Tag Archives: life writing

Why I write about my life

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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.

Patience key in finding purpose in interpersonal relationships

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As a writer and reader, I regularly ponder the phenomenon of literary purpose. When I read, for example, I instinctively pause at least once a page to ask, “Why did [author] choose that [word, diction, metaphor, et cetera]?” My own writing undergoes the same dissection, though on a more scrutinizing, borderline-neurotic level.

Therefore, I read and write at a glacial pace — I’m talking the rate of a snail with a limp here. With the nagging question of purpose forever present (and forever slowing me down) in the literary sphere, I find it seeping into my life beyond the keyboard and page, with like effect.

Lately, I’ve been consumed by the purpose of the relationships in my life. “Everyone you meet will teach you something.” Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, I agree. But there’s a key element missing from that uncomfortably neat little quote: patience.

Now I’ve never been patient. I check the oven every two minutes (or fewer) every time I bake. If I post something I feel is clever and/or funny on social media (let’s be real, it’s probably another old video of Andy Roddick ranting at an umpire or a fruit-themed pun or something equally show-stopping), I check said site every minute or so for a while to see if anyone acknowledged my brilliance.

I hate being patient. As more new people have cycled in (and out) of my life in 2014 than any other year, I’m constantly in pursuit of whatever it is they inevitably taught me. And it’s not enough to simply ponder it; I feel compelled to document and physically represent it. For the purpose of this post, picture a sampler. You know, one of those quaint, stitched wall-hangings that offered wisdom like, “Haste Makes Waste,” during the colonial era.

I need a quote for my hypothetical sampler. (I’m kidding about the embroidery, for the only aisle I can tolerate in a craft store is the one with the oversized dinnerware — I mean, who doesn’t need Bigfoot’s margarita glass?) Hypothetical embroidery aside, the harder I tried to derive and document meaning from my relationships, the more unfulfilled I felt.

In early 2014, I probably would have embroidered something like, “One of the most beautiful qualities of true friendship is to understand and to be understood.” Pensive décor for my wall, of course.

Now, though, I’m trying to let learning happen more naturally; I’m trying not to force it. An updated version of my hypothetical sampler would likely read, “Be patient. Buy that giant gravy boat from Michael’s. And if you follow nothing else on this sampler, leave all future crafting to the innately crafty.”

Facing the illusion of a ‘unique’ writing voice

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“Mine.” The word pervaded my childhood home, courtesy of an ever-important exchange: “Mom! (Insert name of sister) stole my (insert name of plaything I suddenly deemed precious in the unfathomable event of abduction)!”

Growing up in the forever-unfair realm of sisterly sharing, I developed a keen awareness of ownership at an early age. And maybe, a little stubbornness accompanied it. Maybe.

Though I long ago bid farewell to the days of sharing Birthday Barbie — a then-unthinkable horror — I find myself struggling to relinquish ownership of my writing voice. In particular, I still have a difficult time admitting my ‘voice’ is merely a compilation of experiences, events, interactions and ultimately, other voices.

As a life writer, I’ve long felt the need and right to defend my ‘voice.’ For a long time, that meant resisting edits, revisions and suggestions. “But I’m more unique than you!” I longed to proclaim, but settled instead for a subtle eye-roll at far too many valuable ideas from insightful writers.

After a friendship abruptly ended earlier this year, though, I detected an immediate change in my ‘voice.’ A sharp, biting cynicism emerged, sometimes overpowering the ‘Taylor-trademark’ tone that preceded it. It frightened me.

In that sudden shift, I finally faced a fact I had known all along: My ‘voice’ — much like Birthday Barbie — was never only mine.

Though I’m sometimes still tempted to proclaim, “but I’m unique,” I’ve developed gratitude and appreciation for the voices that have impacted, shaped and molded my writing.

Modern culture of the ‘milestone’ limits power of life writing

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When I inform people I write about my life in an academic context, they typically reply, “Really? I could never do that. I’m not that exciting.”

It’s disheartening to me. Life writing, for one, has profound benefits, including self-discovery, self-awareness and reflection. Furthermore, that reply reveals a disturbing trend in the culture of defining milestones.

Now I’ve never climbed a mountain. I’ve never experienced a tragedy (thankfully). I’ve never gotten married or even dated anyone. And yet, I have much to write about my life.

Recently, I opened a credit card under my name. I adopted a plant (named Lorenzo). That reply to my question, however, practically eliminates the potential for growth and learning inherent in every life event. The rigidity in the definition of the modern ‘life event’ worries me.

With the ever-popular celeb memoir supplying the grandeur of multi-million-dollar weddings, crumbling public relationships, athletic fame and more, personal milestones feel minute, even unimportant.

