First, abandon everyone you know and love. Say goodbye to friends, lovers, would-be lovers, American cheese, and sanity. You don’t need these things in San Francisco. You need isolation. You need Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. You need Saturday nights writing in your blog. This is the required pain and suffering. This is only for starters.
You come to San Francisco to be a writer, just like everyone else. You are a writer. Say this while looking in the mirror. Say this when you aren’t invited out. Say this when trying to get a job but failing miserably.
You are young. You are young and female and brand new. Not new like a baby, but new like an untested product.
On your first morning in the city that is not New York, you devise some mental to-do lists for your new life and visualize your imminent happiness because you are doing it all on your own for the first time in your life. When you go to a coffee shop, you overhear people say things like, “I wrote a short story about it.” Mock them silently while writing a short story about your last relationship that you tentatively title “Other Than That, Mrs. Lincoln, How Was The Show?” Join a writers’ group and show it to them. The first piece of feedback is: “Some of your images are quite nice, but I hate the female protagonist.” Say nothing to them of your piece’s autobiographical nature. You get back to your subletted room, which is separated from your roommate’s by a glass door that allows her to hear you cry; in the privacy of your room, she talks to you through the wall as if there were no wall at all. She suggests you get a real job.
Instead of being a writer, you decide to work for writers. You are excited to begin. Exhilarated. This is your first opportunity to prove yourself as someone outside of an academic setting. You fantasize about the cool people who will share your interests and passions and work ethic. Perhaps your dream of becoming a writer will be realized at a non-profit organization. Congratulate yourself on your good decision-making skills. You knew you’d get here someday.
By 10:30 PM of your first day, you are on a bus home. You reconsider the word “job.” What you have is a non-paying internship at a non-profit. Two of your primary responsibilities are to take out the trash and improve youth literacy. Never forget that. No one will let you forget that.
You learn “intern” really means “degenerate social leper moron.” Your colleagues do not want to be your friend. It takes time and unanswered emotional e-mails to come to terms with this.
One particular night, you follow them to a bar and attempt to socialize. You hang out with a girl who sucks. While she talks, you look at a muted television. You think about transforming this demoralizing experience into a story. Then you can tell other people you are “working on something.” The girl asks if you are a writer. You say, “Sort of. I’m working on something.”
Sometimes you think about removing social distractions for a while. In the end, it’s not a choice.
You write fictional stories about drowning and lesbianism. You put them in a drawer and worry your genius has withered on the vine. You buy form letters that have multiple-choice sentiments so you don’t have to write your own. They have them for all occasions, including breaking up with a boyfriend or therapist or committing suicide.
Your dad suggests that you become a lawyer because your mother tells him you’re such a good writer. Tell him you’d just prefer to be a writer. Convince yourself he’s laughing with you.
You’ve been in San Francisco for a week. Some general observations you could make:
Everyone is gay.
Everyone is green.
Everything is too expensive.
Everyone is cooler than you are.
Everyone’s favorite color is rainbow.
Everyone is either a hipster or a hippie. You are neither.
Public transportation in San Francisco is the worst. Everyone hates it and hates you in it. All the waiting tests a sense of patience you wish you could cultivate. Since this is a time of growth, which is something you keep telling yourself, you think of idle transportation time as ideal for reading local literary magazines or Atlas Shrugged.
The city smells. When you come home, you smell of the city.
You are a bit lost in a different way during each moment of every day.
You try harder at the internship. Devote yourself to it. It is not hard to be the best intern. While consolidating the recycling, you mutter something to yourself about feminism. Your boss notices and appreciates your off-beat sense of humor. He asks if you know how to proofread. You say yes. He asks if you know how design books. You say yes. He asks if you’d like a real job. You say yes. You hope he’ll never know you lied about the first two things.
By week three, you decide you like working in book publishing. You get some money to act like an asshole. You are even getting used to San Francisco culture. Go to the Pride Parade. Try not to notice the people fornicating and defecating (and is that person doing both?) on the hill next to you. Later, at a house party, you find out what feltching is from a man in a pink dress. Observe everything and say nothing; do this because you are high from a brownie you bought on the street from a stranger carrying a big stick who twitches and clacks. Stare at the men in their tight underwear, proffering their junk out a second-story window that looks down at an orgy on Castro Street.
