How Are You?

The third sentence you’re taught when learning another language always seems to be, “How are you?” Hello; goodbye; how are you. My name is Spencer; I need to go to the bathroom; how are you. When I began learning Spanish in sixth grade, I was already acquainted with ¿Cómo estás?, words that floated through the hallways of my junior high and over the dinner tables of friends whose tongues were loyal to the old country, at least in front of their parents. To the parents and the hallways I’d respond “Bien,” or “Muy bien” — my limited vocabulary didn’t leave many options, not until classes began. But once that happened, I could be mal o contenta o cansada. Casi todo el tiempo, estoy triste.

As my knowledge of the language heightened, so did the expectation that I begin to detail my emotions in class. ¿Por qué estás triste? And I did not know how to say, “I think I might be depressed,” or “I’m afraid to leave this classroom because of who I might run into.” The language was becoming more difficult, but it was expanding on my feelings — giving them agency, admitting that they even existed — that was the real challenge.

I haven’t taken a Spanish class in over a decade, but there’s one thing I remember: “How are you?” is the same in any language. You avoid answering it for too long, and you eventually forget how to.

At the suggestion of the high school dean, my parents drive me to therapy one Friday morning. The catalyst for this session looks a little different to each of us; my dean is concerned because I’ll be spending my last months before college in summer school; my parents are fed up with the door slamming and the exploding and the unexplained distance between us, recently upgraded to ‘immeasurable.’ We correspond mostly through tears (mom), screaming (me), yelling (dad), silence (all together, now). Occasionally they’ll leave a message on a friend’s answering machine when I’ve been gone a few days, another one of our tailor-fit communication methods.

My parents believe I agreed to the session because of an ultimatum they gave me, but I actually had things I need to talk about — things I’m too ashamed and confused about to tell anyone with a familiar ear. I feel isolated in plain sight, always surrounded by people but never discussing anything important, never trusting that I can. I believe my situation is unworkable, that I can’t have a healthy and open relationship with anyone I know; I require a fresh slate, a second life, one with new players and no memories.

I mean to tell her all of this, the therapist, but instead I tell her a story — an hour-long story that to this day I haven't told anyone else — and before I know it the hour is gone, with it the chance to be honest about how I feel, how I am. I never see the therapist again after that, told my parents, “I don’t think I need to,” and I believed it. Sometimes all you need is for someone to listen.

“Okay, for example. Say you found out that your mom is sick; your mom has terminal cancer. Suddenly, there’s this outpouring of support for you that never existed before. People are actually going out of their way to make sure you’re all right, from every direction it’s coming — it’s inescapable, the support. And initially, that’s great because all of these little interruptions, these phone calls and messages and cooked meals distract you from the terrifying reality that your mother is going to die; but at some point, it becomes not-so-great. At some point, you begin to feel as though you solely exist in the context of your mother’s illness. And it’s bad enough that this morbid inevitability is following you every second of every day, but now it’s what people refer to you as — ‘my friend whose mother is dying of cancer’ — and the things you thought about before you got the news — your crushing debt and your crumbling relationships and just… a fucking traffic ticket you still haven’t paid — these things have taken a backseat, they are not supposed to matter anymore. No one asks about these things. No one asks how you are. It’s just “How’s your mom?” And the irony is that talking about these trivial, meaningless things is all it would take to distract you, to keep your mind off of your mom for one fucking second, but everyone’s too afraid to ask and you’re too afraid to tell. You’re too afraid to say, ‘My job is killing me,’ without adding, ‘…and my mother is dying’ to the end of it. This is how your existence is defined, for the foreseeable future. Is there a name for that? Is there some sort of… psychological term that you know of?”

“Sounds a little like mild PTSD. Maybe Survivor’s Guilt? Not Munchausen by Proxy… hm. I mean, this feeling you’re describing, it’s pretty common.”

“So, no word for wishing someone would just ask how you’re doing.”

“Maybe just loneliness.”

