Tag: coming of age

Rejection: The unsurprising reality of being a teenage writer

Laura WildLeave a comment

When I was 13 I decided I wanted to write a novel, and over the course of a few years I did just that. At the time I was sure that the mere ambition I had to do such a thing made me extraordinary, and I expected my book would be made into a movie someday. I guess you could say I was an idealist… Needless to say, I was not nearly as special as I thought I was, and my ambitions were far from unique. As like any creative adolescent with a wild imagination, I just wanted my art to get the credit that I thought it deserved. Disappointment was almost inevitable.

Four years later I finished my first book, tried unsuccessfully to publish it, and subsequently began to let go of the dream that had consumed me for most of my youth. Countless rejections to brief queries and pieces of my manuscript left me feeling embarrassed and inadequate. When I was able to accept that my book wasn’t going to be the next best seller, I realized I was further from my dreams than I had ever imagined.

At a time in our lives when optimism and high aspirations seem to be at their peak, why is it that so many of us feel pressed for time? I don’t know about everyone else, but ever since I turned eighteen I have felt as though time has begun to pass faster than ever, and being told that I am in the prime of my life stresses me out more than anything. I am compelled to do as much as I can, as fast as I can. I don’t know if this makes me wise or naive… either way, the feeling certainly doesn’t seem to be fading.

At the same time, life has also never felt more ironic. Now, at nineteen, I have officially entered the realm of adulthood that prevents me from using my youthfulness to my advantage. Instead, it seems to be only a sign of my lack of experience. Any chance that I might have had to use my age as an asset is gone, and I have found myself without a platform or an edge. For writers, and especially writers who don’t know what the hell they’re doing, this is the worst possible position to be in. And yet here I am, just as devoted to my current project as I was my last. I have been working on Into the Wind, a memoir about my struggle with depression before and after my bike trip, since I returned home last November.

While my adventures in querying agents this time around have been much more encouraging, I still haven’t gotten close enough to finding representation to converse with any actual people on the phone. The little interest that I have gotten has kept me on the edge of my seat, and I have even prioritized prospective agents over people in my own life at times. The truth is that I have become, as much as I hate to admit it, madly and undeniably desperate for success. And I don’t think I am alone.

While not all young people want the same things that I do, I know that many of my peers feel a similar pressure to not only be successful, but to be young and successful. Most of us want to change the world, too, which I think is a really good thing for society, but sometimes a frustratingly difficult thing for us to achieve. At times my entire career as a writer can seem to hang on small bits of encouragement that I receive, even though those words are dwarfed by the numerous rejections that I find in my inbox every week. Being so restless by nature and eternally undecided I count on the advice from others to give me direction. When that advice is to follow my dreams and never give up, I can make myself feel powerful and unstoppable. However, when that advice is to be sensible and major in something that will undoubtedly make me financially independent, changing courses can seem tempting, too.

Could my real weakness be the fact that I am so impressionable?

In my plight to scavenge for anything in my repertoire that can make me stand out from the crowd, I have taken the words of one of my favorite writers very seriously. Lena Dunham is the perfect example of a writer who knows how to find beauty in her imperfections, and that is truly what makes her writing so appealing. By being slightly unpolished and painstakingly truthful I have told myself that I shouldn’t force beauty out of my writing, but try to let it come out on its own. This has to be my philosophy, because if I believed that all of my writing had to be literary gold as soon as it hit the paper, I would be totally screwed.

Right now I don’t feel like I could let myself give up if I wanted to, but that doesn’t mean I’m not scared of the repercussions. Opening up has been such a freeing thing for me in so many ways, and equally binding. I can only hope that I become a better writer as I grow older, but I know that when that happens I will have to be careful not to pick apart old writing that I have shared. After all, if there’s anything I know for sure it’s that you have to start somewhere, and I have never been one to wait for the perfect timing.

Sharing things like this reduces so many insecurities that I have about the choices I make. I have used writing to dwell on my insufficiencies and ruminate over my regrets, but I have also used it to dilute my sadness and anxiety by opening up the area in which I keep it. Sometimes being publicly honest is the best remedy for pain and dissonance, and I have even felt relief in just reading other people’s version of the truth. I suppose my ultimate dream in publishing a memoir would be to affect people in a similar way; to free them of the pressure to conform parts of themselves that have yet seemed unjustified.

