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3 Ways to Expand Your Literary Network

Note: this post originally appeared on Cville’s WriterHouse blog.

When I moved to Charlottesville a year ago, I spent my first three months holed up in my townhouse, writing furiously. Four hundred pages and zero social interactions later, I knew something had to give.

Writing is a solitary endeavor, but the extrovert in me was losing it. I clung to the salespeople at Belk because they sounded so genuine when they asked how my day was.

“Great!” I sobbed, clawing at their sensible lapels. “I just moved here from New Jersey, and it’s really great to be in this mall with all of these people and bright lights!”

I’d moved to Charlottesville to get uncomfortable, to shift out of my corporate routine and into a creative one. But I discovered something in those first months: writing without company felt less like a kick in the ass and more like a blanket of isolation and despair.

I shook my post-verbiage shell shock by connecting with my local literary community.  In this season of Thanksgiving, I’m grateful to be surrounded by caring, supportive writers, and I want to share three easy ways you can do the same.

1. Take a Class

Nothing gets conversation moving like shared experience. In-class prompts, readings, and homework assignments not only sharpen your skills, they also offer weekly connections to like-minded writers.

Classes at Writerhouse gave me a respite from the dark and lonely places in my mind, the fear of the hours it takes to get a few words peppered on the page. I’m a real addict—I just finished my third non-fiction class—and the people I’ve met have been just as special as my education. Some of us even meet outside of class to continue writing together. Bonus!

2. Get Social

November is winding down, but NaNoWriMo is still in full swing. National Novel Writing Month is the perfect time to introduce yourself to writers in Charlottesville and across the country.

Twitter is a lonely writer’s paradise in November, when @NaNoWordSprints challenges writers to write as much as possible in given time frames. Take on their prompts, including key words and plot twists, and you’ll get involved in the conversation fast.

You should also search #NaNoWriMo on Twitter. You’ll discover a list of writers who encourage one another, and you can follow and engage with those who share your interests. I recommend starting with @CvilleWrimos.

3. Share Your Story

The easiest way to expand your literary network is to simply introduce yourself as a writer. Too many people hesitate to share their interest in writing, defeating themselves with ideas like “I have a day job, so I’m not really a writer,” or “I haven’t published anything yet, so my work doesn’t even count.” Self-criticism comes standard with a writer’s temperament, but it shouldn’t stop you from owning your art.

As soon as you say to a new acquaintance, “My name is _______, and I am a writer,” a world of connections will open to you. Everyone knows someone who is a writer, especially in Charlottesville, and once you share your passion with the world, the world will come to you.

Your Community Is Waiting

One year ago, I faced a long, dark winter without many friendships and too much angst about my work. Now I meet for weekly lunches with a tight-knit group of women, and we hold each other accountable to our writing goals. I’ve met journalists and essay writers, storytellers and poets, and I quietly thank the passion that binds us. If you’re reading this piece, I suspect you share it too, and once you start looking, you’ll find us everywhere.

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Right Brain, Meet Left

It’s a gorgeous day in Charlottesville, and I’m sitting in front of the window worrying about the future. The conversation in my head goes like this:
RIGHT BRAIN: Let’s go skip in the sunshine!
LEFT BRAIN: What will that accomplish, exactly?
RB: Fun!
LB: How is that going to further your career as a writer?
RB: Sun!
LB: …
RB: Yaaaaaaaaay!
LB: No one wants to read babble about daylight. Let’s think about how you can build a name for yourself.
RB: …
LB: What if you wrote something fun and amusing? Something people would want to tell other people about? Then you could justify your existence for another day.
RB: …
LB: What?
RB: : (
LB: Come on. Careers are about working hard and proving yourself over and over and over again.
RB: : ( : (
LB: Oh, it’s not so bad. We just need to set some goals and eventually be louder and smarter and faster and more creative than everyone else on the internet.
RB: : ( : ( : (
LB: Look, we’re not going to have a pity party about it. You knew this would be hard.
RB: I want a nap.
LB: You can’t. We have things to do.
RB: : (
LB: OK, we aren’t getting anywhere. Look, maybe we just need to get the blood flowing. Move around a little bit.
RB: Can we go for a walk?
LB: Sure.
RB: And skip in the sunshine???

