I know I’ve been away for a while, but I’m ready to get back in the blog game. Meaning I hope to muster the right words to compose one of my “musings” at least once a week. Am I hard at work on my debut novel, is this why I’ve been so busy? Nope. In fact the transfer to paper of what my characters are shouting at me is pathetically stagnant. The only things I’ve written down lately are appointments and bill payments; and the only typing I’ve done is in reply to comments posted in different discussion board threads. I’ve allowed my commitments to other things to overshadow the promise I made to myself to have something finished by the end of ’09. But the interesting thing about time is that it keeps on ticking, and new opportunities to correct one’s wrong (in my case, poor prioritizing) come around again. At least that’s what I’ve been told.
Ah yes, my post title, the difference a year makes. Or maybe I should say two years, because that’s when this thing I’m going to talk about all started. April 2008 was a time of high-anxiety for me. I’d applied to the Summer Publishing Institute at New York University (NYU) and was praying for acceptance, as I knew this was the perfect opportunity to network with the top dogs of the book and magazine publishing industry. I’d fallen in love with NYC and wanted to live there more than anything (a dream of mine since I was a child). From my frequent trips there I’d met several fellow creative spirits and felt as though I could finally live in a place where my kind of people lived; quirky weird people just like me who wanted to be friends. During this time I was actively searching for any place to live that wasn’t a cardboard box, and had begun to declutter my apartment—all in anticipation of my big move. I even put a deposit on a room in a boarding house and had secured a move in date. I also scored two job interviews in case NYU didn’t pan out. It was so close to happening I could taste it. And it tasted sweet, like a ripened peach.
But by summer’s end, I could only sulk at the remnants of my crumbled cookie. I’d lost touch with the people I’d met there (if NYC’ers think hopping the train to the next borough is long distance, imagine how DC seemed like a galaxy away). NYU denied me; I suspect because of my age and work experience, as the program is geared toward very recent college graduates with minds ready for molding. Not an old seasoned loser like me who didn’t make the right moves when I had the chance. It may have been too hard for them to fathom my willingness to leave my job as an Assistant Editor to move to New York where the best I could hope for after the program was landing an Editorial Assistant gig (a step up from an internship), where I would most certainly need to bartend or shelve books at some bookstore in the Village to make ends meet. But I was willing to do it because: 1) I wanted to leave DC and felt that NYC was where I needed to be, and 2) I wanted to start settling down and saw this as my last chance to do something so financially risky.
Fast forward one year to Summer 2009, and I loved my job as an Assistant Editor. I was learning so much about substantive editing, content management systems, editorial and production schedules, graphic design, and was managing my own editing projects from copy submission to publication. But something was missing, the writing responsibilities I wanted, and a title that reflected it. I wanted to be a Writer/Editor. And what do you know, I soon saw an opening with everything that I wanted. A government position in walking distance from my apartment. The place I wanted to give up to live in a small room with a shared shower (and more rent). And what do you know, I got the job!! By this time, I’d even joined an organization of young professionals dedicated to community service and was meeting some very ambitious and like-minded individuals.
Fast forward one year to May 2010, and I’m a busy little bee these days. I’m now a homeowner!! My life has become quite stable here in the DMV (the term referring to the District/Maryland/Virginia area). I’m coordinating events in the community service organization; doing well at my job (at least I hope so); I’m writing and editing quite a bit (for work though, not on that brilliant novel); and am trying to make the right decisions based on what life is showing me. I still visit NYC and I still wouldn’t mind having a 212 area code someday, but for right now, the opportunities are right here, and I need to stay. For how long—well wouldn’t I like to know the answer to that. The other day, after a long hiatus I ventured back to Mediabistro.com, where I used to keep track of all the latest happenings in the NYC freelance and publishing scene. I checked out the discussion board and saw a thread from an anxious applicant to the NYU Summer Publishing Institute, asking if anyone else was feeling impatient in the wait for an admissions decision. I smiled and shook my head in kinship of what this person was feeling. Good luck, I thought. Some posters replied that they received acceptance notifications, others were still waiting. I’ll admit to feeling a sense of “what if,” but I believe that I’m where I need to be right now. But I can’t forget the disappointment I felt when they told me no. Spending those six weeks at NYU for the opportunity to step foot inside a publishing company was the most important thing in my world. Now I know how to start my own publishing company. The difference a year makes.