The Heaviness of Being Home-Free

Laura WildLeave a comment

November 4th, 2014; 50 miles from the coast:

I’ve spent almost sixty days looking for this final horizon; this is where I have envisioned my success. I will plow through the unblemished sand and be met by the incoming tide of the Atlantic ocean, where all of the saltiness of my being will be washed away by the saltiness of the water, and I will be a different person. A better person. Brand new.
Suddenly I feel heavy again. Up until now all of the weight that I have been shedding in the past two months has seemed to be lifted from my shoulders, and even as I hunch over the handlebars of my bike I feel taller, and slimmer. But the heaviness has crept up on me again, and every forward motion feels like I am already pedaling through that promised land sand. Because I don’t want to go home again. I haven’t found enlightenment yet.

By the time I got to Mississippi all I could think about was Florida. As I drew evermore eastward, transitioning through Alabama and landing in the gulf coast, I became consumed by the idea of it. If I squinted my eyes I could see the ocean cresting the horizon, and if I breathed deeply enough I could taste the Atlantic air. I thought about it to the point that I didn’t even pay much attention to where I was, until suddenly I was there. The foam of the St. Augustine sea was splashing through the spokes of my tires and the foam of much awaited champaign was splashing against my skin. In a moment, it was all over.

When I left on my trip a year ago today, I set off in the hopes of broadening my horizons. Little did I know that I was actually, literally just making them smaller. With the help of a couple different bikes I crushed the United States down to a size that had somehow been manageable to me, and with a moderate amount of physical strain I pedaled across it. America was tiny; but the kind of tiny that makes you feel tiny, too, not bigger in comparison. As I approached my final destination I finally began to feel like I was prepared for it; not for the end of my journey, but for the beginning of it.

Unfortunately, making it to the finish line only meant that I would soon be returning home to the short winter days of South Dakota, where my stark tan lines would quickly fade and so would the sense of achievement that I had gained. The let down that followed lasted a lot longer than I expected, and as I’ve said before, I didn’t feel particularly enlightened in any sense of the word. I don’t know why I wanted it so badly to begin with; almost more than daily enjoyment, I wanted growth. But when my trip was over, the greatest feeling that I had toward it was that I was glad I had done it, and I wanted to do it again. I didn’t realize exactly why I was feeling that way until recently.

On the first day of my trip I made a journal entry about the Pacific ocean. I made some melodramatic metaphor about how the sea and I were similar, because we felt so strong but we were ultimately contained within ourselves; we were stuck. As I began to move through space I realized that wasn’t necessarily true for me anymore; in reality, I was as free as anybody could possibly be. I was graced with the lightness of the unknown, something that I have since come to value most about my experience. Looking back, I realize that I was closer to enlightenment on day one than on any other day of my trip, because I was brand new. I had nearly nothing to lose and that, matched with the exhilaration of not knowing what the hell I was doing, is the closest I have ever come to complete freedom.

When I finished something that was so pivotal in my transition to adulthood, I found it impossible to move on. The only way it stayed with me was if I continued to drag it around long after it was over. Though the memory of my experience on the Southern Tier is heavy with longing and nostalgia, I would never dream of letting go of it. Instead, I continue to reflect on it, motivated by my eternal desperation to write it all down. The only way I see that changing is if I replace it with a new, bigger adventure. But being a broke college student, that is easier said than done, and I spend more time than I would like to admit just fantasizing about what I might do next.

It is that anticipation that makes everything I do seem less risky, like settling down and going to school, because I know that there must be something in my future that will give me that same feeling of freedom again, and purpose. Even though I didn’t realize it at the time, I was so lucky to have an adventure that was so rich in new experiences, hard lessons, and satisfying rewards. But those aren’t always the best stories to tell, and I feel compelled to find another story to write about, one that has to do with much more than just myself. Next time I set off for the great unknown (which will be as soon as I possibly can) I’m going to focus less on the destination, and more on the journey.

Louisiana

Laura WildLeave a comment

Though the first 2,000 miles of our trip encompassed twice as much space as the last 1,000 miles would, we were soon to find out that it was somehow less diverse. Because this land was otherworldly, I knew it from the second I read the words “Bienvenue en Louisiane.” I knew I had officially arrived at The Great Beyond.

