Blank

I’ve been ignoring this space, mostly because I’m afraid that if I sit down to write, and I mean seriously write, that my fingers will be bleeding out the ink directly from my heart, that is to say, it will be too emotional, too all over the place, too real. In journalism, you’re told to never put yourself in the story - this isn’t about you, they tell you. So you take yourself out. You never editorialize and even when you think you aren’t, your editor will make sure to let you know that you are. You take yourself out of the equation. Whereas fiction writers or even non-fiction writers perhaps feel nothing particularly odd or even wrong with putting their feelings on paper or on a blog post, journalists find it hard to express themselves.

Let me rephrase that.

I find it hard to express myself because writing about news and events and other people is something I’m confident about. Writing thoughts about myself? Not so much.

So I’ve been ignoring this space. I have photos to upload, stories from Europe to share, even recipes, but I keep putting it off. Something isn’t right.

I can’t be free, because I don’t feel free.

I’m trying to find a remedy for it.

Oh boy.

The Rabbit Hole

It wasn’t meant to be this way. I know, I know. I said I would upload photos and insights in to my little trip abroad and I most certainly plan on still doing that, but something has been stirring inside ever since I got back. It was there before I left - a free falling feeling, like I’m aimlessly tumbling down the rabbit hole with Alice, afraid, paralyzed and anxious. Now with a 10-day hiatus in London, Dublin and Paris - the former which always has my heart and the latter which left me enchanted beyond repair, behind me, things are more intense, more magnified and as a result more bone crushingly painful.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve opened up a blank page on this blog with thoughts bubbling at my fingertips, only to close and delete it minutes later. Even though these thoughts are spilling over in my head, something stops me from writing them. I can’t shake this fear. I can’t shake this fear that has gripped me beyond writing a silly blog post on my own corner of the interwebs. It’s taken over my life really.

The reasons? Well there are many, but in the most simplest of terms, this isn’t where I wanted to be at this point in my life, and because of this simple statement, I feel the girl I knew, the one that slept, ate and breathed writing and journalism is frozen. Not slipping away, but frozen. It wasn’t meant to be this way for me, I tell myself, but when I graduated in 2007 with a B.A. in journalism, little did I know about the impending storm the publishing world had in store for me and everyone else who graduated with and after me.

Some days I’m ok, there are even days that I’m optimistic, but then there are the days when I feel so helpless and hopeless. I have these pent up ideas - articles and images and interviews flow through my head with nowhere to go.  Not a week goes by that I don’t hear about a newspaper scaling back or a magazine shutting its doors, aimlessly throwing more writers in this gigantic cesspool of unemployment. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about going back to school for a Master’s degree to learn something while I wait for things in the world of journalism to brighten up or at the very least, level out.

I feel myself drowning in doubt, wrestling with my thoughts, trying to figure out the right course of action, fighting the blues to carry on. I read an insightful article today about this very struggle - about the will to go on, despite the circumstances - how long do you care about being a writer? the article asked. How long (and from where) do you find the strength to keep pushing?

In many ways, I have no right to complain. I am not unemployed. I work in the publishing industry, albeit online and work so hard as a freelance journalist by night, all the while trying to run an online magazine, which I do voluntarily because a) I needed an outlet for writing and producing or else you would have found me sitting at Conrad’s diner at 3 p.m. in the afternoon with the old folk eating broccoli soup and counting sugar cubes before getting hauled off to an asylum and b) because I believe it’s something that that particular community needs and deserves. It’s a civil service if anything else. But I dream up ways every day of making money from my venture and living the journalism life I’ve always wanted. You know, the usual - writing for the Los Angeles Times, researching my novel, contributing to a plethora of smart magazines, perhaps even starting another blog, and before I realize, my daydream has reached the offices of the New York Times building, which might as well be literally in the clouds for me at this point.

Something has got to give.