And we did. 

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Snowflakes and Sunshine

We’ll learn fear might not mean ‘stop’; I’ve come to believe fear usually means ‘go.’
— Frances Moore Lappé
Tuesday morning opens with snowfall.
I sit at my desk and watch little flurries salt the trees, scraggly branches reaching incredulously upward. Yesterday the air was balmy, a tropical 60 in our mountainous suburbs. Now white sweeps down like a stage-length curtain, paving the backyard with pixilated ice.
A fresh start.
Isn’t that what we expect when we vow to change our lives? We gaze onto a barren landscape and imagine a future that’s wild, invigorating and white as a page. Blood churns and fingers tingle at the thought of phantom frost.
I stare into the gathering cold and hum Bon Iver in the back of my throat. I can’t find my snowshoes; I can’t seem to mush. With every useless moment passing, I sink deeper into drifts of lassitude, soaked with muddy self-loathing. I’ve become a shifting weather pattern, confused and confusing, scattering Canadian geese to all points of the compass.
Our dog meanders into the room and sits heavily at my feet. Her brown eyes ask me to make it stop snowing.
Out there in the great big world, I know other people are complaining. They’re sucking their teeth and refueling with coffee and lamenting another day in the office. Not long ago I was one of them, anxious to flee the press and grind, propelled by my conviction that I would suffocate without new air. Now I envy their routine, certain endings to certain days, and fear the vastness stretched before me.
Maybe this is the truth of change, the thing our fallible minds reject. Excitement is a cresting wave, the rush of cumulus toward the heart of the storm. All this energy, this certainty and power, serves to push us just so far. We ride high enough the see the shore, the sunshine above the clouds; then we are unceremoniously dumped to earth, falling like snowflakes or sea foam toward the earth.
The aftermath crushes. We must learn to breathe again.
Now we stand up shakily, slowly. The tundra looks different from here; the cold and damp are real. We lack much of the proper training, and we have needy dogs in tow. It’s a long hike to our dreamed-of fields.
But even the fearful body remembers that once we rode high as kings, alight like stars burning across the sky. Once in those highest, clearest moments, we saw where our lives were waiting.
I sit at my desk and open my computer. Outside, bits of white fall more thickly. Then something heavenward shifts, parting the pockets of gray, and the air is pierced by golden angles, shafts of smoking light. In the sudden illumination, I find my blank page and lift my fingers to the keys. I will write of all these changes, the lift and the crash and halcyon dreams. I will venture forward and carry my fear, leaving footfalls on the face of the world, wearing skin brightened by snowflakes and sunshine.

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Ask Doctor Derby: The Interminable Quarter-Life Crisis

Yeah, it’s all fun and games now. Just give it 23 years.

Today’s question comes from Ryan the Girl, a friend with whom I studied Ye Olde English at the College of Knowledge, and as a musician and fellow blogger she is well qualified to ask it.

QUESTION: How long does this Quarter-Life Crisis last??? Does it stick around until the dreaded 3-0 comes around? And how are we Quarter Lifers supposed to deal with this kind of crisis when we’re too poor to buy sports cars?

ANSWER (in two parts)

How long does the QLC last? As long as you need it to.

I realize that’s a tad counterintuitive, what with the whole “please-make-it-go-away-I-just-want-the-answers-and-maybe-a-ham-sandwich” mentality that accompanies these crises. And oh yeah, I’ve felt this way. When you’re balled up on the couch, eating Doritos and crying over poetry or Glee, it’s easy to hate the questions, to wonder when, dear God please, the wondering will stop.

But here’s the thing. If you love life, if you are commanded by the vibrant pulse in your veins, if you are engaged and curious and open you will always have questions. You’re not dead, not you or me or anyone reading this post (presumably), and this is the best thing that’s happened to any of us since the day we were born.

