On Lana Del Rey and the Beauty of Melancholy

So, Lana Del Rey dropped a new album a few days ago -- Chemtrails Over the Country Club. I've been listening to it quite a lot since, as well as revisiting some of Lana's other music. I've also been having some interesting thoughts about music in general, the role it's played throughout my life, and the effects it has on me still. 

Lana Del Rey's music occupies a strange category for me. It evokes strong feelings of nostalgia and reminds me of all kinds of things despite not also being music I grew up listening to. 

She wasn't even around as an artist when I was still growing up, as she would have been just a child herself. However, her style as an artist and much of the imagery in her music reminds me of how I felt, thought, and took up space in the world way back then. The fact that the beach and many references to life in California come up often in her music underscores all this even further.

When I was young, I had so many strong emotions. Many of them were difficult, dark, and consuming -- like longing, melancholy, and restlessness. Life was difficult for me as a young person, and it took me until I was in my 20s to start coming into my own. But I had an incredibly rich fantasy life at that age, as well. I was always obsessed with some boy I knew, or occasionally I'd construct elaborate fantasies around actors (and even fictional characters) I found objectively attractive. I'd daydream about what I'd be like when I was older -- painfully, sorrowfully beautiful and, of course, so very deep -- as well as all the tumultuous, passionate romances I was sure I would one day have. 

One of my favorite things to do was indulge in these fantasies and wonder what my life would eventually be like while listening to music. If I could be outside taking up space in some beautiful setting while I did it, so much the better. I especially loved going on long nature walks, hanging out on the beach while watching the waves, and spacing out in the passenger seat on long road trips while watching the world go by. I never felt very connected to my family, my friends, or most of the men I dated when I was in my teens and early-mid 20s, so maintaining this sort of rich inner life seemed to fulfill some of the needs those relationships didn't. 

If You Want to Be a Great Writer, Be a Teachable One

Not that long ago, someone posted a screencap of an interaction from Medium's private note function to one of the writing groups I belong to. The screencap showed a polite, very standard rejection note from the editor of one of Medium's bigger pubs. And below it was a horrible, vitriolic response from the writer basically cussing the editor out and telling him to go fuck himself. As a writer who writes and submits many places, Medium included, that shocked the shit out of me -- all that anger triggered by someone saying they'll pass on a piece this time but are looking forward to reading future submissions. 

I am familiar with the publication in question and that editor, so I can certainly say he was the last person who deserved to be spoken to like that. This editor found a self-published Medium piece of mine last summer and encouraged me to let him add it to his publication. The owner of the pub then championed that article and promoted the holy heck out of it. The original editor also continued to leave me kind, encouraging notes when it did well. 

That piece became my highest earner, and I owe that to the team behind that pub. This particular editor is also among the friendliest and most considerate I've ever interacted with on Medium. He's always cool about it when he does decide to reject a submission, and he's a total professional. So the writer who told him off really stepped in it, as Medium editors tend to know one another and talk behind the scenes. If you want to get ahead as a writer -- on Medium or anywhere else -- don't be like that writer. Be gracious, be teachable, and keep points like the following in mind.

Rejections are normal, common, and happen to everyone. 

Listen, I get it. It never feels good to work up the courage to show your work to someone and ask them to publish it only to have them say they're not interested or, worse, to rip it apart. But it comes with the territory when you hope to be published by someone other than yourself. Even writers like Stephen King have stories about the many rejection letters they've gotten over the years, so yes. It really does happen to everyone.

On Turning Forty-Fucking-Five

So, it's my birthday tomorrow. I'm hoping it's a vast improvement on last year's, and so far, so good. As I'm sure everyone remembers all too well, right about this time last year, COVID officially reached pandemic status. Everyone was panic-buying toilet paper, pasta, beans, and just about anything else they could get their hands on. And, like everyone else, I was having terrible trouble even wrapping my mind around the fact that we were facing a fucking plague of biblical proportions.

Unfortunately for us, we were almost entirely out of food at the time, as I was waiting until closer to my birthday to do some shopping. That turned out to be a huge mistake, as none of the stores had a damn thing left. Not even a can of beans or a package of hamburger, let alone the lobster ravioli and pesto sauce I wanted for my birthday dinner or the corned beef I wanted for St. Patrick's Day. I somehow managed to score a lemon bundt cake for dessert, but that's all, and the pickings stayed pretty slim around here for a while.

I've been hyper-paranoid about running out of food ever since. I was never someone who believed the fridge and pantry had to be stuffed as full as possible to feel like there was enough to eat, but now I totally am. I'm still careful not to waste food and to make sure everything gets eaten promptly, but I grocery shop every week now, whether we really need it or not. I'm also extra-prepared this year for all our upcoming festivities. I have a heritage-breed ham and a corned beef hanging out in the freezer for Easter and St. Patrick's Day, respectively. And you bet your ass I have that lobster ravioli and fresh pesto I didn't get last year in the fridge already.

I'm turning 45 this year, which just feels plain odd. I still think of 45 as my parents' age, even though they're both well into their 70s by now. I've loved being in my 40s for the most part, though. I'm saner, more grounded, and more grateful at this age by a landslide. I actually stick with things that I start now -- positive things like daily exercise, balanced eating, productive writing routines, and regular quality time spent with my husband. I feel dangerously close to being one of those people who have their shit together, and it's a nice feeling after being so restless and undisciplined most of my life.