The bad beginning: finding sources of optimism for the new year

Background Noise: Writing by the water: making time for passions

One of the most difficult parts about job interviews thus far has been explaining what I did this summer. “What did you do this summer?” is a typical interview question. If you’re an underclassman who has never visited Career Planning, I advise you to “do something this summer” so you can talk about it later. I’ve been asked about summer employment many times, not only by HR representatives, but by family, friends and enemies.
“Did you have an internship this summer?” Usually, they are holding a beverage and we are at some sort of function—mixer, birthday, barbeque.
“Sort of,” I say. “No.”
“Huh?” they ask. “What did you do this summer?”
I twist my hair around a finger and remember this is a nervous habit. Then, I explain how I spent nine weeks on a Canadian island with a small group of biologists. I quickly mention the lack of showers, Wi-Fi and toilets. I tell them I was writing a collection of short stories.
“About what?” they ask. “About birds?”
“No,” I say. “About other things.”
Usually, they nod and I wonder if I should have left the toilet part out. People don’t like to talk about toilets—outhouses especially. Rarely do I elaborate on my writing—my failures, my triumphs. Instead, I change the subject or chew or pretend to be late to something else.
I have trouble telling people I like to write. I’ve always equated the public expression of an interest with the embarrassment of potentially sucking at that interest. So for a while, when anyone asked what I wanted to do—tomorrow, next week, in ten years—I would say I didn’t know. After nine weeks of writing stories, though, I couldn’t keep up the feigned apathy. I wanted to write and I had written. I’d spent six days a week working nine to five—sort of—without any other obligation. Occasionally, I counted tree swallows or baked bread. Once, I helped lift whale bones across the beach. But I would always return, dutifully, to my laptop—my lifeline, my unrelenting tyrant.
I didn’t know if I was going to produce anything decent, or even half-decent. I have a hard-drive full of clumsy stories dating back to elementary school, hundreds and hundreds of stories—including correctly formatted screenplays (feature length) that are blatantly all about me. Still, I’d never spent an extended period of time focusing on one thing. On the island, writer’s block was a recurring fear—along with herring gulls and spiders. I changed opinions on sentences and paragraphs daily. Word by word, I picked apart my stories, splitting them into crumbs. I would write and rewrite and erase and regret, and I would send it all to my boyfriend, in hopes of constructive criticism and/or lavish praise.
The only thing I could bank on was time. I couldn’t screw up time, mostly because I didn’t have a Time-Turner nor access to television. At Bowdoin, I was (am) a calculated time-waster, but on the island, I could be prudent and productive. Improvement meant practice, over and over and over. I was more than lucky to have time—so much time—to write. I didn’t want to waste my first big chance.
Of course, I’ve said things like this my whole life, inspiring myself via popular Goodreads quotes—To live is the rarest thing in the world! —but never internalizing nor following through. On the island, I wrote without distraction, story after story—at least for a while, until my boyfriend mailed me a flash drive of Season 3 of “The Office” and “Zootopia” in Spanish (which I watched, twice, even though I don’t speak Spanish). All good things must come to an end, I suppose.
I won’t pretend I returned transformed. I threw up eight times on a lobster boat. I showered with a plastic bucket next to a muskrat’s home. Naturally, I have a greater appreciation for 21st century amenities and clean socks. But I’m grateful I allowed myself to pursue something I love. Fiction writing rarely seems like a practical endeavor, but practical endeavors are rarely fulfilling. I almost spent my summer as an email-marketing intern for an insurance company. Maybe, I would have networked. Probably, I would have plucked my eyes out. I’m not surprised at the role fiction writing has continued to play in my life, but I’m pleased I’ve allowed myself to embrace it.
Soon, we have vacation; later, graduation (for some, summer break). I have four months left at Bowdoin—which seems at once too few and too many. Four months to cram in everything I haven’t done and everything I should have done and everything I want to do. The big island voice is back, screaming, “Don’t waste it!” There is so much to be anxious about. Sometimes, it’s nice to have something all your own. The small thing you love can be a very big thing—take time for it, make space for yourself. It’s easy to push off quixotic ambitions, but I urge you to welcome them.

Background Noise: Recognizing your inner know-it-all

An unrelated PSA: to whom it may concern, the toilets in Buck have a flush button for a reason. I may not know everything, but I know the unflushed toilet is a fitness epidemic that must be stopped.

