Lilit Goes

You Can't Take the South Out of the Girl

1 note

At one bridge near San Rafael, the women queued up, only women, according to police reports; they jumped in the fuzzy glow of their headlights, their cars still idling behind them, sliding out of their slippers or stepping out of their heels, climbing barefoot up the girders, taking ginger, seaward steps along the black rail, trailing shadows. There is footage of them falling captured by a useless security camera riveted to the bridge pilings. Sometimes gulls flit past the camera lens, shrieking, and it is hard to see those birds and not to think of the ghosts of the infected women.
Karen Russell, Sleep Donation

Filed under books no dudes allowed reading list 2014 karen russell

3 notes

I got to write about Deaf stuff like three times in the past month. It’s probably my favorite beat but not one where there are a lot of mainstream opportunities.

First, I talked about the “deaf and dumb” American Airlines scandal and how the travel industry consistently gets it wrong for Deaf passengers over on PeterGreenberg.com.

Then, I explained why I really, really hate those “deaf person hears for the first time” viral videos and I wish nobody would ever send them to me.

The last and I think my favorite one was this essay for Teen Vogue about my family. I’m quite proud of this, and I’m thrilled that it did very well - it was the #2 most-read story of the week and has been shared on Facebook nearly six thousand times.

Filed under deafness sign language my work stuff I wrote

188 notes

susie-c:

When people tell me they admire my freelance career, when they tell me it must be nice to sleep in, when they then break eye contact when I tell them how much I am paid, when I am sending a fourth follow-up email to an editor regarding that check, you know, that one you said was in the mail a month ago, this is what I think about:

susie-c:

When people tell me they admire my freelance career, when they tell me it must be nice to sleep in, when they then break eye contact when I tell them how much I am paid, when I am sending a fourth follow-up email to an editor regarding that check, you know, that one you said was in the mail a month ago, this is what I think about:

(via mollycrabapple)

11 notes

addition

So a few months ago my ex-boyfriend (we’ll call him B.) decided he wanted to be a writer. I was trying not to be a complete dick about his sudden realization - I mean, who’s to say that you’re bound to one career for your whole life and that you can’t ever develop other interests? - but I also felt zero interest in helping him pursue journalism work. I’ve been doing this shit for about a decade and still barely make a living, so I don’t feel like giving away all of my best info for free, especially to someone who has a trust fund and who tires of new careers easily.

He sold a piece to a decent publication right off the bat. For about five seconds, I was proud of him. But once he had sent me half a dozen panicky emails asking what “file by” means and complaining about all the “extra” work they were asking him to do, I was done. I don’t want to talk shop with him and bond about how annoying it is to go through multiple rounds of edits for what amounts to a blog post. And, on a deeper level, I don’t want to be there for someone who has never been there for me.

I have major issues with class. Those issues have only been amplified since I moved to New York. And now that constant sense of inferiority is combined with frustrations about my own work. Where am I going? What are all these pieces adding up to, what are they building? No matter how many bylines I get or how many of my pitches are accepted it never gets easier. This isn’t the line of work where you get a year-end bonus to congratulate you on your hard work.

Once, a guy I was dating asked me what my favorite flower was. I told him I liked white daisies. He laughed at me. “You see? That’s why you’ll always be poor, because you don’t expect anything better than daisies from a man.”

I didn’t see. I still don’t see.

I was dating that guy and B. at the same time. Foolishly, I thought that if each of them gave me about half of what I wanted from a boyfriend, I could cobble that into a whole relationship. It didn’t work. One half plus one half sometimes equals nothing. And one article plus one article plus one article equals nothing too.

Filed under work

1 note

So far I have spent almost half my life studying and thinking about American literature, and the landscape has seemed one of incredible, enduring, relentless longing. Everyone is always leaving each other, chasing down the next great or seeming opportunity - home or body.

Where does it stop? Does it ever? I want to believe it all leads to something grander than the imagination, grander than the end-stop of the Pacific. Or is that it: You get to the place where you land; you are tired now; you settle. You settle. You build a home and raise a family. There are years of eating and arguing, years of working and waking. There are years of dying. No one knows what the last image will be.

Bich Minh Nguyen, Pioneer Girl

Can I just say how bummed I am that I never got to take one of her classes at UNCG?

Filed under bich minh nguyen pioneer girl books no dudes allowed reading list 2014