“I know you didn’t know how bad it was. No one did. I mean, no one asked.” My friend is explaining his addiction, how it ended (silently, privately) and I’m ashamed to admit that just hours ago I’d told him all I wanted was to be asked how I was. How people ask, but don’t expect a real answer; don’t even wait for one. And as he recalled his last few nights using, I realized I was guilty. One of them. A person who doesn’t require an honest answer. Sure, I’d asked him how he was doing, just not in a real way. Not in a way that told him he could take his time, tell me something naked. And he’d acted accordingly.

We always act accordingly when asked, “How are you?” We say, “Fine,” or “Okay,” or sometimes even, “Great,” because it’s just a formality, right? You’re just being polite, you don’t actually want to know. I’m guilty of that, too. Of pessimism, of choking out one-word answers, of making sure you get to your lunch date on time, that you’re not held captive by my benign emotions. My friend, he’s guilty too. We’re all guilty of not asking, of not telling; but mostly we’re guilty of wanting people to love us without knowing how to let them.

How I am right now is this: terrified of the future. I pretend everything will work out, because recognizing the implausibility of reaching the traditional adult milestones I once believed were givens is enough to paralyze me completely. It’s overwhelming. I’m overwhelmed. I’m disappointed in myself for blaming someone I care about for my emotions when I know I’m the one who controls them, when I know it’s a privilege to be responsible for them. I’m afraid to be more honest, but I’m ready to stop hiding from myself and from people who want the best for me. I’m ready to stop pretending everything is “fine.” I’m ready to ask how you are — and not when we’re about to rush off in opposite directions, not at a loud party, not like some automated machine that spits out rhetorical questions veiled as interest. I’m ready to ask you halfway through a long conversation, in the middle of your day, when I can tell it’s all you want to hear. I’m ready to listen.

How are you?

That Awkward Moment When You Realize You're Not All That Awkward

The internet has stripped several English words of their meanings. “Like” now means “am aware of.” “Love” now means “like.” “Complicated” now means “promiscuous.”

Probably the most misapplied word on the web, though, is “awkward.” Once a descriptor of genuine discomfort, the word now refers to anything quirky, unexpected, or mildly inconvenient.

I’m all for change of usage. “Hopefully” used to mean “full of hope.” (Ex: The Red Sox fan hopefully attended the season’s final game, only to have his dreams dashed to oblivion by the team’s sloppy play.) Now it’s generally used to indicate eager anticipation. (Ex: Hopefully this bus station bathroom has been cleaned this decade!) Great. Fine.

But something about the re-purposing of “awkward” really grates on me. I think it’s because of the new trend where socially capable people pretend that they’re helpless fumbling losers. And it’s leaving us genuine dorks out in the cold. Sorry, pretty girls with glasses. My apologies, handsome dudes who played varsity sports. Awkward is our word. And even amongst the uncool, it’s widely overused.

To be completely honest, I’ve grown from a gawky, goofy teen into a pretty reasonable adult. So it’s a word that usually doesn’t even apply to me that often. But I’m carrying the banner. Why? Because when I was in high school I played the piano and decided to try and grow a beard and wrote school-spirit themed song parodies for our annual variety show. That may seem like a Triple Crown of awkward, but I owned it then and don’t feel embarrassed by it now. Goofy is in the eye of the beholder.

Here’s a handy guide to distinguishing authentic awkwardness from counterfeit discomfort, or fauxkwardness:

Accidentally walking in on strangers of the opposite sex washing their hands because you went into the wrong bathroom: NOT AWKWARD

Your significant other’s mom walking in on you flexing nude in front of a mirror while whispering “I am a pretty pony,” to yourself: AWKWARD

Saying “I love you,” to a co-worker as you hang up the phone: NOT AWKWARD

Whispering “I love you,” to a co-worker after you brushed up against each other in the hallway after a sexual harassment seminar: AWKWARD

Spilling a water glass on the floor: NOT AWKWARD

Spilling a full beer on a recovering alcoholic on a first date: AWKWARD

Someone wearing the same shirt as you to a party: NOT AWKWARD

Someone wearing a mask of your face, complete with actual hair they had surreptitiously plucked from your unsuspecting head, to a party: AWKWARD

