Hi Readers! I know it’s been a while since I blessed the blog but if you’ve kept up with me on my socials, you’ll know that I’ve been a touch busy. If not, here’s a recap on what’s kept me from this space for so long:
- October: My draft of The Follow spinoff, The Lamar St. Jon Experience, was selected among over 3500 manuscripts for a Pitch Wars mentorship. Huge level-up for my writing career and – if I may be frank – I worked my ass off to be one of the 107 picked.
- November: While knee deep in Pitch Wars edits of my fictional romance, my real life intervened. I resigned from my dayjob after a decade of service. Hard decision but, by far, the best one I’ve made in 2018.
- December: I started my new dayjob in a field in which I have zero experience – biotechnology. Yeah, I know! But no worries – I’ve been pacing myself and trying to absorb everything I can during my training period to avoid having Jack McFarland moments such as:
Even in the midst of all types of activity wrapping up my 2018, I still managed to get some reading done. It ran the gamut, too – everything from Gabby Bernstein’s The Universe Has Your Back to a yummy holiday gay romance from Jack Harbon. In fact, it’s my last non-fic pick that prompted the subject of this post:
Gayle King may be Oprah’s BFF, but she’s carved an awesome television career in her own right. Note To Self is King’s first foray into the literary world. The book’s premise is simple yet poignant: a collection of letters, written by notables such as former VP Joe Biden, Chelsea Handler, and Kermit The Frog, that they’ve addressed to the younger versions of themselves. At the end of the book, King provides lined pages for the reader to craft their own letter.
So I decided to bring mine to the blog:
Dear Young Me,
It’s Future You, chiming in from 2018. But, in your world, it’s the summer of 2000, you’ve just graduated from college with a degree in Marketing (and a minor in Fine Arts, which is what you lead with for some inane reason), and you’re moving in with your boyfriend. All of your money will go to rent, utilities, weed, Camel Lights, and massive bottles of Absolut Vodka. You may disagree, but you have zero responsibilities outside of feeding yourself, getting high, and then feeding yourself again. Let me repeat that: YOU HAVE ZERO RESPONSIBILITIES. No matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, you’re a hippie with indoor plumbing. Wow. It’s kind of a trip. You can hardly believe it yourself because let’s face it: falling in love wasn’t on your radar over the past four years of, ahem, sextracurricular activities (I know you hate puns but I like them now. Deal.). But alas, you’re done with the hoe life, are so in love you can’t see straight, and no one tells you what to do anymore because you’re 21, so off you go.
But before you go riding off into the sunset, may I give you a heads up on a few items?
You’ve totally bought into the ‘having it all, climbing the corporate ladder’ mentality that you and many Gen X girls were spoon-fed since you first toddled in your mother’s high heels. Well, yeah, hate to break it to you, but that shit’s not for everybody. The ladder is long and rickety and you’ll hate almost every step of the climb. You’ll sell everything from sub sandwiches to air filtration systems to classified advertising during your first post-collegiate decade. As you grow into the woman you think you already are, you’ll find that your gifts are bigger than a boardroom.
I know. That is SO hard for you to wrap your brain around right now. It will continue to be for a while. In the meantime, I urge you to start writing something. Anything. A journal entry, a short story, a ransom note, just write. You love books and, deep down, you know that you can write a sexy story just as good as the Candace Bushnell and Helen Fielding novels you devoured in college. You love the stories but feel left out because none of the characters look like you. Listen to me: you can change that landscape, but you don’t hear me because, again, it’ll take you a while longer to realize that. Fair enough, you stubborn cow. Let’s move on…
The years will pass by and BOOM! You’ll find yourself married with two kids, a mortgage, and roughly fifty extra pounds on your ass. Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drop the plus-sized bomb on your current size ten frame so fast but you’re impatient, vain, and hate surprises. This brings me to my next heads up: exercise. You’ve never had to be concerned about your weight. Your curves developed with very little effort, but it’ll take significant work to keep them after you push two kids through your Hello Kitty. So build healthy habits now before a doctor tells you not-so-casually that you could stand to lose twenty pounds so that you won’t, like, die or something. (Okay, the doc convo happens but you’re not dying, per se. Just move your ass a little. And no, sex is not exercise, you hornytoad.)
I’ll wrap this up because you’re probably already sick of Future You, but one more thing: go on a trip with your boyfriend. Over the next five pre-marital years, you two will put off travel because working full time and smoking weed everyday will make you both happy but lazy. Once matrimony and the kids come, you really won’t have any energy. So please, save your weed/beer money for a month now, get on a plane with your man, and go someplace alone. Enjoy your time together because, while your future children are joys from heaven, you don’t KNOW tired right now. In fact, you are banned from saying the phrase ‘I’m tired’ until 2006.
That’s enough for now, but I’ll end on a light note: the one thing that won’t change about you is you never want to stop learning about the person you are. Even though you take yourself WAY too fucking seriously right now, you’ll soon learn find humor in life’s idiosyncrasies. As I, Future You, approaches forty next year (which is the same age as your mother right now – crazy, huh?), I’ve learned that as long as I still have wit and trust the universe, I’m winning. Over the next eighteen years, you’ll get fired, rejected, lose friends, and have a couple of mental breakdowns. But love, you are the real thing, baby. Keep shining, start writing, and – above all – stay happy.
Love, Future You