I don’t think I will ever give a decent enough “sales pitch” to convince you that my teenage world is worth investing in, but I believe this is the closest I will ever get to a “good deal”.
Dear reader,
Writing right now, and this very thing is just as confusing as my week. I have spent my mornings and afternoons pining over what I want to do with my life, but my nights have taken over a more brightening light as I sink into a hole of art.
Recently I have been up to date on contemporary art, jazz music, and melodrama ‘La La Land’ by Damien Chazelle. These things make me feel disconnected yet hopeful. I find it hard to describe why paintings of distressed cats or abstract fiction poetry make me feel synced with the motion of our changing society, but it does.
As I write to you, my turntable spins thanks to John Coltrane, my laptop remains vivid due to the retro stickers firmly stuck on it, and my fingers type words faster and faster with every sip I take from a mug brimful of coffee. Certainly, I do give myself time to truly wind down, watch a few episodes of The Office, or journal to help make myself feel better about the unfulfilling hours I spent overthinking every detail of life.
I won’t attempt to add importance or exaggerate very particular details of girlhood- my girlhood, such as my ‘quiet’ mornings or reasons as to why I voluntarily keep my mind awake until sunrise, but personally I do find it humorous to write about activities I currently practice, knowing well I will be bored of them sooner than you may think. I don’t want the way I tell my stories to feel like I am undermining issues faced by others my age. The idea that people, during the years of their adolescence, are uncultured and distracted is a complete myth. I really don’t believe this ideology at all- I don’t want to minimize any difficulties in the lives of young people by deeming an array of my encounters as silly.
With that being said-
Sometimes I read things I have written- pieces that I once cared for, then left behind to start a new project. Then, I am quickly taken back to the experiences I talked about. I do, also, read my art and believe it’s stupid, and slow. I admire the work of cinematographers, photographers, poets, illustrators, sculptors, screenwriters, and journalists. I envy their dedication, their perseverance. I do also find empathy for them, knowing how hard it is to establish new ideas and create new pieces. Although I’ve always had my writing, it has become more and more of a challenge for me. I’ve grown to compare my skills, my passions, and my strengths with those I idolize; I want to be great, and present myself effortlessly. I thought that with my newsletter I finally got the opportunity to display my skills and show you why I am worth your valuable time. I had a chance to fulfill my dreams in publishing my writing. So what do you do when your biggest dream is coming true, and you are in control of it?
More has happened in my life this year than it has for the three years before it; and yet I have nothing to share. I began my newsletter the summer before my sophomore year of high school- before I got my first job, before I knew how to drive a car, before I thought of colleges, and ultimately before I knew what I was made for. For many years I have written about subjects I feel nothing for. This year I have come to this “revolutionary realization”, for myself at least, that I only write about things I know nothing about.
When people of any authority, my mentors, teachers, parents or even those with no mastery at all would comment positively on my writing I accepted it. I believed I wrote well, explained my emotions uniquely and selfishly, I thought I had mastered the art of creative writing. This hunger for validation, both academically and emotionally, had finally crumbled on me. This desperation for other people to accept me, like what I liked, understand me and the words I illustrated, had finally crashed. When you receive your first negative comment or when you read a very detailed rejection letter, you begin to believe the things other people say about you, how skilled they think you are, how greatly they believe you represent your passions. I didn’t think rejection would hurt me like it did this time, the first time I thought “hey, maybe they really can see through me”- maybe they don’t know me, maybe they don’t understand my feelings of desperation or my need to be appreciated. Maybe it comes with ease to display their very critical thoughts of you to you directly, bluntly. For me, my first rejection letter came after I had completed a course my freshman year of high school. All students were eligible to write various essays testing your writing ability. So, I did what was asked of me, I wrote. The news of my denial came a few months after, followed by months of defeat, dissatisfaction, and agony. I thought “how could something so personal be judged so insincerely”. I wanted to be mad, I wanted to complain and yell, but I couldn’t get myself there. I was upset and disappointed with myself, I was annoyed with my writing and with my ideas. It took many weeks to dismiss the news, to accept what was said in my letter of denial. Something, however far in me, knew that I had something different; I wrote differently, spoke differently, and thought differently than some of my selective readers. This acted as a motive, that once I got my own newsletter I would section my pieces into categories, leaving a clear line of separation of topics, making it easier to connect with my readers.
I like to imagine life through the eyes of a middle aged woman, someone who was once a girl and now has earned the title of maturity. I like to write through the hands of a broken artist, whose optimistic presence was cursed with a hopeless soul. I like to narrate growth through someone else’s stories, through people who know the pain of growing up. I want people to relate to my words, to see themselves through my lenses. I want my perspective of other people’s lives to remind them of their youth. For many years I was shamed for my ingenuity, and now I want to reclaim what it has always been- an outlet for people to reflect on their worries, a way for people to listen and stay by me, not something to be looked down upon as inexperienced writing.
I like for my writing to have consistency, for it to seem clean and formatted well. I have never written such a personal letter, retaining very specific things about myself; and maybe it shows. I had ideas for my newsletter to be organized, for it to be easy to read. I wanted a large range of readers, from 13 year old girls, to 20 year old business women, to 75 year old retirees reading my stories. I always knew I wanted everyone to discover my newsletter and return to my website the next week for more publications.
Yes, I have a lot of dreams. And yes, I have very little publication experience…
I can't quite fathom the idea that I am writing such a complex, dense piece for my own newsletter. I am, for once, writing something that not all people will understand. To answer any potential questions: yes, I am too confused on what exactly this piece tells you about me; I feel as though I have created a page filled with archived concepts, and for many reasons I think it tells you more about my sophisticated teenage life than any personal biography.
Thanks for spending part of your day with me. See you next week. -Ana
Editor: Ana Lema
Writer: Ana Lema
Connect with me through my email anacarolinalema@gmail.com
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