And my god, it was great. Greater than Texas in many ways; heavier, harsher- or maybe it just felt that way because I was already so worn out. Either way Louisiana affected me like nowhere else could. I felt like a different person there, and yet there was something about that place that made me feel ok with that.

Though the atmosphere of Louisiana was similar to Texas, it certainly didn’t have the same feeling that I had become used to; there was something different about the earth. The afternoons felt more isolated, though we passed through small towns every couple of hours. Even though the sun was out it felt darker, maybe because of the bits of shadows cast onto the road by the invasive vines on either side of us. The air was thicker, tainted undoubtedly by the smell of bloated possums and armadillos, killed by cars whose tires were still moist with the blood of their last victims.

Maybe it was for that reason that I felt constantly surrounded by death. It was not only in the hot, tired bodies of the living but in the faint, high-pitched buzzing that accompanied the sight of anything dead by the side of the road. The swamp itself was alive only by the insects that fed on the spirits that had perished inside of it, and the scattered towns were alive only by the god-fearing people that fed on the spirits inside of the parishes. There were plenty of them- people, insects, churches, spirits. And if I stopped moving, as I often did, and stepped away from my bike to stretch my swollen legs, I could hold my breath and almost always hear the shrill ringing. Along with the low pitched buzzing of millions of flying bugs and the faint voices of those faithful worshipers, chanting the hymns that they believed would keep satan at bay. It swept through the air, reaching my ears despite having no breeze to be carried on. And it was hypnotic, like a toll; a constant reminder of death’s overwhelming presence.

Yet somehow those relentless mosquitos always found their way to the living, smelling out our warm bodies as they baked beneath the yellow sun, or rested under the shade of the overgrown marshes. There was not much traffic those days; in fact, there was not much activity to speak of whatsoever. The towns were always tranquil and quiet, save for the flourishing churches that almost seemed to outnumber the amount of residents in the towns that they occupied. They were everywhere, and they were always active. Especially on Sunday and Wednesday nights, when music could be heard making it’s way out of their open screen doors.

Behind the churches, or sometimes even behind elementary schools and grocery stores, the presence of death was displayed in vast cemeteries, where the deceased were kept in above-ground tombs. They were there because the towns flooded too often and they could wash away, so new bodies were just put on top of the old ones in concrete caskets. There they stayed for awhile, until they withered away and fell into a pit of bones, the great equalizer. I didn’t mind the idea of it, in fact, it made a lot of sense.

It was weird to go right through the residential areas, where little brick schools merged into those above ground graveyards and then into neighborhoods and back into schools and graveyards again. There were signs with pictures of teenage boys in baggie pants, stating that it was the law to keep your pants pulled up. Houses were close together, and everything seemed smaller than usual.

Outside of the towns the houses got bigger and farther apart. They were so far away from each other that they hardly even had neighbors, and they were built in the best patches of forested land that Louisiana had to offer. The giant, gnarly oak trees provided shade and a place to hang a tire swing in the front yard. The water in those neighborhoods was not stagnant; it was crystal clear, and it wove around them in all of it’s quaint, babbling glory, running under their decorative foot bridges with statues of fishing frogs sitting on them. They looked pretty normal for the most part, but here they seemed almost out of place. After riding through the neighborhoods inside the city, these ones seemed extravagant, even though they weren’t really. There were no signs that said to pull your pants up. The streets were free of roadkill, and there were kids playing basketball outside of almost every house.

As we got further and further east, Louisiana became less scattered and elusive and more like you would expect it to be. Baton Rouge was colorful and fast-paced, with gorgeous bike paths through winding, almost artistically shaped swamps. I loved it. I loved everything about it, from the stark contrast of the rural and urban cities to the harsh, unapologetic bayou. I had never seen anything like Louisiana, and I felt lucky to be able to have experienced the whole thing from west to east. It was thought provoking and dark, but unfailingly casual and that was oddly comforting.

Dear Mabel

Laura WildLeave a comment

On a Tuesday afternoon on March 19, 2012 I held you in my arms for the first time, and I was in love with you. It wasn’t just the way you felt as you rested your head on my shoulder, or the sweet smell of your carefully chosen, organic cherry blossom shampoo; I had been in love with the idea of you for longer than I could remember. You were a puppy, and I was, for the first time in my life, a mommy. That was 3 and a half years ago.