You go home stoned and sleep it off. Cherish the numbness. Thinking about your would-be lover no longer makes you want to stab yourself. Interacting with people who don’t interest you is nothing of consequence. Everything is perfect, if only for a little while.
Wake up the next day and briefly wonder if you’ll be alone for the rest of your life. On second thought, chalk it all up to men wanting other men. This has nothing to do with your vagina. Leave your vagina out of it.
You haven’t had sex in two years, and before that you hadn’t had sex in 22 years. To have sex again you need intrigue. Here is your intrigue: no one knows who you are. You’re not a feminist or the girl who dated that guy or the person whose conversation opener has become, “You know, I was pretty cool in college.” This is good and bad. It forces you to think about who you are.
People tell you yoga is important on the road to self-actualization and acceptance; also, it will make you bendy in preparation for a time when you could be having sex with someone when and if you meet anyone at all, ever.
After two months, you have discovered how to spot a hipster. If you cannot tell whether the human being is a man or a woman, you’ve spotted a hipster. Refute, yell at, denounce any friend who says you yourself are a hipster. After subtly observing people around you, embrace that looking like an idiot is the only way to dress here. This is due in part that winter and summer happen concurrently. If you think you look haphazard with a possible learning and perception disability, everyone in the city will envy your style. Too bad you can’t have ironic facial hair.
Resume communication with your ex-boyfriend, the one who showered with your best friend. Forgive him for now, even though he hasn’t apologized.
Get more and more distracted with long phone fights and still more unanswered emotional e-mails.
Your job suffers. Your boss wants to know what’s wrong with you. He asks if you are having boyfriend or girlfriend problems. Since when did he conclude you’re gay, or at the very least bisexual? Is it your hair? You tell him, “My mother has cancer.” You cannot tell him the truth. Or can you? “Can I tell you the truth?” you might begin. And he might say, “Sure.” And you would explain. . . .
You spend too much of your time slouched and preoccupied. Your boss brings you in for a meeting. He hands you a two-page document that begins, “You have failed to live up to expectation.” He says it is protocol to read the form aloud to you. “You have failed to show up on time.” “You have failed to meet FedEx deadlines.” “You are a poor communicator.” He makes two copies of the form, one for your personal records and one for your file. “File” is an anagram of “life.”
This meeting is like a breakup. It is as if your ex-boyfriend brought you into a conference room with a 2-page list of why he doesn’t love you. “You have failed to make me happy.” “You make it impossible to achieve male orgasm.” “You are a poor communicator.”
You quit. Or rather, you tell people you’ve quit. You tell people there’s a thin line between quitting and being fired. Remain ambiguous about future plans. Say you have various projects lined up.
Suddenly, you have time to write. You have a lot of material. You now go out with a non-Jewish person and replace the dead batteries in your cordless mouse with the ones in your vibrator. You consider this improvement. At cafes where you write, you order smoothies called “You Are Beautiful,” “You Are Elated,” and “You Are Energized.” You delve deep. You have a rich interior life.
Unlike anything else, you stick with writing. Experiment with the second person. It’s not filled with “I, I, I,” but rather, “You, You, You”–your boss’s form letter turned on its head—misery loving company, the lonely extending a hand to those who are alone.
Perhaps you’ll apply to MFA programs to hone your craft. You apply only to schools in San Francisco because you can’t handle the thought of moving to New York. That place sucks.
***
Original art by Ilyse Magy.
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46 responses
Some of your images are quite nice, but I hate the female protagonist. Just kidding; I don’t hate her, but nor do I want to have sex with her.
Also, I suspect “Other Than That Mrs. Lincoln, How Was The Show?” is missing a comma.
You didn’t think about how semiotically complex the comments section would be if you wrote in the second person, did you? Did you?
Actually, I liked that, pretty good, you.
I adore this, and you, but want to give special mention to that image by Ilyse Magy because it is just so, so cool. I love it. Already you’re an icon…
This is awesome
THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS.
Elissa, love the article.
Ilyse, that image is genius.
Excellent homage. “Leave your vagina out of it” is the status update for an entire generation. Well done!
yup. and, don’t let the truth about interning get out there. oops, too late. xo
Weed really does enhance everything! Even reading! It makes everything better! Legalize the shit already! Hi Momma! I love you! I just realized; if you end all sentences with exclamation points, it will make every sentence you write exciting! I think! BOO YA!!!