Since uncertainty has its roots in true living, if wonder is the flame of human spirit, what is up with all this angst? To that, the heart of the quarter-life crisis, I answer: don’t fight it!

This is not a phase; it’s not an illness. It’s not a 20-something scourge. It’s a part of yourself that cries out for attention, that demands you bear deep into the fog and mire. Use every compass, use all your endurance, and when the time comes you will run aground on new truths.

We want to know what tomorrow will bring because we want to avoid the fears, the worries, to raise battlements against life’s plans. Impossible, and worse, stilting—even if we could know, we shouldn’t; you can’t win without a fight, and you can’t survive without deserving to. So give into the storm, to the hurricane winds, and unclap your hands from your shivering ears. There’s a sound beneath the thunder and drumming rain: that same voice, yours, repeating the truths of itself over and over again. The words are a song and a triumphant message, and it will loop until you listen or are driven mad.
*     *     *
My personal experience:

I’m currently 26, rounding on 27, and I’ve been having self-awareness conniptions since I turned 25. These fevers—the head-splitting, tooth-grinding sweats about what to do with the rest of my life—broke after about a year and a half.

Sometime in the late spring, I began to fret less about the myriad outcomes of any particular action and resolved myself to one of them. For a long time, I worried that if I shut myself off to any opportunity that came my way, I would lose the best thing that (n)ever happened to me. This habit led to a lot of question marks on calendars, last-minute resolutions, and the sort of psychological ellipses that drove me insane. Rather than preserve life choices, I’d failed to capitalize and truly enjoy any of them.

For me, then, a quarter-life crisis acted as the catalyst for a new mode of living. I stopped hedging my bets and began taking risks. I resolved myself to the big, scary things I knew I truly wanted to do, and when I talked about achieving them I uncrossed the fingers behind my back.

Despite my long-term fear of closing doors, I discovered a new kind of peace, an excitement for the future I’d never felt before. A The fog and clouds obscuring the horizon were no longer fearsome; they were curtains to be drawn apart, challenges to be conquered, and beyond them waited the great shining stage of my life.

That’s not to say I no longer freak out about debt, politics, global warming, and chipping nail polish. I just don’t classify these bottomless worries as a true QLC. Uncertainty is the flint of living; my fear means I’m alive. When I started to listen, the loop of my voice told me to tell stories, to write them and read them and sing them out. I quit my job, I left the grind, and of all the risks in this big, bright life, I’m taking the one I’ve always longed for.
*     *     *
And how should you deal in the meantime?

If you’re dying for a sports car, lease one for the day! (The 17 year olds who worked at the pizza place downstairs used to do that all the time. At least I think they did, since there was a different exposed-engine Mazarati, Merc or Porsche parked curbside most weekends. Slices weren’t that good.)

Alternately, you could start robbing banks and then do whatever you want. Just don’t mention my name.
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Top Ten Causes of a Quarter-Life Crisis

10. Thinking too much. 

9. Sister Wives
8. Global warming (and the people who STILL maintain it isn’t real). 

7. Headlights that shine like highbeams. 
6. The comeback of crop tops. 
5. American dependence on foreign oil, smartphones, and political rhetoric. 
4. Snooki, the author. 
3. Congress and the 12-person body that must reach a unified decision on how to handle this: 

2. And the 525,000 people who learn about it thusly:

And finally, the Number One Cause of a Quarter-life Crisis:

1. Quitting your job on the eve of the Great Recession because, despite everything, you still believe in the power of dreams. You refuse to stop pursuing your passions, though you sometimes trip when the ground shakes beneath you. Surrounded by Chicken Littles and falling skies, you stand up and move to the drum of your heart because you know that in the end, faith will conquer every crisis.
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In Which I Discover I’m Old

They’re 25 today. This fact alone means that you are older than dirt.
Olsen collage © StyleSight

Confession: I have senioritis.

Like, BAD.