Hitting on a girl who turns out to have a boyfriend: NOT AWKWARD

Hitting on a girl who turns out to have a girlfriend: STILL NOT AWKWARD

Hitting on a girl who turns out to have a pimp: MAJOR LEAGUE AWKWARD

White guy in “urban” gear walking into a club: NOT AWKWARD

Any guy with a comb over walking anywhere, ever: AWKWARD

Natalie Portman in Garden State doing a zany dance in front of one person in the privacy of her own home: NOT AWKWARD

Natalie Portman laughing like a maniac at the Golden Globes after talking about getting knocked up: MUCH CLOSER TO AWKWARD

Watching Black Swan with your little cousin, whose ballet recitals you used to attend: AWKWARD

Forgetting whether the battles of Lexington and Concord were in Massachusetts or New Hampshire: NOT AWKWARD

Being married to a man who hosts “Pray Away the Gay” retreats even though he, himself is clearly gay: AWKWARD

True awkwardness isn’t something that could happen to anyone at any time on account of an innocent miscalculation. It’s the product of unforeseen circumstances, lack of self-awareness, and bad luck.

Calling someone awkward is like calling that person racist, in that there’s no good way to prove you’re not once the accusation has been levied. There is nothing more awkward than watching someone try not to be awkward. Except watching someone try to be overtly not-racist. It’s okay to slip up (not, let’s be clear, in a racist way). That doesn’t mean you’re an incurable dork. We don’t have to pretend that we’re all fumbling semi-competent dweebs just because something happens outside of our predetermined social script.

We designate situations as awkward rather than dealing with the actual emotional ramifications of a situation. Labeling something as “awkward” is like asking for a do-over or negating the validity of what was just said or done. But often, the mistakes and clumsiness are more valuable than an unblemished interaction. Calling out a pause in conversation as an “awkward silence” eliminates the vulnerability of sitting in quiet with another person. Running into an ex in public doesn’t have to be awkward. It can be a genuine moment of connection or repulsion. Brushing it aside tamps down your feelings rather than helping resolve them. What’s the use of that other than to insulate ourselves temporarily against excitement or heartbreak or anxiety or anger? Maybe, if we recognize our emotions for what they really are, we can figure out how to deal with discomfort honestly rather than brushing it aside with a quick roll of the eyes.

Love In An Elevator

It feels like you’ve been waiting forever. You’re idle and you’re impatient, tapping toes and pushing buttons and waiting for a door to open and when it does, when it opens, you smile and you get in and you go for a ride.

You’re not alone, on the way up. This elevator’s occupied — girls with full red lips and pinched cheeks; boys who know your middle name and the origins of your scars; friends who tell you you should go for it or i don’t like her or you know what happened the last time or you really seem to like this one — this elevator is crowded but you’ve committed to this, this ride, you’re invested now.

And one by one, the elevator empties; the temptations dissolve and the whispers quiet and there’s just you left, you who set your sights so high, you who is best suited to take this thing as far as it can go, you who wants to soar. You’re ascending, distant from the earth below you, removed from what you used to know as reality. You’re climbing higher and higher, watching floors pass beneath you, watching numbers alight like they’re keeping count of the times you’ve grinned uncontrollably or the times you’ve blushed or the times you’ve wanted to say i love you but held your tongue instead.

When you reach the top, a floor so high it cannot be named or numbered, you want to stay for a while. You see things from a new perspective: everything below you so far away, so trivial, so foreign. You’ve always been afraid of heights, scared to look down; but now, with your head in the clouds, you can’t remember what it felt like to look at things any way but this. You are higher than you’ve ever been, higher than you knew to be possible, and you like the view.

But what goes up must come down, and so you will. You will and you’ll know it’s coming, you’ll hear the grinding cables and that distant, rhythmic chime that once sounded something like promise but now rings like a fire alarm and you’ll know it’s coming for you, coming to take you back down where you belong. This time you’re not impatient, you’re not tapping toes; this time you’re hoping it never arrives, hoping it stalls, hoping the wires got crossed somehow. This is just a misunderstanding, right?

There’s nowhere to go but down, so that’s where you go, you’re plunging and it feels like a free-fall, like your heart is in your stomach and your stomach is in your knees and your knees are kissing the floor, two pathetic knobs too weak to straighten themselves out, to be of any use, to hold it together. This isn’t a fun ride anymore; this is a derailed rollercoaster, this is a death trap, this is a tragedy.

