticker for every time he received that name. Each addition to the ticker, I now realize, wasn’t proof of malice but proof of all he taught me.

The rumored horror of writing all night and texting your mother, “I am going to die from copy editing!” (all right, maybe that one is just me) is all true.

But you’ll love it, I swear. Capstone teaches you more about what it takes to work on a team than about anything media- or writing-related. It’s not about the final product, that portfolio piece or that telling photo.

It’s about the jarring, angering but ultimately eye-opening reality of what you’ll face in the big-kid world.

While capstone taught me many important life lessons (don’t drink that record eighth cup of highly caffeinated black tea), it taught me the importance of failure, above all.

I failed big-time in capstone — often. I don’t mean letting the conniving (FYI, my thesaurus app listed “Machiavellian” for an alternative) Oxford comma into the tablet edition of Think Mag.

We cut an article I wrote. I waited way too long to lead the fact-checking charge. I wrote an article that we eventually cut by an entire page (if you ever need to know anything about the alarming trend of heroin in the suburbs of the Twin Cities, tweet at me or something).

But it all worked out — really, it did. We created a killer tablet edition, I now know the price of heroin in every major Midwestern city and in the end, I learned to communicate and function on a team. And I learned to fail epically.

Why ‘complete’ and ‘in a relationship’ aren’t synonymous

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“My other half.”

It’s tossed around Facebook innocently enough, typically paired with a sickeningly cute couple photo (Hey, I’m a single 20-something, I’m allowed to be jealous and angsty from time to time). You know, the one you like and maybe comment “Presh!” or something equally deep. Then, the dreaded caption: “My other half,” or, even worse, “My everything.”

Now I’m all for expressing love for other people, but those sneaky, little words perpetuate an ugly idea about selfhood and more broadly, dating. They remind us that we are, apparently, not complete unless paired with another member of the human race.

In the world of ‘Facebook-official’ everything, the need to not only ‘complete’ oneself but also proclaim it alarms me. ‘Likes’ and all those inevitable “Precious!” comments affirm the wholeness one can only find in a relationship.

Though I’m not in a relationship — ‘Facebook-official’ or otherwise — and though I lack an album of ‘cute couple’ photos, I feel complete.

And I want you to know you’re complete, too, regardless of your relationship status.

So, let’s continue celebrating love. Keep posting those adorable couple photos (I’ll probably be the first one to ‘like’ and favorite many of them, per my serial-liking skills).

But let’s celebrate and acknowledge our innate, individual wholeness, too.