The sun is shining, the surfers are paddling, the hippies are Bonaroo-ing. Summer is HERE and I am ready to PLAY.

Now for the really fun part: I don’t get to play. I’m not a senior. I’m not graduating from high school or college or grad school or pre-K (seriously, they have ceremonies for that). The closest I got to graduation this year is when I emerged from the aisles of “RAD FOR DADS AND GRADS!” cards at CVS. Stumbling toward the pharmacy in a haze of disappointment and literary horror, I begged them for Asprin or Xanax but was told unsavory sentiment, gagacious rhyme scheme and quarter-life crises don’t count.

WHATEVER.

So when Boyfriend sent me the video of Conan O’Brien’s Commencement address to Dartmouth’s Class of 2011, I took my sweet time watching it. Humor, encouragement, rah rah blah blah blah. I am completely obsessed with motivational speeches, but this was asking too much. Clearly Boyfriend doesn’t understand the illness of Senioritis when you are not, technically, a senior. Nowadays, even my CAR laughs at me when I get out of work. What did YOU do all day? it asks gleefully. Because I sat under the big shiny sun!

My ’98 Honda Civic has a tan, but I do not.

Speaking of which, I still drive a ‘8 Honda Civic. Doesn’t qualify me as a senior?

Well, no. But you know what does?

The fact that in O’Brien’s speech, he tells graduates that they began college in the fall of 2007. That’s right: our 2011 graduates started school THE SEMESTER AFTER I GRADUATED FROM COLLEGE.

OH. MY. GOD.

I’m ancient.

Fortunately, Conan also goes on to say that you’re never too old to start fresh, to be silly, to fail. In fact, he encourages it. And I, as a writer and dreamer and recent-but-not-that-recent-college grad myself, believe him.

So here, take a listen to his speech. It’s hilarious and the perfect antidote to feeling ‘too’ anything: too old, too stuck, too pasty pale from fluorescent lighting. I’ll running around the building and trying to forget that thing about the Olsen twins.

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Humpday

So I may or may not have once written a blog post about how great Wednesday is, as a day.

Well, former self, let me tell you a little story. When it’s 40 degrees and raining for the fourth day in a row in the middle of MAY, and you have an 8AM conference call for the umpteenth time in recent memory, you might not be so darn chipper about it. In fact, all you want to do is pull a Bruno Mars and the bedcovers right back over your pretty little head.

Sometimes I consider wearing a monkey mask to work, but I’m not sure anyone would notice.

Self, you also wrote that post when you had yet to convert to a “Today’s Crisis” format. For you, Wednesday was just another day of the week, and you seemed oblivious to the fact that, in time, every day would present a minor catastrophe.

That’s the thing about this quarter-life crisis. It hits when you least expect it. (OK, it’s maybe most likely around ages 24-26.) And stopping this cascade of horrors is not up to you—it’s not even within your power. Like natural disasters or Charlie Sheen, the quarter-life crisis doesn’t end just because you want it to. It’s like the Humpday of life. (OK, maybe that’s the mid-life crisis. Stop judging my flawed analogies.)

But this week, like my crises, will end. All in due time. This too shall pass, and while I’m at it, why don’t I scale back the intensity of my whining and remember how lucky I have it.  No point in wishing my life away!  Right? Right? Gotta embrace every moment, right?

I think I’ll wear sweatpants to my meeting.
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My Life as a Vagrant Part 1,350,000

