2015: The one where I became a “writer”

The importance of the stories behind the stories

In early 2015, I wrote a tweet. Well, I wrote a ton of tweets. It was actually my job to do so. I spent a lot of my time as an engagement editor at a media company consumed with anxiety over doing something that would End My Career. Maybe I’d have a psychotic break and tell Amnesty International to “suck it.” Or perhaps I’d just accidentally share a picture of a chocolate butt plug. Strangely, I never really considered the opposing possibility — that a tweet might actually make my career.

One freezing February morning, I decided that the only way I was going to get through a day of link pushing was to indulge in a bit of fantasy. I imagined that I could one day make Stevie Zine, my online culture magazine for and by women, my full-time job. I heard that the Matter founders had somehow achieved the impossible, going from newsletter to Kickstarter to major acquisition. So, I shot a little query out into the universe, one that set off a long, boring chain of events that starts with a DM from the Editor-in-Chief and ends with me being hired as a staff writer at Medium.

No one knows this, but I actually saw the job listing months before. But I didn’t allow myself to even entertain the idea of filling out the application. In my mind, a job like that was laughably beyond reach. (When I first got it, I was convinced “they” were going to realize they’d made a mistake and “take it back.”) I had written many things before, sure, but I didn’t feel that qualified me to actually write for a living. Back then, I had a lot of inaccurate misconceptions about who writers are, what they do and how they do it. People who write professionally are naturals, I thought. (Writerly sounding) words pour out of them like fountains and they sit atop a meditation pillow full of transcendent story ideas. Oh, and they probably don’t need a lot of editing.

I’m not sure where I got these ideas (probably academia?) but they are bullshit, and they are most dangerous to people who for whatever reason have been conditioned to think their stories don’t matter, their voice not good enough. This year I’ve learned that behind the beautiful presentation of a feature is practice and patience and multiple people getting annoyed at each other. As my mentor Mark Lotto once Slacked over trail mix, “there is a lot of crying in content.”

So, I’m dedicating my review to the often ugly work behind the pretty stuff. The stories behind the stories. Here’s what you didn’t read about when you read me this year:

The bravery of the person who encouraged me to write even though I wasn’t technically allowed to as a social media editor. The grace of this same person as they coached me through my first experience with online harassment. (Why Does Creepy Uncle Joe Biden Get A Pass From Liberals?)

The sloppy, whiskey-soaked conversation at a dive in Crown Heights between friends. One that would lead to an exchange of sexy pics, and eventually, the popularity of a new word. (Girl, Send Me a Frext)

The kind of intense depression that would lead a someone to take selfies and then come up with identities for them. (I Call This Look)

The jort-haters, Drake-deniers and Sephora-stupids I had to battle to live my truth. (An Ode to Jorts, Drake-ify Your Life, On Stealing from Sephora)

The editor who told me I didn’t have to write anything I didn’t feel comfortable with, that I didn’t need to expose anything I wasn’t ready to. That my life was mine, and not the world’s. (Dear Teen Dream, You Can Find Meaning Without Monogamy)

The corner in Bushwick where I puked after a Drunk Ted Talk because my memes really are that dank. (Love in the Time of LOLera)

The many emotional back-and-forths that come with writing about your old job, the email sent to try and ease the blow, the wondering if that source was fired over what she said. (The Pink Ghetto of Social Media)

The heartbreak that had me listening to Konstantine on repeat because that is a super cool activity for a grown woman in their late twenties. (Forever Fifteen)

The heated argument that turned a boring piece on the Fat Jewish into bizarre fan fiction about pizza rat. (The Rat Has A Hunger)

The reporting that led me to an incredibly shitty online date that made me want to die the next morning on the way to the airport. The man I’d talk to on the flight about the story. The same one who would later teach me of the value in some things never being mediated by the internet. (Can Women Build a Better Tinder?)

The village it takes to raise a publication. The badass-ness of Matter founder Bobbie Johnson, who somehow manages to be both challenging and kind. The unnerving vision of Mark Lotto, one of those “career-shaping” editors who drives you simultaneously to your best work and insanity. The art direction of Erich Nagler, who pushes words into a new, more provocative territory. The value of a creative partnership with a woman like Madison Kahn, who is exacting in her ideas and execution. The dedication of Alex Vikmanis, who keeps our asses in line and is pleasant when he does it. The investigation style of Lauren Smiley, a reporter who makes me better just by osmosis. And of course, the friends — the ones that feel more like lovers — who will gchat you off the ledge when you’re convinced your latest thing is garbage.

This year I learned that a great story, especially for those who write in the first-person, isn’t a tidy contained unit. In reality, a polished piece is a messy concoction of experiences, of people and places and things, ones that usually have no meaning until you piece them all together. And as In Real Life, they don’t always have poetic, “writerly” beginnings. They can start with a thought, a feeling — even a tweet. A FUCKING TWEET! Damn, am I grateful for that.