PRESENT DAY
My evolution as a writer has lead me to feel like a football coach with too much testosterone, screaming at his players to leave it all on the field, reveling in the stadium lights that seemingly illuminate the memories of his glory days that once were, but realizing the that his time is over, and his players’ journeys are just beginning. How stupidly depressing is that? I’m 21 years old, and somehow, I’ve managed to develop the attitude of a 60-year-old staunch Republican man with a stomach that let’s you know he enjoys a Bud 5/7 nights of the week. I know these feelings are ridiculous, but I can't help but feel them. I can’t help this geezer attitude I’ve somehow acquired throughout my journey on whatever it means to be a “writer” (another vexing question I’ll address in my evolution as one of those guys, but I’ll get to that later). For now, you have to understand where I’m at, and how I got here, and why where I am sucks, and what I plan to do about it. I can’t stay here —in the locker room, in the “those who can’t do, coach” stage. I have to leave. I’m not meant to be here, not yet, not like this — not until I’m fat, and wise, and smoking cigars on my leather couch, but first I have to purchase a leather couch.
THE BEGINNING: BRIGHT-EYED, BUSHY TAILED, AND A FISH-SIZED TREASURE CHEST
“As a current communications student, thinking of possibly majoring in the field, I found the topic I chose about how women are depicted in advertisements to be very intriguing. Thus, writing another fictional piece relating to this topic seemed only fitting. My original thesis was, “The way women are depicted in advertising is leading to their objectification within society.” Through the research of various articles and my own interpretation of Bebe’s 9 to 5 campaign, I found multiple aspects that exemplified my argument.” – Rebecca Soverinsky, English 125, and so blissfully unaware of how this topic couldn’t be less intriguing. For the love of g-d, Rebecca, could you have chosen an issue you weren’t going to revisit 543 times throughout your college career? No, no I couldn’t have because I was majoring in Communications, I was going into a career in the media, and I was going to explore a topic that pertained to the goals and the interests that I had laid out for my future-self. I had a trajectory, a plan, and being on top of my game meant capitalizing on moments when I could position myself in the direction of my goals. At the time, majoring in Communications at the University of Michigan was the key that was going to unlock the giant treasure chest containing my hopes, dreams, and future success. Sucks to find out your giant treasure chest is actually made-for-size for the beta fish swimming in the aquarium of your dentist’s office and the hopes, dreams, and successes inside the chest is really just air, some illegally disposed of fluoride, and a shit-ton of media analysis. This English 125 essay is perhaps the perfect personification of the two conflicting sides of my writing identity. While the topic could not have been more classic Communications studies at the University of Michigan, the way I reimagined it offered some hopeful insight into the writer I really am and have come to realize I love to be: creative, imaginative, and productively analytical, rather than just critically analytical.
Spoiler alert: majoring in Communications doesn’t mean you get to produce the media you’ve so long admired — at all, ever. Not when John Travolta introduces Idina Menzel as Adele Dazeem, not when Leo finally wins an Oscar, not when Megyn Kelly leaves Fox for NBC, or when the host of The Apprentice becomes the President. I get it. You need to be able to criticize what you love in order to produce forms of it that are better and more sophisticated than what’s already out there. Fine, but if you told me I’d never write anything other than research papers for the key that was unlocking my beta fish-sized treasure chest, I would have left the key with the locksmith and said forget it. That’s where my English 125 depicts the marriage of my perceived future-self and my unknowingly destined to be future-self. When given the chance to choose, I made a conscious decision to revisit a Communications topic, but what I may not have realized then, is that by choosing to turn the topic of women’s objectification in advertising into a fictional short story, I was exemplifying the part of my writing identity that I was, at the time, subconsciously suppressing. The creative, imaginative, critically productive writer I’ve come to know, love, and own was just peeking through in this essay, but not yet ready to fully step out into the spotlight and embrace herself— she was still hiding behind the sheen of critical lenses, subjective not objective news outlets, and the realization that romantic comedies were perpetuating false ideologies about love. But, her presence was felt in this essay.