Florida airports may look like nature, but they are not, in fact, real life.
So I’ve been traveling a lot lately.
I can hear you now. “What? Elizabeth, you, travel?” I could do without the sarcasm, guys.
YES, I’ve been traveling. I’ve been bouncing around all over the place. Planes, trains and automobiles: I’ve used them all, ferrying myself from New York City novel writing classes to Jersey Shore graduate celebrations to Virginia homecomings to Miami bachelorette parties and while I bet you don’t feel sorry for me I just need to say that I’m TIRED.
I’m frazzled, actually.  I feel like a Virginia Woolf heroine beset with a case of nerves. Were I to consult a doctor of yore, he would no doubt prescribe a week’s worth of the air, perhaps along the French Riviera. Knowing me, I would jump at the chance to see France (FINALLY!), pack a bag weighing approx. 800 lbs, and speedily convey myself to the airport just in time to collapse in the security line of Terminal C.
Because that’s how it is for us kids today, beset as we are with passionate wanderlust and enough job security to drop half a month’s salary on fuel. Granted, we take every trip between 7PM Friday and 10PM Sunday—newbies don’t get real vacation time—but we’re YOUNG, darn it, and we’re FREE, and if we can see the world via the internet and television and movies and cell phones and Apache smoke signals, shouldn’t we be able to do the same with our bodies?
Unfortunately, it appears that our bodies haven’t actually learned to operate at the speed of data transmission. (Mike Teavee,  you false promiser, I ‘m looking at you.) As I shuttle about from fun event to fun event, spending boatloads of effort and cash to see everyone and do everything I love regardless of zip code, I find myself wondering if, well, I mightn’t be missing something.
The chance to relax, for example.
When I was in Miami, I had a bit of a meltdown. After monster travel problems and a 6-hour delay in arrival, I was READY for that first glass of champagne. When my friend hurt her foot the next day, I took her to the ER. (Surprisingly, our wardrobe choices surprised the hospital staff. You’d think they’d never seen a pink polka-dot bikini in a wheelchair before.) Finally outfitted with crutches and a boot, we made our way to the beach, where our friends were waiting with beach chairs and daiquiris.

As I lay down to absorb the fullest possible dose of Vitamin D, I took several deep breaths and tried to clear my mind. It was an incredibly beautiful day, with endless sky and clear blue water like you see in Victoria’s Secret Swim catalogues. The heat wound its way through my skin—one of my favorite feelings of all time, second to the burn of Frank’s Red Hot—and a nearby soccer game blasted techno remixes of popular pop songs.
I LOVE techno remixes of pop songs.
Despite these joys, I couldn’t calm down. I remained wound up the entire weekend. I should have been lost in a haze of beautiful bodies and pink champagne, but I was more concerned by the meter of my rental car. Even our 2AM gyro couldn’t distract me entirely from the creeping feeling that maybe, just maybe, my traveling was getting in the way of my fun.
 Don’t you feel sorry for me?

In our generation, a person is programmed to do everything—see every sight, hit every party, make every clever quip on every Facebook status update of 800+ friends. (Oh, you don’t have 800+ friends? Then that’s on your to-do list, too.)  All this hustle and bustle makes for some really lively stories to share over brunch—but it also drives you to distraction. When you’re overbooked or over-traveled, life is like texting while you drive: it seems reasonable since everyone else is doing it, and you don’t have any time to waste, but if you aren’t careful, your efficiency will kill you.
“Never mistake movement for action.” That’s what Earnest Hemingway said, and darn it, that wacky old kook was right. There is a fine line between doing enough and doing too much, and I totally plan to find it. I’ll schedule my next beach vacation to happen right here on the Jersey Shore. I’ll make sure that every trip is something I truly want rather than what I feel I must do.  I’ll renege on my upcoming RSVPs to 3 weddings, cancel the California business trip and forgo the family vacation in West VA.
Haha, no I won’t. I refuse to cancel plans I’ve already set. But I did rest this past weekend, thanks to a rogue virus, and in the future I will be more careful about what I agree to do. Hemingway would be proud.
But if I get a doctor’s note to visit the Riveria, I’m gone.

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Why I Love New Jersey (Even Though I Wear Glasses and No Discernible Tan)


Here’s the scene:

You sit with your chin propped in your hand, perched on a plastic chair and staring at the snow outside your classroom window. It’s your second semester of senior year at college, and the thought of graduation is just as overwhelming as a surprise snowstorm on chilly April Fool’s Day.
Well don’t worry, Adult-in-the-Making! Not only will you soon discover that ‘The Real World’ is a sham, but I have discovered the perfect place for you to live, work and play post-college:
New Jersey.