I had chosen the name Mabel for a couple of reasons, primarily because it was vintage and adorable but also because of it’s meaning- lovable. And you were just that, there is no disputing it. Even then, when your sharp teeth were the cause of more than a few scars and your early morning energy bursts had me up at 5:30 every morning. At the time I may have said differently, but deep down I really didn’t mind. I had just turned 16, and winter was over. The loneliness I had felt after the loss of my dog Gigi was easier to bear with your presence, and you made me smile every day.

Through the Summer of 2012 your eyes were green and soft, they twinkled in the early morning sunlight that you often basked in as well as the twilight. Sometimes, in the event that you refused to come inside after a long day of exploring in the grass, even the moonlight could make them gleam. I would chase you around the yard with purpose at first, but as you began to slow down I would too, because I wanted to savor the image of you beneath the stars. There was a twinkle in your eye that was unmistakable, especially when you were playing like that. As you got older it never went away, and I never failed to notice it, the way you would make such sincere eye contact with me when we were together. Thank you for that, baby; it’s one of the things I miss most.

That first year was not without it’s share of accidents and miniature emergencies; your affinity for ceaseless exploration led you into a few dangerous situations. You ate anything in sight. That included tubs of butter and cool whip left too close to the edge of the counter, as well as a plethora of toxic plants in our garden. We ended up getting rid of them when we found out how fond of them you were, but not before we took you to the hospital for a precautionary stomach pumping one summer day. I’m sorry you had to go through that; I just wasn’t about to take any chances. You meant too much to me, to all of us. You were our best friend.

After evening walks around the neighborhood, where you would roll onto your back for any stranger that approached, we would return home exhausted by the hot, setting sun. I loved the way you smiled when you panted, and the way you licked your light brown nose just to keep it cool. The fun really began when me and your other mommy, my mommy, brought you home a pink plastic pool from Walmart. You would lay in it as we filled it up, and then splash in and out of it in a fury of excitement, never failing to jump on us and leave muddy paw prints on our clothes. We didn’t care; no, we cherished it. You were a water dog after all, with webbed feet and red fur that curled when it was wet, and you made sure everybody knew it.

You were meant to go swimming in lakes and streams, you were meant to go on trail runs and camping trips. I’m sorry we never made it that far; every time I see a calm, empty pond or stream I picture you in it, rolling around and swimming out just deep enough to reach a stick that I might have thrown. We tried it; we got you a life jacket and everything, but I guess we didn’t try hard enough. I didn’t trust you to come back to me when I called, so I didn’t want to give you the freedom of being off leash. I guess we’ll never know how well you might have done.

Puppy school was not your forte, but you were a star student in the personality department, and nothing short of the class clown. There was not a mean bone in your body. Not unlike other border collie mixes, you could not contain your excitement when new people came to the house, and it was always a hassle to keep you from jumping up on them. A hassle, however, that I was proud to partake in, because you were just like me. You were wild, Mabel, and even though you had to be kept on a leash, I’d like to think you felt free.

You acted that way anyway, as you began to grow into a teenager. You transitioned from your puppy collar to your sunflower collar, the one that matched my tattoo so that we could be twins. And so began your adolescent year- the one filled with ripped up couch cushions and tipped over laundry baskets, in which you would hide your rawhide bones when you thought nobody was looking.

By that time your eyes were a rich gold, with a bright outer ring that I can’t even describe. The patch of white fur on your chest was now only a handful of out of place hairs hidden inside your shiny amber coat. Your tail was fluffy and so were your soft, velvety ears. You were breath taking, I hope you knew it, too. When you would roll on the floor in an expectant upturned pose, I was given no choice but to give in to your cuteness and give you a belly rub. That’s when I would whisper in your ear, as if it was some sort of secret, just how truly beautiful you were. God, you must have heard me.