And passengers will join you in your descent, confining you further, stealing your oxygen so they can say things like you deserve better or you knew this would happen or do the right thing. They’re taking your breath away; you have just enough air to say i know. You know.

Eventually, you’ll reach the bottom, or what you’ll believe to be the bottom anyway, before you regain your strength and straighten your legs and put one foot in front of the other, before you remember how to walk. You’ll think you’ve reached the bottom but really it’s the ground, really it’s reality, really it’s where you should’ve been all along.

The Last Time You Ever

It’s hard to identify “the last time” until it happens, and even then. Ask anyone who’s loved a traveler, a woman with restless feet and a restless soul. She’ll rip the heart from your chest and run with it to the far corners of the Earth; she’ll disappear in a city with no vowels and no running water, a city with no cell phone service. After months of silence you’ll come to terms with her absence; you’ll picture the last meal you ate together and convince yourself it was the last dinner, the last time. Years might pass; you’ll forget the details that separate fact from fiction, like the laugh lines and the grey hairs and just when you’re about to forget the way she likes her coffee, that’s when you see her again. Turning the corner or eating at a sidewalk café or standing behind you in line at the bank. Because travelers are like homing pigeons, returning to where it all began — even if they don’t return for you. The first time you see her again it’ll shock you, it’ll seem meaningful, serendipitous, but after the third or fourth or fifth time it will begin to register: the last time is elusive, it cannot be predicted.

Last fall, my parents were preparing to move south. My sister and I chose a Sunday to visit and figure out what we could unload before they sold the house: furniture, books, records. After spending the day excavating the garage, we sat down for dinner at a table where we’d passed countless holidays as a family. This was no holiday, though — both of my brothers were notably absent and the mood was more somber than celebratory. We ate in silence until my dad pierced through our thoughts to give voice to what we’d all been thinking: “Whenever I do anything around the house lately, I can’t help but think it’s the last time.”

The last time can be imminent, sometimes, but it can also come when you least expect it. All it takes is one phone call and suddenly you’re scrambling to recall the minutiae of five minutes ago — what was our last conversation and I hope we didn’t fight and did I say I love you? Because I did, I do. The last time can happen while you’re sound asleep, like you went to bed next to someone you loved and woke up to a stranger who’s saying something like “You should go,” or “Do you need to turn the light on to find your things,” and it sounds like she’s speaking a foreign language, like she’s talking in tongues and how does this happen? Hours ago she was there, but she’s been replaced by a vacuous stare and a stale voice, a cold sack of bones and the last time has come and gone without your permission. Had you seen it coming, maybe you would’ve done things differently. Maybe you wouldn’t have come over at all.

After dinner we talk about Pepper, the family dog. She’s fifteen; too ill to survive a trip to Florida, too old to become someone else’s pet. “I think you should put her to sleep,” I tell my dad. She sits five feet away, dazed and joyless. I suspect I’m unfamiliar to her now; she’s experiencing bursts of recognition but for the most part I’m a stranger. I can tell by the way she growls. My dad breaks his own silence with a sigh. “I’m glad you said that, thanks.” And I know it’s genuine, that he needed to hear it from someone else, that he knows it’s the right thing to do. We both kind of stare at nothing for a while, then I scratch behind Pepper’s ear for the last time and prepare for the ride home.

You can set an alarm, mark it on a calendar, tattoo it on your skin and still the last time doesn’t need your permission. What you count on is that you have the power to end things, to label people ‘never again,’ to say farewell forever and mean it. What you count on is having a choice. But you don’t, and you’ll know that when you allow your heart to get broken again despite the protests you made and the caution you took; you’ll know that when you see the Ex at an airport bar even though you swore you’d never set eyes on her again. You’ll know that when you look at a loved one’s funeral face and whisper goodbye and shut the door only for that person to haunt your dreams; for that ghost to find you in the one place where you can touch him, laugh with him outside the bounds of reality.