Sorry for being so insensitive in that workshop. Again.
Elissa- I enjoyed the humor and uninhibited honesty of this piece. Thanks for writing about the life of a former you-know-what Intern. There are so many of us…
So I guess I’ll try New York first.
Oy vey, darlink. You need a friend. The big city is not a place for a lonely girl. You express yourself beautifully. Read this blog by someone who moved from San fran and survived”
http://www.yoyenta.com
Very funny and a spot-on description of the journey. And I love the illustration. On moving away from San Francisco: I never wrote while I lived there. I’m not obsessive enough to be a writer-like-that. And I had too much fun there. I’m somewhere less fine now and writing.
I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE this. That was five loves.
I love this for so many reasons! L.O.V.E.
I can relate far too well. Although I never moved to SF or lived the life Elissa has, loneliness, frustration and not belonging-all part of my emotional repertoire. This was both funny and therapeutic. What an enjoyable read! Thank you!
And yes, that illustration is kickin’. You need to get a framed copy for your apt Elissa!
this is way better than televised ski jumping
This is going to seem mean, but I keep noticing this desire among many US wannabe-writers to live a ‘writerly’ life. I don’t know if everyone is still trying to be Hemingway or Miller or the beats but it comes across as pretty desperate and a little bit clueless.
To anyone who wants to live a writerly life I can only suggest that originality will never be your strong point, since you’re not living your own life. In fact to anyone who wants to be writer I say give up now. It is a terrible life and should be only pursued by those with no other option.
This is excellent. Thank you!
It’s not a terrible life. It is the best life, if you decide to make it yours. If you want/need to be a writer, then it’s your only option.
I know Elissa well. She never tries to be anything she is not. She has a gift for writing.
I really enjoyed this. Moved by it, actually. It’s always nice to be blindsided by a piece of writing.
Also, I’m a sucker for narratives told in the second person. Well done.
Maybe it’s a sometimes terrible life that is often the best life. It’s like being in love with a someone with manic depression. Some days, you get flowers; other days, you get a slap in the puss. I guess it depends on how much you like flowers and how well your puss can handle all that slapping.
Oh, and did I mention that it’s LOVE? LOVE!!! I don’t know, but I think your soul withers when you ignore that kind of thing.
Also, Elissa is great. Send her flowers now.
Were you secretly videotaping my move to San Francisco in 2005? I appreciate the fact that you fictionalized aspects of the “real” story to protect my identity. Hysterical. You left the part out about that night I went to the lesbian prom at the Rickshaw Stop and bought a bunch of strangers drinks and then tried to contest the charges on my credit card a month later when I couldn’t remember what in the hell the Rickshaw Stop was.
“If you think you look haphazard with a possible learning and perception disability, everyone in the city will envy your style.”
Best line in the whole piece. I’ll be laughing about that one for awhile!
compiling fictions is its own nonfiction.
new york is a very fine city.
you must have read lorrie moore’s self-help. this is a great adaptation, and a fun read.
Self-Help is the shiz. I probably owe Lorrie Morre a royalty check for the crap I cranked out in college.
I like this. San Francisco scares the bejesus out of me. I’m sure the city of writers would sap whatever baby-fat confidence I got from writing profs in my undergrad.
Thanks for your work, Elissa. You have a great last name, by the way.
This is an homage to Lorrie Moore (if I may be so bold). (Cliché) That woman gave me so much, and I wanted to give a little back…you know, by plagiarizing the shit out of her.
Nothing says I love you like plagiarism.
This is an awesome fiction and the image is way cool.I enjoyed every bit of it.Writing is the best to me.
I’m not pleased with my side trip to urban dictionary. I don’t like urban dictionary. Every time I’ve gone there, I’ve learned things I really didn’t want to and unfortunately those things often have evil resonance.
But this was amusing as it should be since this is the column for Funny Women. Good luck with the MFA. I wish someone could work on that acronym because saying “Mfa” is difficult to say. Maybe you could work on that Thanks.
“People tell you yoga is important on the road to self-actualization and acceptance; also, it will make you bendy in preparation for a time when you could be having sex with someone when and if you meet anyone at all, ever.”