In the winter you became a snow dog, and you would perch on the back porch in a snow drift throne, watching the forest and letting the snowflakes fall into your vibrant hair. Your walks were shorter then, but you seemed to make the most of them. I wish I had walked you further, sweet girl, and I wish I had joined you out there in the snow. You seemed to know something I didn’t, you seemed to see something out there in the woods that nobody else could see. This year when it snows I will be out there, I promise, and I will be looking into the forest like you did, and I’m sure I’ll see you. It wouldn’t be a surprise; these days, everywhere I look I can picture your big, furry body, healthy and alive.

Sometimes at night I would hear your nose against my door, just checking to see if you could push it open. When you couldn’t, you would sneak around the side of the house and stick your nose out of your doggy door, letting all of the cool air inside without a care in the world. I know, because I would spy on you out of my bedroom window, when I was sure you were going outside to wake the whole neighborhood up with your barking or chase off an evil squirrel. It was a relief to see you like that, so peaceful and calm, with the heat of the house keeping your body warm but the aroma of the outdoors keeping your nose occupied. Or maybe it was your body that was keeping the house warm but either way, you had it all figured out, didn’t you?

I would rarely let you inside my room but when I did, you made yourself right at home. You didn’t like to sleep on a bed though; you preferred the cold tile floor in front of the fire place, where you were close enough to the big front window to catch the sunrise every morning. It rose for you, baby girl, and it still does, every day. But you don’t rise for us anymore. You went to sleep, and you never woke up.

The highlight of this last year was the contemplative walks we took almost every evening. You would spot me as I rounded the corner down the street at the end of a run, and be waiting for me expectantly when I came home exhausted and out of breath. For the first few blocks you would pull me along, as I tried to catch my breath with every step. Eventually our walks turned into a way for us to escape together, and you would be lost in the smells of the world in the same way that I would get lost in the music on my iPod. We were in the zone, you and me, but we were never alone. Every so often you would look back at me with those heavenly eyes, and I would smile. We were a team Mabel, and we owned that neighborhood. I miss you.

When I went away on my bike trip I was bragging you up a storm, and missing you more than I ever thought I would. Coming home to you was one of the only things that kept me from getting pulled into that post-trip let down that I had been warned about. With you I had something to look forward to every day.

I’m so sorry you never got to come home again after we took you to the hospital on May 7th, but we were all so sure that the veterinarians would be able to make you better. I’m sorry it took me so long to notice how sick you were, and I’m sorry I didn’t spend the night with you when you were too dehydrated to come home. I’m sorry for whatever made you sick, whether it was weed killers or kidney disease or something else that you got into. And I’m sorry we couldn’t save you Mabel, I’m sorry there wasn’t more we could do. I would give anything to hold onto you for 10 seconds more, but on the evening of May 9th I was more desperate to end your suffering than I was to have you with me. Thank you for holding on long enough for me to be there when it happened.

The house is so different without you in it. Summer has come, and the garden is blooming, and the seeds we sprinkled on your grave have already taken root. The forest rarely stirs, but when it does the wildlife always seems to walk solemnly by your grave. Sometimes I hear the neighborhood dogs howling and I wonder if they know. Because your presence was so easily felt it is hard not to fixate on your absence, too.

We all still look for you sometimes, because eternity seems too far away to hold you again. Most of the time we just let ourselves be numb to the reality of life without you. Pinecone doesn’t try to hide his bones anymore, because he has nobody to hide them from. He sleeps in your spot now, and I think we all feel grateful that we still have one more furry body to fill it. Your collar is inside a plastic baggie on a shelf, where I’m trying to preserve the scent of you that still clings to it. It’s been two months. Not much has changed.

I’m in Banff right now and it is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. We are surrounded by mountains and crystal clear water, bluer than the sky. Every time the sweet mountain air blows through my hair I smile, but there is part of me that hurts because I wish it could ruffle your hair, too. I wish you could feel this sun on your face, or the cool glacial water on your paws. I’m doing all of that for you, but it’s not the same. Even as I am surrounded by 360 degrees of magnificence I can’t picture anything more beautiful than the image of your perfect eyes. Nothing feels warmer to me than the thought of you, and there is nothing sweeter than the memory of your unconditional love.

I picked a flower for you and put it on a tower of rocks in the middle of a stream. The light caught it, and as we walked away it was still sitting in the sun. Maybe it blew away and was carried down the river, and that would be okay. All that matters is that we remember you, and we’re never going to forget you. We’re never going to stop loving you.

