Way back in 2013, I read Meg Wolitzer's The Interestings, and it was one of those books that really made me reflect on my narrative—what I told myself about my life and where it was going. I suspect I'm not alone in the self-indulgent practice of thinking at one point early on that I was destined for interesting things. There was a thrill in considering that the time and space and possibility existed for something truly noteworthy to happen in my life. Maybe it would be an exciting and innovative career, or a creative pursuit like a book, or marriage. Maybe I'd be plucked from obscurity and crowned princess of some little-known European country with lots of money reserved just to make me over like Ann Hathaway in The Princess Diaries. In Ann Patchett's Run, brothers Tip and Teddy consider the young girl they're watching lucky, because at eleven "she could be foolish enough to go to bed at night believing one day she might grow up to be president." As crazy as it is, part of me is jealous of that eleven-year-old girl, of all her boundless potential.
In The Interestings, a group of kids meets at an arts camp in the 1970's, forming a bond that follows them through middle age. Two of the friends, one an extremely talented cartoonist, Ethan, and the other a rich and beautiful aspiring actress, Ash, marry each other and achieve great success: Ethan produces what essentially is The Simpsons and he and Ash soar to heights of wealth and fame. Another friend, Jules, gives up dreams of making it as an actress, becoming a therapist and marrying a medical technician instead. (There are three other friends in the group, but you'll have to read the book to learn about them!) Despite their different trajectories, the friends stay connected, and Jules grapples with the dissonance created between her very ordinary life and the wild success of her friends who'd shared similar creative dreams when they were kids together. After much emotional turmoil, Jules observes that "you didn't always need to be the dazzler, the firecracker, the one who cracked everyone up, or made everyone want to sleep with you, or be the one who wrote and stared in the play that got the standing ovation."
When I read Wolitzer's book, I was a third-year associate at a big law firm. My brother had died horrifically the year before, and my husband and I had just welcomed our first daughter. Oh yes, and my husband had recently left a decade-long career in the military to start over on the bottom run in a new industry. At that point, I felt the weight of responsibility, the whoosh of dreams out the window, the gravity of a trifecta—tragedy, new parenthood, and being the primary provider—pulling me back to earth. All around me though, friends I loved and respected seemed to be on the precipice of interesting things—creatively and otherwise. One close friend from childhood had co-founded a company that went on to great success, and she began to count celebrities and budding music stars as friends. At the same time, so many friends at my firm had started to leave for greener pastures—positions as federal prosecutors or coveted in-house roles. Increasingly isolated in a world of overly airconditioned offices, binders of documents, and men with tortoise-shell-framed glasses, I feared the banal reality of it all. Why them and not me, I started to wonder.
I'd always written in journals and crafted little stories and poems; but it was around 2013 or 2014 that I really started writing consistently. I channeled anxiety into my creativity, and the practice helped me to process things, yes, but I think the writing kept something alive in me, too—the hope of the next thing, or perhaps a resurrection of potential. Maybe all this creative expression could amount to something more than what it'd been thus far. It had never occurred to me to resign to Jules' musing in The Interestings: "You could cease to be obsessed with the idea of being interesting." And now with Instagram highlighting creative success stories and outlets generating top 40 under 40 listicles at the cyclic rate, why would I? The potential for more is packaged and dangled in front of us like a daily vitamin. We can actually see fame and success developing on some of these platforms—watch the rich and famous endorse products, count up the likes and the followers. We are told repeatedly to reach for the stars, to keep the dream alive. Less discussed are the connections and the funds that often make dreams reality.
But at times, wouldn't it be nice for someone to tell us it's okay to let the dream die? That it's not failure to live the life you have, to appreciate it even. As Jules' husband, Dennis, says, "Specialness—everyone wants it," but "most people aren't talented. So what are they supposed to do . . . ." And I'll add on to Dennis' point here—there are many talented people for whom talent will not evolve beyond a hobby or a party trick or just something they do that makes them happy. Wading in and out of a whirlpool of self-loathing, envy, and resentment because of that—kind of how Jules was operating—is not really living. New York Times book reviewer Liesl Schillinger puts it perfectly: Wolitzer "allows her characters to come to see happiness not as getting what they thought they wanted, but wanting what they've wound up having—a definition in which succeeding doesn’t require exceeding." Let the dream die—you may be happier that way.
[Books/Essays/Articles]
If you couldn't tell from my last writing, I loved Dave Grohl's The Story Teller. His depth and humor surprised me as did my leaning into his observations about life. If you were born in the 1980s and have any memory of Smells Like Teen Spirit, this is a must-read.
A friend gave me Ann Patchett's Run, which I was eager to read after devouring her latest essay collection, These Precious Days. The book, which came out in 2007, is framed around a few-day period in Boston and examines the dynamics of a white Catholic family in Boston that adopted two Black children. Heavily character driven and only 300 pages, this book was a thoughtful reminder that wonderful books don't have to be 500 pages or full of multiple plot twists. (My friend also gave me Patchett's The Dutch House, and I’m looking forward to reading that soon.)
Do you tell people exactly what you want for your birthday? I wrote a piece about ordering my own birthday cake for The Motherlode. (I'm a yellow-cake-chocolate icing girl).
The nuns at The Daughters of St. Paul in Boston have a comedy routine and this article on its rising popularity on TikTok made me smile.
Do you play pickleball? Apparently, it's the fastest growing sport in America, and I really want to try it out!
I've been taming boxes of my own childhood memories and soon I'll be ready to tackle the mountain of art projects, loving notes, and hilarious drawings my kids have generated since I last organized them. This Motherwell essay contemplates a room of requirement Harry-Potter-style.
[something new]
What the Constitution Means to Me
I completely dropped the ball on getting tickets for my kids to see their school's production of Anastasia, which is how I found myself on the pages of Charlotte's theaters trying to get tickets for a substitute. I came across an imminent showing of Heidi Schreck's What This Constitution Means to Me that had been slotted to run in spring 2020. We hadn't been to a play since the kids' school's production of a Dr. Seuss Musical in February 2020, so I jumped on the tickets—we went out on a Tuesday night! (left the kids at home; still trying to make it up to them!) Politically it's not for everyone (what is these days?), but I was so impressed with how the production made me think. My husband even remarked that he felt deeply uncomfortable during the show, like he was an unintentional villain as a male. And yet it engaged us both in conversation about those feelings and constitutional interpretation. If you're feeling brave, would highly recommend.
Greenville, SC
We traveled only 1.5 hours from Charlotte, but Greenville felt like an escape—such a fun place to eat, drink, and explore. If you don't like any of these things, M. Jusdon Booksellers is reason enough to visit. The Swamp Rabbit Trail connects the downtown to The Greenville Zoo, a bonus if you're traveling with budding zoologists.