Well Dressed Ennui
Someone get me a feather trim robe and a fainting couch
In an Upper West Side pub with the remnants of two sour beers and a Guinness on the table between us, I broached a tired subject with a close friend. We’d already exchanged work updates and analyzed House of the Dragon and Bachelor in Paradise in great detail. I had an inkling how she would respond before I even started speaking, but I couldn’t help myself. I began, “You know, work has been great, and of course, I’m happy to have it, but I haven’t had any time to write. I’m worried…”
With one look, my friend called me out for a line of thinking we both knew was utter bullshit.
I’m aware of how insufferable I was when I didn’t have a job. I droned on about how “If I could just find a way into the industry…” my skin would clear up and I’d stop being irrationally afraid of horror movies. Now I have that “in” I would have killed for a few months ago. But it requires 50-60 hours of work at a desk every week, leaving me to romanticize simply “living” with no vocation in my weaker moments.
A spontaneous lifestyle that might yield great art.
My friend knows more than anyone how I felt when we were in the trenches of the post-grad job search together. In that upper west side pub, they slapped me across the face and yelled “Snap out of it!”1
What I blame for this recent line of thinking (aside from commonplace insecurity and fear) is a book. A great book. The book is Happy Hour by Marlowe Granados2 and is delightfully antiwork. It’s a revitalized take on the golddigger narratives of Anita Loos, which I love dearly.3 The novel’s protagonists are overstaying their visa in New York for the summer, bouncing from drink to fling to 4 am dance club. Even as they battle ever-dwindling finances, their lives are full of the possibility of something new. Whether that new experience is awful or euphoric is part of the brilliant ride of the book. Granados’s writing is funny, sharp, charming, and biting. In other words, I wish I wrote it. And all that admiration drove me to question how I’ll ever be able to write something with that power in the current state of my life.
Once again I cue an orchestra of tiny violins and scream to the gods:
“Where oh where is my fascinating life experience? Where are the nights to go down in infamy? Where do I find the screw-ups and crazy characters and dramas of epic proportions? How do I find the inspiration for my narrative that will live in the annals of literary history? Or even just reach the new releases section of a local bookstore?
How do I build the talent and lifestyle required to be a great writer?
How do I keep all the possibilities alive?”
Dinner with my friend the other night was nothing particularly memorable. We’ve caught up over mac and cheese and drinks more times than I can count,4 yet those conversations are part of a vital string of dinners and drinks and trips to the movie theater that keep me going.
The idea of going out dancing every night (or even every weekend) is attractive until I remember what it was like to actually do it. During my freshman year of college, my friends and I assumed the only way to assimilate into the social scene was to spend every weekend at a frat house or party. I can recall a vivid picture of myself standing on a Figueroa street corner in grime and lite beer-encrusted converse as the realization sets in that after carefully selecting an outfit, drying out my contacts, and doing disgusting shots of Rose-flavored Svedka, I did not have a life-changing night.
Our troupe had plenty of hilarious nights that would've never come to pass had we stayed home, but the majority of them ended at the same 24-hour donut shop with a baconeggandcheese5 bagel serving as my consolation prize. I value that era's chaos, the laughs, and the slightly precarious situations I'd never put myself in again, but the dream for those nights often outweighed what they actually had to offer.
At another meal this week, I saw an old friend after a few years apart. Over sushi, she told me of her latest drama: an asshole boyfriend, a traumatic break-up, tears and reconciliation. I realized in under five minutes that all her woes were interchangeable from the ones she complained about the last time we talked. Her general dissatisfaction with seemingly everything around her failed to change in the least.
If I had all the time in the world for the things that might enrich my art, it might never be enough. I’ve put so many hours already into wishing this newsletter was better and in the process delayed the publication date four days. Sometimes better is the enemy of good, and for your own sanity, you have to meet yourself wherever you’re at.
“Look, you’re doing what you can right now. We both are!” the first friend assured me as we walked/ran to the subway in the cold. They’re absolutely right.
Outfit of this Era:
After working through all the above, I decided the best way to feel fabulous again would be to take myself to the theater! I saw Death of a Salesman and befriended another solo theatergoer at a French bistro beforehand.
It was wonderful.
Recommendations for this Era:
Happy Hour by Marlowe Granados
Live theater
Cozy sweaters
The New Yorker’s beginner crossword
Going to the movie theater
Big Mouth on Netflix
Sour beer
Addams Family Values (My second favorite Thanksgiving movie!)
Swallowing your pride and being the one to reach out first
A Quote I’ve Been Thinking about in This Era:
“It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
- J. R. R. Tolkien, Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
Outrage of This Era:
Did you know it costs $80 to renew your driver’s license online in the state of New York?! I learned that this week and think it is absolutely ridiculous.
You could get into the whole philosophical debate around how it’s like paying for your own identity, but I don’t have the patience to unpack that can of worms.
Well-Dressed Ennui in an Image:
A Note to Loyal Subscribers:
Apologies for all the typos you’ve endured during the life of this newsletter. My spelling and grammatical errors are weeds that no amount of gardening can seem to irradicate, but I’m trying to improve!
Also, newsletter publication may decrease going forward to an average of once every three weeks. As much as I want to keep hitting the every other week mark, I think some extra time might help me increase the quality over quantity of my writing. All of this is just one big experiment, so let’s see!
And since we’re talking like this, what do you want to see from this newsletter?! What’s been your favorite part? What do you want more or less of? Let me know below!
It’s been too long since I’ve seen Moonstruck.
If you read my last newsletter you’ll know she’s the new Sally Rooney according to McNally Jackson.
See Gentleman Prefer Blondes.
Occasionally we eat salads too.
I’m continuing the tradition of making this one word.
And you have quoted one of my all time favorite quotes there. Bilbo was a wise old Hobbit :)
I love The part about stop having irrational reactions to horror movies