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I think this counts as an awakening.

Laura WildLeave a comment

Our 21st night in Texas, that’s what I want to write about. The state was huge, needless to say, and I had been anticipating it since the day I decided to do the Southern Tier. Sometimes the prospect of riding across the whole thing seemed more daunting than the rest of the country. The first half of it was in the desert, until we reached a peak in elevation just before Austin, and then leveled out into what would eventually become the lowlands of Louisiana. Most of it was the same story I have told over and over again… about the familiar toll of my 6 o’clock alarm, the gentle mornings, the harsh afternoons, and the yellow evenings that ended in a display of fiery brilliance that never failed to cast my shadow on the ground before me. I changed a lot of tires, screamed at a lot of large insects, applied a lot of aloe vera lotion to my burnt skin and ate a lot of Mexican food.

Riding my bike was starting to feel really familiar, and even comfortable, despite the fact that I was almost always fatigued. I couldn’t describe those iconic days accurately in a million words, but I’m going to try to express what it felt like when the hot Texas sun went down, and was replaced by stars that shined brighter than anywhere else. They had no city lights to compete with.

On the 21st night, the last night, we tried to wrap our minds around the scope of the state that we had overcome, but it was impossible. Our heads weren’t in Texas anymore; we had given up on our daily plight to be present a long time ago. We’d been day-dreaming for the better part of a month, wishing ourselves away from that place even in the easy spots, even in the cool mornings and mild, shady afternoons of the hill country.

We couldn’t help ourselves; it’s what we had to do to not be driven insane by the constant vibration of our thin tires against the chip-seal pavement. It’s what we had to do to keep from being hypnotized by the eternal buzzing of an earth that was never silent, or lulled to sleep by a night sky bigger than our eyes even allowed us to adequately ponder. The same sky that turned to darkness two hours earlier than we were prepared for. I suppose I was physically still in Texas in mid-October, but in many ways I felt like I had really been home all along. All I had to do was close my eyes, and there I was. And there we all were.

I guess I was always looking upwards then, if not for the unconscious boost of optimism brought on by literally holding my chin up, it was because I just couldn’t look away. I guess that’s what you do on a quest for enlightenment. You tilt your head back, and you breathe a deep breath, and you stop trying to hold on to the moment you’re in and you let yourself get lost in your own fantasies.

Because it was fall, I was usually thinking about my auburn-haired mother. This was our favorite season, and I could picture her in the red and orange canyons of the Black Hills where the leaves were the most brilliant, the same leaves that would be long dead before I returned to them. She’d be taking their pictures while they posed, taking advantage of the soft Autumn weather that we were both so addicted to. I wanted to be there, I wanted to be in that moment almost more than the one I was in. I had the whole world to look at, every last star in the entire galaxy was twinkling above me and I would have traded it all for one breath of those tart fermented leaves.

What’s funny is how I tried to escape it all. As if I wouldn’t dream of it day in and day out; as if I wouldn’t miss the same people that I blamed for stunting my wanderlust. But they still had ahold of me; the whole city still had me in its grasp. I knew that someday I would think of that moment in the first year of my adult life, on my first great adventure, when I had conquered the magnificent state of Texas and yet somehow still felt conquered by the less-magnificent state of South Dakota. Maybe when I looked back on it I would think I was wise for my age, or maybe I would think I was clueless. At this point I’m leaning toward the latter, though it was easy to find any philosophy profound when it was envisioned in the wee hours of the night.

What matters is that I was wide awake when the sun came out again in the morning, and I saw a dawn that burnt away every lesser source of light in the sky and every last drop of dew on the ground. It was easier to concentrate during the day; the light brought an added sense of clarity, and the feeling of desperation I had to make sense of the universe disappeared with the rising sun. The few bouts of understanding that I experienced on my trip were intense, but short lived. They came to me swiftly in a moment of contemplative awareness and faded away as soon as I was able to find my blissful ignorance. The answer to the unknown was actually quite simple for me; though it was beyond breathtaking, I didn’t belong in Texas. The word ‘enlightenment’ was starting to seem less and less significant to me, and I was beginning to get a whole new appreciation for the word ‘home.’ I was starting to like the idea of it more, too.