I recently took part in a series of webinars sponsored by the College of William and Mary’s Alumni Association. The program, called “Destination X”, gives seniors a window into the many different regions where W&M alumni currenty thrive.

I wish they’d had something like this when I was a senior, because Lord knows I had NO idea what I was going to do after college. I distinctly remember standing around a cheese platter during Senior Week, and as my peers rattled off plans like “Peace Corps” and “med school” and “Oxford Law”, I stuffed my face with brie and mumbled something about my parents’ basement.

Fortunately, ‘my parents’ basement’ was located in one of the most beautiful, stimulating, fun-loving places in America. So I’d like to take this opportunity to address those of you who are still trying to decide where to go with your life. The answer is simple.

I’d like to begin by discussing a few stereotypes of Dirty Jerz.

Stereotype #1: Jersey smells.

Let’s just get this out of the way upfront. A lot of non-natives believe that our entire state can be summarized by the Turnpike—that is to say, covered in concrete, lined with smokestacks, and capable of emitting a rather nauseating smell as you approach New York. People, THE TURNPIKE IS NOT THE STATE OF NEW JERSEY. THE TURNPIKE IS A HIGHWAY. There is actually a whole of lot of state that you can’t see from the highway, and that’s the part I’m going to talk about now.

Stereotype #2: Jersey dudes get their GTL on the regular. 


For the three of you who have never seen the MTV show Jersey Shore—and I’m one of you—GTL stands for gym, tan, laundry, the triumvirate of activities that keep “The Situation” and his cast mates looking fresh and fine for the ladies. Here’s the thing: people from the Jersey Shore TV show are actually pretty similar to some of the people you will find on the physical Jersey Shore. These people are not from NJ, however—the bulk of them are imported from Long Island and New York City, just for those halcyon weekends between Memorial and Labor Day. New Yorkers tend to be the ones wearing gold chains and too much hair gel. That being said, I do know native New Jerseyites who work out so much that their biceps look like cantaloupes. Presumably these people also do laundry, so maybe the GTL philosophy isn’t too far off.

Stereotype #3: People from New Jersey are unfriendly.

You’re probably thinking of this guy.

There is a level of truth to this. New Jerseyites—and people from the North, if I may be so bold—are not as overtly friendly as those south of the Mason-Dixon line. Not everyone will say hello when you walk past them on the street, and no one has ever addressed me as “Sugar” or “Darlin’” without a significant amount of alcohol involved.

Jersey exudes an air of toughness, but it isn’t exactly true. Like my coworker said when she talked about raising her kids: “My boys won’t ever start a fight—but they won’t lose one, either.” Finish the fight, that’s our belief; go big or go home. Our culture is one of speed, strength, and competition. People drive fast in expensive cars, and if you’re a pedestrian you’d better look twice before crossing the road. Jersey challenges you to be independent, to assert yourself without a lot of coddling. Ultimately, this attitude teaches you to forge your own path, to love who you are no matter what. And when you are the first one to say hello, the world becomes much friendlier than you expected. That guy in Dunkin Donuts who just barked his coffee order might actually smile—or even hold the door for you.

*      *       *

So now that we’ve covered the fluffy stuff, here are some facts.

FACT: NJ is at the center of the Northeast megalopolis, which basically means we’re right in the middle of New York City, Philadelphia, Baltimore, DC, and Boston. It’s less than 5 hours to any of these places from my house. Pretty sweet!

FACT: New Jersey is very ethnically and religiously diverse. It’s also the most densely populated state in the country. 8.8 MILLION people live here. This means that even though the cost of living is high, you will definitely be able to find a roommate to share rent with you. And when you want to get away from the 8.8 million people around you, you can go hiking in one of many national parks or go kayaking in the zillion rivers. You can learn to surf, like I did last summer, or volunteer at a local flowerbed or communal farm. Jersey is called the Garden State for a reason, you know. 