I turned the topic into a short, creepy story about a successful advertising executive named Martin who only produced advertisements that objectified women. He gets a visit from a gypsy woman who scolds him about his practices, warning him if he doesn't change his ways, he’ll be sorry. Slowly, but surely, Martin’s wife (who is only referred to as his wife, never named in the story) starts to turn into plastic. One day, after ignoring the gypsy woman yet again, Martin comes home to find his wife completely converted into plastic with a note tied around her neck, symbolic of where a price tag would normally be on a Barbie doll. The note is from the gypsy woman explaining that Martin didn’t listen to her and continuously produced ads that depicted women without any depth. She notes that his wife (who, again, is never named to represent Martin’s ownership of her and her insignificance as an individual) was a product of Martin’s brainwashing. My favorite line is the last one of the note, which reads, “Now you will know what it’s like to live with what was once the object of your affections and is now merely just another object in your life.” Arguably the best sentence I’ve ever drafted in my life. So, while this essay draws on yet another theme I’ve exhausted in my Communications courses, it offers some valuable insight into the path I was destined to travel down, but had yet to realize: the path of a somewhat imaginative and creative writer. At the time, I was analyzing media and perhaps going into journalism not creative writing. I’m not a poet, I never loved Shakespeare or flowery language, and I left the similes that shine like the stars in the night sky behind in, like, seventh grade. Except, I was seriously confused because creative writing is so much more than similes and Shakespeare. It took the minor in writing to get me to understand this and to come to terms with the fact that I’m probably not meant to be the next Meredith Vieira.
WAIT, SO I’M NOT THE NEXT MEREDITH VIEIRA?
Coming to terms with this was hard. Mer was my rock, my everything, the one I turned to at 7 am before heading off to high school, and g-d knows I needed her and Matt Lauer to push me through that peak pubescent period of my life. Also, no, Savannah Guthrie will never measure up. However, as of now, I am not Meredith (or Savannah), or at least, my path is not following the one of the news reporter. My passion for writing hasn’t been derived from a sense of objectivity, but rather the critical injection and my love for subjectivity and voice, and thus, my application to the writing minor marks a serious turning point in my educational career and a discovery of my not so serious writing voice. A preview of how that exploration went is evident in a blog post I completed for the minor in writing re: “I know this is supposed to be a reflection on the gateway course and our time this semester, and I promise I’ll get there, but sticking to the movie references and touching on the fact that way too much is happening, I’m starting to feel like Jack from Titanic. My sanity and any sort of free time is Rose, and she was holding on there for a minute, but the girl has officially dropped me into the depths of my insane amount of work, and I am definitely drowning. I AM DROWNING” (December 2015).
Applying for the minor, I realized (even within the mini essay necessary for the application), that the way I expressed myself in prose within the application was drastically different than the way I expressed myself within the writing I was doing for my Communications courses. It was my sophomore year of college and I had just joined a digital publication on campus: Spoon University, a food and lifestyle periodical that covers everything from local restaurant reviews, to the definitive ranking of M & M’s, to why Lady Gaga’s body shamers are perpetuating unrealistic norms for women. This discovery in combination with my Sweetland writing minor discovery had me feeling like a born-again virgin. I was anew, ready to take on the world of words and sentence structuring, so naturally, my repurposing project for the minor was modeled after the publication I thought did both of those things beautifully. Yep, that’s right, I know you’re all thinking it, my favorite digital millennial-geared blog (and yours): Elite Daily. Hold for applause. In my repurposing project for the minor I decided to work with a paper focused on humor from my freshman year. Because I’m super deep and mysteriously complex, I created a list of the different types of “funny guys” I, and women of my generation, would meet throughout our lifetimes. Here’s how it went, “I used to think there were two types of people in this world: those that are funny and those that aren’t. Put in the simplest of terms, this could be considered to be true. But, like a fine wine that just gets better with age, my perspective on life has only sharpened as the years have gone by.” I think I hate myself. I definitely hate myself, but more importantly, I’m probably destined to work for a women’s magazine.