Background Noise

The bad beginning: finding sources of optimism for the new year

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

Savannah Horton

Columnist

February 3, 2017

I read an article recently that depressed me. Of course, I could be referencing any and every article published within the last year, so I will elaborate. It was an Odyssey article.

I assure you I in no way sought out this site nor the articles it contained. I was merely coerced, by a Facebook acquaintance, to a poorly formatted page that told me how twenty is the new thirty. Gosh. A new year is beginning and apparently I’m past my prime.

Perhaps it’s fitting that as I descend into the doldrums of a has-been, the world falls with me. A legitimate doomsday is lurking and Earth, it seems, has given up. CNN’s recent documentary on Obama is titled “The End: Inside the Last Days of the Obama White House.” My dog has picked up the disturbing habit of eating cigarettes off the street (he has also broken into my pill bottles—he is 57 in dog years, and I fear his midlife crisis has heightened). Worst of all, the international community has rung in the new year with a heartbreaking failure, a shameful stab at entertainment: “Sherlock,” season four. “Sherlock”’s team has proved even the greats can fall (though my love for Benedict Cumberbatch burns bright).

The year is off to a thrilling start. Personally, I have developed infections in two ear piercings. Nationally, Donald Trump’s current approval rating wavers between 36% and 43%, lower than any incoming president in recent history (for reference, “Sherlock” season four currently has a 63 percent on Rotten Tomatoes). I’m continually terrified for the future as projected by the media: even grizzly bears have something to fear. I can’t turn on the television or look at Facebook without questioning the intelligence of so many influential adults and/or wanting to toothpick my eyes.

There seems, however, to be a beacon of hope shimmering in the darkness. I am referring to Netflix’s remake of “A Series of Unfortunate Events.” Though the 2004 film was insufferable, this television rendition is dark and smart and silly—even “Bon Appetit” is covering it (culinary news must be slow). The dark comedy is aimed—theoretically—at kids, but its engagement with what snobs call “metanarrative” attracts older audiences. The series, and its adaptation, prove children’s television can, and should be, both educational and entertaining; silly and dark.

Lemony Snicket was a formative part of my childhood, a sort of peculiar, absent uncle who introduced and defined vital vocabulary words, such as esoteric (“I think it refers to things that aren’t used very much—the things that stay in the refrigerator for a long time”), al fresco (“It means outside, of course”), and adversity (“Count Olaf!”). For those unfamiliar, the series follows three siblings of the Baudelaire family whose parents have died in a fire. Basically, the children spend each book evading their legal guardian, Count Olaf, a villain described simply as a “terrible actor.” The stupidity of the surrounding adults enables Olaf’s repeated cruelty, while the children’s own intelligence facilitates their escape.

Snicket—whose real name is Daniel Handler—created a series that is disturbing and didactic and hilarious. His elaborate descriptions, filled with warnings and spoilers, translate easily into the show’s narration. Of course, the remake is not without flaws—it can be tedious, at times hyperbolic—but it successfully embodies Handler’s unrelenting snark and melancholy humor. The whimsical world does not take itself too seriously, its characters full of marvelous maxims (“Wicked people never have time for reading”).

The show sets mature expectations for its young viewers, rather than dumbing itself down to an assumed level of understanding. The quick-witted trio repeatedly outsmart their apathetic caretakers. They are not only exceptionally talented but caring and observant. They remind us: “the adults won’t take care of anything but we will.”

“The Series of Unfortunate Events” was largely responsible for my love—and appreciation—of literature (“A library is like an island in the vast sea of ignorance”). As a child, the series introduced me to empathy, vocabulary, sarcasm and tragedy. Today, it reminds me how “fierce and formidable” we must be in times of misfortune and uncertainty. I can’t help but link the Baudelaire’s concerns to my own frustration and to the frustrations of those around me—of all ages—who feel powerless as few determine our fate. But perhaps, even if there is “no happy beginning and very few happy things in the middle” there can still be hope for a happy ending. To share some Snicket wisdom: “At times the world may seem an unfriendly and sinister place, but believe that there is much more good in it than bad. All you have to do is look hard enough, and what might seem to be a series of unfortunate events may in fact be the first steps of a journey.”

The first episode of “A Series of Unfortunate Events” is titled “The Bad Beginning.” But let me be clear. The singing in “La La Land” is bad. 3 Doors Down is bad. “The Bad Beginning” is good. It is very good. It has made me laugh when the world seems dark and think when ignorance abounds.

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