Facebook likewise complicates the ‘life event.’ I wrote the following excerpt in a fall 2013 mini-memoir about my identity, and it feels more applicable than ever, particularly as I enter the post-graduate era of ‘Facebook-official’ engagements and marriages.

* * *

Now, a timeline is more than a notion in my mind. More than a guide from one experience to the next. More than a frame of mind, a valiant attempt to comprehend and organize the awkward in my life. Now, a timeline is clickable, likable and alarmingly, deleteable, thanks to Facebook. No longer an entirely individual or private concept, the timeline is public proof of milestones hit — and missed.

Likewise, a blog functions as a type of organizational record that eases the disorder inherent in life, where I can decide which moments to include and exclude, highlight and downplay. Plus, with a quick, clickable tag or category, my world somehow feels more defined, more manageable. The uncertainty I loathe is compressed in a neat, maybe even alliterative tag of one to three words.

* * *

In the tradition of life writing, I can’t provide an astute ‘conclusion.’

Moving forward in my goal to comprehend the ‘life event,’ I merely pledge to abandon the concept of an established ‘milestone.’

I am not behind. I am not ahead. I’m learning not to depend on the cultural definition of the ‘right time.’ It’ll never be the ‘right time.’ It’ll always be my time, though.

While I won’t add an engagement or marriage to my Facebook timeline in the near future like many of my classmates, I’m keeping my plant, Lorenzo, alive. And for me, that’s a pretty big deal.

Meet Lorenzo, my plant.

Meet Lorenzo, my plant.

The discourse shapes the definition of ‘truth’

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News-Internet and English writing: The two sound compatible, as if they might grab a beer and split a plate of cheese fries at the local pub on a Friday night. In reality, though, I imagine they’d confront one another in that, “Greeeeeat. You’re here,” way. The bartender might even have to break up a potential literary brawl.

Though my majors appear compatible, I find them clashing more as I enter the final stage of my undergraduate career. A combination that initially felt natural has created an incessant sense of internal ethical conflict — but hey, that’s what college is designed to do, right?

While they differ on the Oxford comma (my news-Internet degree being the wiser of the two in that regard), a much larger issue (I know, it’s hard to believe there’s something more divisive than the Oxford comma debate) separates the two: truth. In particular, the expected degree of truth and the writer’s responsibility and accountability in providing it.

As a journalism student, reporter and copy editor, I dedicate my time and energy to ensuring the highest degree of truth and accuracy. That means fact-checking everything, calling sources to confirm quotes — and then double-checking it all over again.

As an English student with an emphasis in life writing, however, I examine how the inconsistency of memory warps truth, preventing the fair, objective writing for which I strive every day in my journalistic work. By asking questions like, “Does it matter if I wrote that I wore a blue dress when it was, in fact, a red dress?” I engage both the literary and journalistic tenets of truth and accuracy in a new, complicated way.

For me, “truth” is no longer as simple as confirming every name, number and quote in an article. “Truth” is more elusive. It transforms with the discourse — and I like it that way.

As much as I’d love to join English writing and news-Internet for a beer and an order of cheese fries on Friday night, I admit I savor their incompatibility. Because somewhere amid the moments of raw befuddlement and internal conflict, I move a little closer to understanding how “truth” manifests in my life, academically, professionally and ethically.

Return to beloved hobby proves the power of leisure

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I recently reacquainted myself with a longtime love: reading for fun.

While I appreciate literature whether reading for homework or leisure, there’s a certain thrill in picking up a memoir with the confidence that no essay prompt or pop quiz awaits. In the fall, I’ll complete my English writing degree with a course dedicated to life writing; I deemed David Sedaris’ memoir Naked the ideal choice for renewing my (complicated) bond with the genre.

Already, unapologetic honesty defines the memoir, and though I have little in common with the author, I find myself clinging to the universality of his bizarre tales — all moored on the page with that trademark Sedaris wit.

Even rambling a quick analysis of Naked reveals leisure’s sneaky power. Though I’m reading for relaxation, I automatically engage the more academic, formulaic part of my mind.

And the whole involuntary rambling thing felt productive. Wait, what?

Too often throughout my college career, I’ve felt guilty after taking an hour or two off to watch a movie or delay my homework for an impromptu ping-pong match. After all, that kind of ‘relaxation’ detracted from my ‘career path’ or whatever other jargon I created for an all-purpose guilt trip.

Since taking up leisure reading again, though, I’ve realized hobbies and interests are neither conniving nor determined to invade my life and steal precious time from work.

Rather, they’re opportunities to engage a different, too often dormant part of me. And maybe, in the uncanny haven of an author’s tale about ‘that one time way back when,’ the career-minded, ‘productive’ part of me might discover something valuable — something far beyond the cubicle.