I hadn’t planned on it, but my sister and I took one last trip to my parent’s house before they locked the doors for good. Everything looked the same as it did two weeks prior, except for the room where Pepper had been. That room was empty, quiet. And sure, I’d said my goodbyes already, I’d pet her and comforted her and thought of it as our ending, our closure. I’d known, the last time I walked out of my parent’s front door, that I would never see her again. But if I knew how quiet the house would be without her, how empty that room would feel, maybe I would’ve done things differently. Maybe I wouldn’t have come over at all.

Breathe... You're Doing Just Fine

I want you to know that nothing is wrong with you. I know, I know, this sounds cliche and trite and like I'm patting the top of your head while telling you all the things you want to hear. No, that's not where I'm coming from. I need you to know and I need myself to know that there is nothing wrong with you/me. We're fucking fine. Do you hear me? We're fine.

I want you to know that you can try to be better, you can work hard, you can do all the things you think you need to do, but none of that will do anything to prove to you that you are worth your space in this world. The only person that can decide that is you.

You.

You decide how much space you get to take up. You decide how much your voice is worth. You can work yourself ragged and accrue everything you ever thought you needed, but if you don't believe who you are underneath the glitz, nothing will matter. A fevered mind has a funny way of turning gold into dust.

I want you to know that there's nothing to prove, that even if you do all the things that you or someone else told you that you couldn't do, there will be no glory in it. There is no glory in living a life in search of undoing a feeling.

You have a core belief in yourself that you are not worthy, that you are not lovable, that you are not good enough? There is no manner of things you can achieve, people you can impress, people who will love you in order to convince you of a thing you can't believe in yourself. You can't turn a sour belief sweet just by outrunning it forever.

I want you to know that you can't outrun your life, your emotions, those little beliefs that feel tiny enough to overlook, but fester over time. Inconsequential negative beliefs have a way of turning into hugely damaging beliefs.

Believe me, I've lived in search of the magic elixir which will turn my emotions into something else, something better, my life into something shinier. I've searched everywhere, but the only real magic elixir is reckoning with yourself, is taking the responsibility, is demanding that the only person who can save you is you. It's you. It's you. You're the savior. You're the one you've been looking for.

I want you to know that you will never be enough if all you're looking to be is enough. You need to forget about enough and look beyond it to something else entirely, something that can be measured. Enoughness can't be measured. You are only as enough as you are better than someone else and that's a slippery slope to wage your life on. Not being enough needs participation from others  --  because it's always comparison.

That's always where it begins and ends  --  this incessant need to weigh the value of your life against another person's. Are you more than another? Less than another? You don't really want to be adequate, good enough. No. What you're searching for is to be special, to be better than others. And, that's a losing game even if you think you've won.

I want you to know that if you need to feel loved, please look around at your life and see the magic everywhere. You may not have a thousand friends or a perfect family, but you have your people and they matter, even if the number of those you can count on is in the single-digits. Don't throw that away looking for more. I know it seems like admiration, fame, social validation make you feel the love you may not feel for yourself, but it's so fleeting it's dangerous to stake anything on.

Attention is not love.

Double-taps are not reminders of your adequacy.
Favorites, likes, followers are not an indictment of your value, no matter how big or small the number reaches or falls.

If you've found yourself entirely too consumed with the digital trail of admirers you do or don't have, you need to remind yourself that you are valuable, as you are, with nothing or no one paying attention. Your value exists without condition.

I want you to know that strength is not what you think it is, what the world has told you it is. Strength is not your loud voice, your angry rally cries. Strength is in keeping a positive heart in a negative world, a sensitive soul in a cruel world that often feels beyond the realm of soulless. There is a strength in not letting this world swallow you and spit you out as someone who thinks preaching their opinion off the highest mountain is what brave people do.

Courage is listening when your knuckles are going white from clenching down on the arms of your chair. Courage is respect and not letting any number of heartbreaks sour you from believing that there is good, there is love, there is something in this mad world to have hope for.

I want you to know that, within you, lies something integral to this world. You're a puzzle piece that fits into the grander framework of humanity. Today is a whole new day and you can turn it all around in one quick decision to do something, anything different than how you've done it before. Change comes slowly and then all at once. You will think you're going down the long tunnel of darkness until it happens, until you're renewed.

Trust that it's coming. Trust that something bigger is forming. Trust your tender heart. Trust your wild ideas. Take the chance. Say no when it doesn't light you up. Follow whatever within you tells you that you're doing something that makes you come alive.