We have a lot of plants. We grow vegetables and fruits and nuts; we have horses and cows and seafood aplenty. In the town I grew up in, there’s actually a buffalo farm across the street from the high school.

FACT: We’ve got CLUBS. If nature isn’t your thing, Jersey’s got you covered. From the gambling dens of Atlantic City to the mini-Manhattans of Hoboken and Jersey City, you can jam to folk and indie rock or drop it low to Top 40 rap. To draw a parallel near to my heart, Jersey is like a techno remix of your favorite pop song. If you like loud, pulsing rhythms and the impetus to dance, you’ll find yourself well-supported.

Of course, you don’t HAVE worship Autotune or a healthy dose of fist-pumping. In order to appreciate Jersey, you just have to love music.

FACT: The great NJ is home to waaaay more musicians than you realize. Of course there’s Bon Jovi and his hair. There’s Bruce Springsteen, who made Asbury Park famous with his E Street Band’s debut album in 1973. Among others, New Jersey also gave birth to Frank Sinatra, Lauryn Hill and the Jonas Brothers!

(Side Note: The Boss goes to my gym. I saw him there once; we almost bumped into each other outside the locker rooms. He gave me a once-over, looked disappointed, and walked away, so I considered it a success.)

Just to name-drop a little more: a lot of actors also get their start here, including my recent favorites Meryl Streep, Paul Rudd, and, of course, our beloved Jon Stewart. It’s a great state for budding artists, not only in its multitude of theaters, playhouses, and comedy halls, but because of coffee shops. We have SO MANY, and they are the perfect for brooding. In high school, I was part of a Performing Arts Program, and when I wasn’t at the mall or eating pancakes in late-night diners, my friends and I spent countless hours in coffee shops, listening to Dashboard Confessional and angsting about boys. You, too, can relive these magical moments if you decide to embrace the Jersey Experience.

So really, you’ll have TOO MANY options for fun when you aren’t working. Because believe me, you WILL get a job, and then you’ll long for the days when you were a senior wondering what your job might one day be. So then, what does New Jersey offer for work?

Jersey is all about industry. This is the place where New York does its manufacturing, its engineering, its research and development. It’s a prime place for science and math majors looking to apply their learning to consumer goods companies like Johnson & Johnson, Pfizer, Merck, etc.

FACT: New Jersey is home to more scientists and engineers per square mile than anywhere else in the world. (Are you surprised? I am, kind of.)

But Jersey isn’t just a great fit for those of you who want to wear lab coats and those funny pants that look like they’re made of Kleenex. No, New Jersey is also home to major telecommunications firms, like Verizon Wireless and AT&T. Other big industries are shipping, food processing, printing and publishing, and chemical development.

I actually work for a chemical company—the twist here being that it’s a flavor and fragrance chemical company, so it’s actually pretty cool for someone with an English degree. After a year and a half as a Temp in the Marketing Department, I graduated to a full-time job here. Now I’m a big bad Marketing Manager, so I name candles, give trend presentations to clients all across the country, and generally smell things.

Back to my state, though. According to Wikipedia, “New Jersey is the ultimate bedroom community,” i.e. full of commuters. As a result, there are a heck of lot of jobs in retail sales, real estate and education. ‘Bedroom community’—it sounded like it was going to be more exciting than that, right? But seriously, it’s a great place for families—the public schools are excellent and our development of sarcasm at a young age is like none other. Also I like to say that if you can learn to drive in New Jersey, you can probably drive anywhere.
*     *     *

OK. So I’ve talked a lot about how great Jersey is, how fun and exciting and perfect blah blah blah. I say all this in my desire to clear up a few misunderstandings between my state and the rest of the country, but also because I know a secret. The Garden State, despite its labels, will not judge you. This is one place where you can become whoever you want to be.

