My essay, “The Spirit Loved One,” is finally published and ready for purchase.

Support The Southeast Review and me, and buy your copy today.

This is sad: The column that gave many Emerson grads their first legitimate clips—myself included—is no longer.

You can read more about this passing, as well as read columns by my former classmates, here.

Thank you, Soapbox. You will be missed.

I’ve been busy. I know everyone says that, but I mean really busy. I’ve lucked out with some freelance work; things have fallen into my lap at just the right time. And I’ve said yes to everything, because, well, I’m unemployed and can’t afford to say no.

In the midst of my busyness, however, I managed to score a full-time job. An absolute miracle in this economy. Though my full-time gig doesn’t officially begin until February 2, I’ve had to prove my worth and be “brought up to speed.” What does this mean exactly? More work.

I’ve spent the last 10 days or so working, on average, 12 hours a day. I haven’t slept much. I’m on an every-other-day shower schedule, which means that I smell great. And my back is so tense that I’ve taken to (lamely) pounding on it myself.

Last Wednesday, I attended a freelance-writing seminar. It attracted the usual oddballs—both actual writers and the people who think that because they have cats/ride horses/live in their mother’s basement and love to make up stories, they, too, can be writers. One woman asked dozens of bizarre-o questions, though one question in particular was somewhat useful to me: What should you do when you’ve overcommitted yourself? Is it okay to turn down a project?

The presenter, a published freelance writer and editor, said that as a rule, unless the project sucks big balls (my words, not hers), she never passes on a writing gig. “Some weeks will go by, and you have no work,” she said. “Then other weeks are just insane, so I tell myself that those weeks are just going to be about work. But, really, having too much work as a freelancer is not a bad problem to have.”

In other words, take work where and when you can get it, and thank your lucky stars for it. 

So I am and I will. Even if it lands me in traction.

I’ve got a new post up at Fringe Magazine. Surely I’m not alone. What’s the most annoying thing you’ve ever had to do in order to get a job?

When a man I’m seeing for the first time finds out that I’m a writer, he usually apologizes. “Sorry for my terrible e-mails,” he’ll say. “I’m so bad at grammar.” On the subject of books, he’ll add, “You probably know way more about this book than I do…”

I find these comments both sweet and mildly annoying. On the one hand, I appreciate the attempt to legitimize and give weight to what I do. He is saying that he admires my skills, skills he does not possess. He is giving my knowledge and intelligence the benefit of the doubt. On the other hand, I’m not crazy about the assumption that I’m a grammar Nazi; or, rather, that I judge a man by his writing skills. Or his literary tastes.

In her New York Times essay, ”It’s Not You, It’s Your Books,” Rachel Donadio explores the notion of book taste as deal-breaker. She writes, “Anyone who cares about books has at some point confronted the Pushkin problem: when a missed—or misguided—literary reference makes it chillingly clear that a romance is going nowhere fast.” Various writers and editors weigh in on the issue: for some, a high-brow appreciation of books is essential in a partner; for others, not so much.

I lean more toward the latter category. So your favorite book is The Da Vinci Code—so what? Are you intelligent? Can I have an interesting conversation with you? Are you passionate about your field of work, whatever that may be?

Here’s the thing about being a writer: Your get tired of talking about books. If you’re an editor, and you fix people’s horrible sentences for a living, you just get tired. Also? Writers have writer friends, and together we obsess about what we do, and say pretentious things like, Well, I thought The Story of Edgar Sawtelle was highly overrated, but did you read Ann Beattie’s latest story in The New Yorker?

Many writers, too, like myself, grew up in a literary family of some kind. My grandfather was an English professor, my mom an English teacher. Before she had children, my grandmother worked in publishing. My aunt is a librarian. My dad works in development at a library. My childhood home is about 50 percent book. My mom once dreamt that we were all walking, talking books. In another dream, she was drowning in them.

Because of this, all of this, I don’t need a man who’s well read. Nor one who’s mastered the art of good grammar. There’s something to be said for differences and balance in a relationship. Though I may draw the line at someone who uses too many LOLs or BRBs. Oh, and “you” is a word, not a letter. And don’t even get me started on “its” versus “it’s.”

Okay, so a girl’s gotta have some standards.

Like it or not, the new year has begun. And, according to my witty brother, “2009 is going to be divine.”

I hope he’s right and am choosing (trying) to remain optimistic. Alas, thus far, ‘09 doesn’t feel a whole lot different than ‘08. As evidenced by my trip to the gym today, people are still declaring health and fitness as their new year’s resolution. I had forgotten how much I hate January at the gym, when my usual parking spot and elliptical machine are stolen by the delusional idiots who can’t follow through on a promise to themselves and only exercise for one month out of the year.

Attempt at optimism #1: In February the gym will be mine again.

Other unfortunate ‘08/’09 similarities: Unemployment, financial woes, the degrading self-loathing that comes with having to borrow money from your parents at the age of almost-30. After looking at some photos, I realized that I even wore the same sweater on New Year’s Eve ‘08 as I did on New Year’s Eve ‘09, the lack of extra funds with which to buy myself new clothing in 2008 being the obvious explanation.

Attempt at optimism #2: When I get a job, I’ll buy myself a new sweater. After I pay off my credit card.

For those of us trapped in the land of Why The Fuck Am I Still Single When I’ve Got So Much Going For Me (ha), the start of a new year can also bring with it dating resolutions—this year, I’m putting up an online profile! I’m going to get laid if it kills me!—and misguided, child-like hope—this year, I’m finally going to meet someone!

Attempt at optimism #3: It won’t be long now before I meet the lucky guy I’m going to share my life with.

In all seriousness, though they may be subtle, the last year has witnessed some marked changes in my life. I’ve found joy and, dare I say it, contentedness in some unanticipated places. I survived my Saturn return; got published; created a Web site; got a job; lost a job; returned to Match.com and dating; welcomed my best friends to Boston; found my family (again) in my friends; and recognized with more certainty what I’m meant to spend my life doing.

Attempt at optimism #4: It may not rhyme, but 2009 could very well kick some ass.

I, for one, am looking forward to finding out what another year may bring.