I want you to know that the only waste here would for you to sleep through your life. The only thing you could do wrong is to opt-out of who you are, to forgo whatever fights to come out of you. Because, something does fight within you to be said, to be done -- no matter how small or seemingly inconsequential you think it is.

You can change a heart in the most ordinary gesture. Don't let this world harden you until all you see is what's going wrong, what's bad. Because, the thing no one tells you is that there is as much good as there is bad. As much darkness as there is light. It simply depends on where you focus your eyes.

What Goes Through My Mind Everytime I Get Frozen Yogurt

Here we are. Orange Leaf. Or is it Red Mango? Maybe…16 Handles? How about GitchiGitchiYogurtDaDa? I don’t know why they give these places different names, they’re all exactly the same. Might as well just call ‘em “Would I Get Arrested If Held My Head Under The Spout and Let the Yogurt Flow Into My Mouth Like a River?” because that’s all we’re thinking every time we’re there. But not now. Not today. Today I’m going to act with dignity! Just because yogurt places have such audacity and utter disregard for our health to give us control of the levers, that doesn’t mean I have to be a pig. I’m NOT a pig. I’m an animal, but not a pig. How about a cow? Hippo. NO! WAIT! A water buffalo. I am the majestic water buffalo of frozen yogurt! Proud, stately, patient and resolute in even the most frantic of circumstances–OH MY GOD THEY HAVE MINT CHOCOLATE! Get the heck out of the way people!

OK. Try to calm down. Plenty of froyo for everyone. Let’s go over the rules one more time. #1: We’re not spending over $5. Actually, $6. OK, not a penny over $6.75, and that is the absolute max. Probably. Plus toppings. Rule #2: No yogurt or add-ons will eclipse the mouth of the yogurt cup. For health and for decency. Thankfully, the cup is the size of a bathtub. Honestly, the Titanic couldn’t hold as much fresh strawberry soft-serve as this bad boy can. Rule #3: There will be no touching, tasting, or sniffing of dessert items once they are inside my bowl. These aren’t the lawless lands of the Whole Foods salad bar. It’s a mecca for frozen treats, and I will behave accordingly. Rule #4: If you tell yourself you’ll “share” with someone all previous rules are null and void. And yes, giving them two bites and letting them drink the melty soup at the bottom counts as sharing. Well, I’ve been here 20 seconds. Time for a sample…

Come on, do I really have to ask for the free sample cup? It’s so degrading. Look, Yogurt Jockey, you know I want a free sample, I know I want a free sample, and we both know once I get my cup I’m going to abuse the privilege to a humiliating extent, so why go through the charade? Instead of “Could I have a sample cup,” how about we just be honest and ask “Is it cool if I steal small quantities of yogurt from you over and over, right before your eyes? Really, it is? Thanks!”…

Oh wow. Look at that guy! He’s a machine! Sample, lick, sample, lick, sample, lick – without the tiniest bit of shame. He’s like a froyo terminator. I don’t know whether to scoff or bow down and make him my God. He’s even tasting Kiwi Lime Tart! Nobody tastes Kiwi Lime Tart. It’s just there to make us feel like we’re in a healthy environment so we can take two pounds of Hazelnut goo without hating ourselv––Uh oh, the employees see him! They’re coming over!!! Scatter! Everybody scatter!!!…

Really, flavors? Cheesecake, Vanilla, Vanilla Cake, Tart, AND White Chocolate? You realize those all just taste like “white,” right? And how many variations on chocolate are necessary? Chocolate. Dark Chocolate. Dutch Chocolate. Chocolate Brownie. Chocolate Fudge with Sea Salt. What is Dutch Chocolate anyway? Chocolate that tastes like it’s been wearing clogs? No thanks…

Uh oh. Cup’s getting really full. It’s because the machine squirts too fast. Honestly, it really is! Right, guys? Aaaaand it looks like I have seven different flavors already. That’s what grownups do, right?…

Alright, time to hit topping town. Where we separate the men from the boys. Or in my case, the men from the boys who are about to get sick from eating too much yogurt. This is where the pay-by-weight really gets ya. If you’re an amateur, you load up on brownie bites, which taste like cardboard and weigh more than an airplane. Heavy fruit, whole nuts, Reese’s peanut butter cups – same problem. I like to toss a few raspberries on mine, because they’re lightweight, and they’re the one thing that allows me to retain the illusion that this is a nutritious dessert. Oh God, look at those people. Exploding Boba Balls on cookies ‘n cream? Sickening. Does anyone actually know what Boba is? It’s lightly sweetened nuclear waste,  NO THANKS!!!!