There is a book that a dear friend gave to me, and it’s called The Poets of New Jersey. In the forward, Stephen Dunn writes a passage that speaks as easily to you as it does to me, to graduating seniors and dreamers alike. The power of New Jersey, Dunn suggests, is its lack of a clear identity. Unlike other states with their ravages of history, their conflicting strains of religion and individualism, New Jersey is in effect a blank canvas, one that liberates us “from any need to address some overarching sense of [place].” Put more simply, New Jersey’s gift “is that it’s a place of many places, essentially amorphous, freeing us to look at the world.”

If your mind and heart are open, you will find a different place than you’ve come to expect. New Jersey might just be perfect for you.

But no matter where you go, dear reader, whether you’re snow-covered or sweating in sub-tropical heat, you’ve already come this far. Like our worried college senior–or anyone ready for wind in their sails–your passions and questions will carry you forward, and the travelogue of your life will be written effortlessly, often without your noticing.

As a matter of fact, you’re already on your way.
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Ask Doctor Derby: Babies


I am so pleased to announce that I have received several questions for my attempted advice column, so I will address one (finally) today. If you have your own thoughts, concerns, or questions, please feel free to leave them in the comments (or shoot an email to doctorderby@gmail.com).
Today’s question comes from a sweet friend of mine, a loving girl with the good fortune of seeing several close friends marry and, more recently, have babies. She pointed out that as women (and men) are swept into the world of new parenthood, their non-parent friends begin to wonder:

Q: When 20-somethings have babies, what do you think the appropriate level of re-defining one’s self is? In the face of irresistible baby cooing and [baby] toe biting, how can ladies help their maternal friends maintain their self-awareness?

A: They don’t.



I’m not one to throw my hands up over a problem (rather, I obsess until I’ve found a solution through sheer force of will if not reason), and I don’t believe I’m doing so here. The majority of us pass through life stages wherein our priorities necessarily change. Some friends make it through the gate a bit faster than others, and for those of us still innocent of love or grief or baby booties, that transition looks like passage into Crazytown.

For example, I have a friend who is ten years older than I am, and for many years we fought about his attitude toward corporate life. He’d describe every day at the office as a series of petty frustrations and red tape. (Yes, he worked for the government.) “Elizabeth,” he’d say. “I just spent 8 hours in meetings. I seriously did not sit down at my desk today, and I have two huge projects due tomorrow, and I swear, not ONE of those meetings accomplished ANYTHING. I feel like a HAMPSTER.”

I used to think he was being dramatic. “So get a new job,” I’d say. “You should be able to live your dreams!” I was a senior in college, and as far as I could tell, living your dreams was the POINT of this entire exercise.

But here’s the thing: I get it now. I’ve been there. To Crazytown, I mean.  I’ve worked in a corporate hierarchy; I’ve sat in meeting after meeting, nails biting half-moons in my palms; I’ve been so frustrated at 5PM that I want to bang my head against the cubicle wall.

This is not to say that I don’t agree with my college self. I still believe that finding a way to live our dreams IS the point of this entire exercise. But I acknowledge that this pursuit can be just as disappointing and annoying and tedious as anything else. And sometimes, we just need to vent.

So back to my lovely reader’s question:

For someone who lives alone, resplendent in the freedoms of post-college life, it might appear as though our friends have lost their minds, running around after cute little things that exist primarily to form excretions. But dogs are just LIKE that, and their owners are typically happy as clams. So once babies come into the picture, you know that their parents are going to be happier (and yes, sometimes more frustrated, sometimes more hurt) than we can ever imagine.

New mothers may appear to be losing their self-awareness or undergoing some seismic shift in their personality, but the truth is that these women are exactly who we remember them to be—albeit plastered in a layer of sleep deprivation and Cheerios.

While we wear the carefree expression of 20-somethings who still eat Peeps for breakfast, these men and women are developing a new facet of their personalities, one that they will wear for the rest of their lives. Rather than deny the full power and glory of parenthood, we can love our friends just as we used to. After all, people are who they are (spit-up and phobias of daycare notwithstanding).

Or we can can offer to babysit.
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