You’ve only said this with sex-soon-possible-right? eyes as the words: “Yoga is awesome” come out of your mouth, but is glad someone gets that the bendy preparation for sex is just as important as that hippie crap (you totally identify with that hippie crap).
I like this! I don’t have anything pithy or even helpful to say, though, perhaps because I’m not a good writer. Wait … no, I’m a lazy writer. But I mean it, I did like it and I read it the whole way through and I smiled because I recognized some of those sentiments, just in a different life.
Scary but a nice relief to know I’m not the only one who goes through periods of “wtf” when trying to be a writer. But are we not writers if we are writing? Does an American Library Association Top Something have to be the rewards of our labor for us to believe we are truly who we say we are? I don’t believe so. I could live the rest of my life doing what I do now. No big city or accolades need apply.
But money, AJ, what about the money?
This essay was kick-ass and so similar to my experience of moving to SF — minus the boyfriend showering with my friend bit.
On another note: Yeah, definitely don’t move to New York. I hear it’s really hard to come by good roommates there.
Jesus New York sucks. If it’s not killing you with indifference then it’s mocking the presumptuousness of your existence. I wish I was there. It sounds idyllic.
I depressed now … I used to think my life sucked and everyone else was having a good time. Now I know that everyone’s life sucks 🙁
I think you just wrote out my future. Wow. It’s like the life I haven’t even lived yet just flashed before my eyes.
After reading this, I feel even more depressed that I did, previously to reading this. However, I also feel at the same time, more comfortable that I can relate to someone else for once. Maybe I need to move to San Francisco. People say that moving away from your problems are not a way to solve it; however, you were also told that you are who you hang out with. So, if you are not happy where you are, and want to move to be around more people like you, not to find happiness but just be around people who are like you, then wouldn’t that be better than horrible? Just feeling bad but comfortable would be good enough right? For me it’s about all the people who have no idea what they are talking about. Sometimes I think people just talk…just to talk. Just because they cannot stand to be quiet and peaceful, that they have to talk even to the extent of talking about nothing. Well, I should know this, it’s human nature. I use to survey people, and I’ve learned that it’s true, that people are creatures of habit. The only difference is that I don’t want the habit of trying to be like others around me. It’s also kind of like the movie, The Matrix; however, in my version, those who think it’s cool still nowadays, think that it’s just cool to think that they are so independent thinkers and the whole world is in a trance. However, I only reference The Matrix, because it’s the only concept which I can refer to. But it’s different, because also what I have learned of people is that they are so good at labeling, profiling, and defining everything around them. Well, it’s not that I don’t know anything, it’s just that the more I try to define what I’m trying to say, then I’ve lost the point of it all. Well, do I have to say it? Sometimes you have to isolate yourself in order to actually listen to what you are actually trying to tell yourself. So, thank you very much for writing this, I can relate to the beginning.
Very funny. I hope you are making money with your writing skills.
I see plays and movies in your future.
Hello Elissa,
This article is absolutely delightful.While reading it, I had a roller-coaster ride full of loud guffaws!
Please add me to your list of fans.
regards,
Avijeet Das.
I was thinking of moving to San Francisco, but now I’m terrified! But instead of thinking of my own condition, I should applaud the author for inducing such a visceral response!
This is why San Francisco is for computer geeks and not for writers. I don’t live here, but fly in several times a year for Apple and drupal conferences. The reason I don’t live here (yet) is that if I do relocate I will be arriving in style so that I don’t need to mill about with the homeless. It’s more fun when I can afford to navigate the city in town cars and cabs. The bart isn’t so bad either if you sit in front of the large map and realize you can’t really get it wrong. If you miss your stop, just go back the other way without leaving the bart station. I’ve met plenty of straight men along with the bi & gays. It’s easy to get laid here if you’re a geeky girl who doesn’t need to be showered with attention and has her own iOS devices. Men with their noses in computers are sometimes grateful for a distraction; if not they can help you write code. I love San Francisco and will be there again soon.
“File†is an anagram of “life.†nice.
It was reassuring to read someone’s story of jumping into the void of a new city… inspiring. I hope to make the move to SF within a (very long) years time. – boywhoregreatfullymovedtoAZfromSJ
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