Come on, really? Peanut M&M’s?! Don’t you know they’re the heaviest candy on here?! Why don’t you just add tiny rocks to your pay-by-weight bowl? Or, I don’t know, maybe fill it with cement. Although I think peanut M&Ms would set off my yogurt melange nicely. OK FINE! I’ll have a couple!…

As long as my cup costs less than Crazy Sample Guy, I can live with myself. I don’t mind being a glutton, as long as I’m not the biggest glutton in this line. Because the Yogurt Jockeys always act like they ring up $7 tubs everyday, but you know in the back of their mind they’re mocking you. OK, it’s tiny hot girl’s turn at the register. Really? $2.27?! What’s her cup filled with, six skittles and a splash of water?  Here’s Crazy Sample Guy. Look at the thing. It looks like it’s gonna tip over. I’m surprised he didn’t find a way to jam a few baguettes and a country ham in there. Here comes the weigh in and….$9.95!!! We did it everybody! There’s no way we’re going over $9.95! I bet this is what it feels like to win the Super Bowl! I’m going to Disneyland, and I’m taking yogurt with me! But before I do, hit me with a few of those brownie bites! Daddy’s celebrating! Yippee!

9 Steps Towards Becoming A Successful Writer

Lately, I have been receiving numerous questions pertaining to the “how to” of the writing world. So I figured why not address this topic in a blog post?

Keep in mind, this is just what has worked for me and my style ofwriting . There are many other ways to deem a writing style as “successful.”

1. Read, read, read. Read sites such as the Huffington post, read magazines, news, whatever you can to get a sense of what others write about and how they tackle it. Read newspapers to keep up on current events and generate ideas. Read books simply to learn new words and keep your mind spinning.

2. Mimic what works for others. No, I am not telling you to plagiarize. Just observe the style and voice of other writers and adapt that to your own topic. There is a reason certain people are successful, so why not learn from them?

3. Appeal to a collective audience. I work really hard to eliminate using “I” in my writings unless it is a story about a personal experience. And even then, I try to draw the audience into it by making it widely relatable. The truth is that people just don’t want to read about you. You’re not that interesting unless you can give them something to take away from your writing.

4. Write about what you know. For example, I write about society, dating, college life, etc. I do not write about politics, science, or medical conditions because to be honest, I would sound like an idiot and lose credibility.

5. Be persistent. This is huge when trying to get your work published somewhere other than your own blog. I submitted to Time Magazine multiple times before being published. And even after that, I had to keep submitting before I finally connected with an editor who I’ve been working with consistently. As for Music Magazine, I literally Googled and stalked the editors of each section and emailed them individually about contributing. The one editor finally responded to me, and that opened the door to being able to submit articles on any topic.

6. Reread and pay attention to grammar. Never, ever submit something without taking multiple reads through it. You will catch so many things you missed the first time around.

7. Engage with your audience. Even though sometimes I wish I didn’t, I read the comments in multiple emails and respond to people and their questions. I answer all the reader emails that I receive. People are more likely to keep reading your work if they feel like you care. Remember, readers make or break your success. Take time to thank them.

8. Don’t hold back. Being a writer takes a certain kind of person. You have to be willing to put your own experiences out there, to approach awkward situations with humor and serious situations with a level tone. There will always be readers who feel the need to comment and express their disagreement, or flat out hatred of how you approached something. You have to brush them off and think of all the readers who appreciate what you do and say.

9. Experiment. Find out what styles work for you and what styles don’t. If something you post gets zero interaction or acknowledgment, there is probably a reason. Learn from it.

I’m sure many other writers have various advice as to how to get a foot in the door, but this is what I have learned since my entrance into the writing world.  As always, email me with questions/comments!