The minor had opened up a world where my voice was welcome, but like in-laws, just because it was welcome doesn’t mean it was beneficial. However, despite how incredibly vapid I probably sounded throughout my time in gateway, at least I was enjoying myself. I was vapid, but I was blissfully vapid. I was the player, and I was deep in the game of modeling my essays after Elite Daily and reveling in the beauty of the parentheses (a technique I still use way too often). So, how did I become the embittered coach? Unfortunately, I learned. I did that thing where you take in information, process it, and then grow from it, and although that all sounds great in theory, it’s made me a little cynical. As I’ve progressed, I admittedly look back on the work I’ve done, and I see right through it. Who was I kidding? Do I want to be that blissfully vapid player again? Not really, but I still want to play. I need to figure out how to re-enter the game without being unaware, but I can’t force my entry if I’m jaded. I need to figure out how to take what I’ve learned and let it help me be LeBron — not Carmelo Anthony. Carmelo is overrated, he thinks he knows, but he has no idea. Last year I was Carmelo, but it’s about time LeBron stepped up.
HOW BEING THE COACH HAS MADE ME CYNICAL OF THE GAME (AND ITS PLAYERS)
Last year I was Carmelo, I’m currently toying with the idea of trying to become LeBron, but in this exact moment I’m the exhausted coach. As a Peer Writing Consultant and the current Editor of Spoon University, I see me. Little mes everywhere. Me writing listicles about funny guys, me crafting research papers about advertisements depicting women in degrading ways, me finding myself as a writer. There I am— over and over again. Don’t get me wrong, there’s definitely value in being the coach. Beyond the obvious benefit of helping others, in the most selfish but symbiotic way, I essentially get to channel my cynicism. I’m not looking down on the little mes because they don’t know yet, but I’m taking what I’ve learned and helping to grow them, perhaps faster than I grew myself.
They’re the blissfully unaware players, and that’s okay because you can’t know until you learn, and learning comes with time. So being the coach, I like that I get to be a catalyst in speeding up that learning process. However, although I’m the exhausted coach, I’m not the exhausted all-knowing coach. I know nothing about some things, and I definitely don’t know everything. My problem is this: I have to re-enter the game as a player who has also coached and become a bit cynical of the game. So, in order to enter the game, not reproduce the same funny guys listicles I was making last year, but not become so cynical that I refuse to play, I have to gain a new appreciation for the game. I need to become the born again virgin, all over again? Christ.
ANNOUNCING: MY REBIRTH AND THE HOPES OF THE LEATHER COUCH
This capstone is it. It’s my rebirth. I know, I know. That’s a lot of pressure and there’s a lot riding on this course, but I truly think this might be it for me. My new appreciation for the game is coming, and it might not fully happen in this class, but it’s definitely starting. I think the fact that I feel challenged by this capstone project — perhaps too challenged (she says, as she spells out HELP in giant letters on the sand), is good; it’s necessary. It’s forcing me to do that learning thing again, the one where I absorb new information, process it, and then try to be better for it. If I can push myself in this class, I’ll only be so lucky if I can look back on this project in a couple of years, and yet again, see right through myself. There’s something to be said about looking back on your work and feeling dissatisfied. I’m not saying my evolution as a writer is one where I’m a better today than I was last year, but rather, I think it’s an evolution of awareness. I’m simply (and unfortunately) more aware. It’s what’s contributed to the exhausted coach metaphor I’ve exhausted throughout this entire paper, but it’s what will ultimately push me to be better. For about a year or so, this awareness has hindered me, and it’s prevented me from re-entering the game. But, 2017 is the year. It’s there year where my awareness remains, my cynicism continues to thrive, but my appreciation commences. The exhausted coach is downing espresso shots, LeBron is stepping up, and the leather couch is on the horizon. It’s time to remember why I once fell in love with the game in the first place.
Writer's Evolution Essay