When dates find out what I do for a living, they ask if they need me to sign an NDA, in case I want to defame them in print. Friends approach me with their relationship woes and call it inspiration for my next book. A few months ago, when I was done complaining to her about the endless migraine that is my ownersβ corporation, my agent told me there was a story in there somewhere. Every day, every conversation, every relationship, every song, every memory β as Nora Ephron said, βeverything is copyβ.
Itβs not all neuroses and self-indulgence. In my three-ish years at The Ageβs Spectrum section, Iβve picked up a few things. Iβve learned to work quickly and consistently. Iβve developed a misplaced confidence with semicolon use. Iβve discovered that you should never complain about men or particular super-famous authors in print, or people will come for you in vitriolic droves.
Iβve learned never to engage in Twitter discourse. Iβve learned to β mostly β shut out the nagging, naysaying voice in my head (and occasionally in the comments sections) that says my work isnβt good enough. Iβve figured out how to be honest without sacrificing my privacy, and Iβve almost learned when to keep my mouth shut. Through this column, Iβve become the writer I always wanted to be. I just seem to have forgotten how to be a real person in the process.
Already with regret and perhaps the tiniest bit of relief, Iβm turning the page on a couple of very tough years and saying goodbye to this byline. Iβm going off in search of new experiences, good stories, and my old self. Itβs about time another writer got their dream job.
Donβt get too excited yet. Iβll still be here and there, popping up in your paper whenever a good idea strikes or someone is off sick. Iβm like the hiccups, or glitter, or a bad one-night stand the morning after: the harder you try to get rid of me, the longer I stick around. For now, though, itβs time for me to stop writing about my life, and remember how to live it again.