In the time that I first began writing this entry and now, I’ve looked through all the photos from my trip, and each one carries such enormous weight with it, such amazing memories all tangled in each other in an almost two week adventure. Europe really changed me this time. It’s been two weeks since I got back, but my thoughts are still in London. I miss my boyfriend. I never talk about my relationship here, but I miss him terribly. The world seems calmer, easier to handle, when he’s by my side. I miss him. Who else would put some snow in a bowl with my name on it?

Here’s to you, 2009

The old saying goes that when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. I like to say that when life throws pomegranates at you, you make sure you know how to cut, peel, seed and eat that blood red fruit, because life isn’t as simple as lemonade. Life throws you heavy pomegranates more than it does puny lemons any day and 2009 was definitely a year of hard hitting fruit.

After a year of dilly dallying with the idea of finally launching myself as a bona fide journalist, I decided in the wee hours of 2009 that I was going to make it happen this year. Writing was my drug and I felt soulless and empty, not to mention deathly afraid that the journalism infused dreams I carried with me so long were going to wither away and disappear. I made up my mind - the economy wasn’t going to stop me, the tanking journalism industry wasn’t going to stop me and neither was a full-time job. After sitting through almost four hours of traffic before and after an eight hour day of editing, I would come home, research, pitch and email into the dead of the night. Something else took over me. I didn’t know what being tired was anymore because I had surpassed it. You know when you start to feel sleepy at 11 p.m. and if you somehow fight it and get to 12 a.m., you suddenly recharge and you feel like you have the entire world in your hands? That’s how I got through it.

The long hours paid off and I soon found myself writing and fact-checking for Edible Los Angeles, contributing frequent feature stories and reviews to the Glendale News Press and Burbank Leader, as well as having my pitches accepted by two publications that I love and adore oh so much - Bitch and Paste. I finally felt worthy of the “journalist” title. I finally felt like my soul was slowly creeping back into my body. And then, in the midst of it all, I got this crazy idea to start an online magazine that has been my pride and joy for more than half of the year. It has allowed me to explore my past, write about what I love and participate in the type of journalism I believe in, the type that I felt was stolen away from me when too many people made bad choices that ultimately ended up collapsing the entire industry, the type that moved people and made a difference .

A strange kind of happiness glazed over me and boy it was wonderful.

When I wasn’t enthralled in my writing, I got a chance to spend some time in London, take a trip to San Francisco and exploring Los Angeles more thoroughly than ever before.

I survived the Station Fire that engulfed Los Angeles earlier this year, watched as the country my parents and I were born in erupted in protests and bloodshed and made so many new friends on Twitter.

Of course, the year had to go out with a bang - earlier this month I got into my first accident which has still left me car-less - not something I particularly mind but this is L.A. after all and not having a car is the equivalent of saying you don’t have any oxygen.

I’m looking forward to 2010, my theme for the new year is “change.” This year was one of transition for me, one of getting my feet wet and finally having the courage to take a few steps in the direction that I wanted my professional and personal life to go in. For the next 365 days however, the plan is to double or even triple the rate that I was going at. This means more writing, more pitching, more creativity, more devotion and confidence and strength and guts, more love, respect, trust and peace. Watch out world, I’m coming for you.

Quarter of a Century

On the first day of the last month of the year, organizations, families, ordinary citizens and even social networks take a few moments out to commemorate World AIDS Day. The United Nations and World Health Organization estimate that 33.4 million people are living with HIV. In Los Angeles 56,000 to 62,000 people are estimated to be living with HIV/AIDS.

I’d like to think of this day only as World AIDS Day, but I can’t because it’s also my birthday. I feel honored to have been born on a day where one of the world’s most serious diseases gets a day in the spotlight, but this year’s birthday feels so different for me.

In short, it’s the first time that I’m not even a little bit jovial about it.

Internet, I am down right depressed.

In the bigger scope of things I am not even that old (25) but I feel like I should have had more to show for being alive for a quarter of a century.  I don’t want to bore anyone with the dreams and goals I’ve had since middle school, but I have known what I have wanted out of life for a very long time, that is, to be a successful journalist whose articles allow someone to learn something new, uncover abuse, bring about justice or elicit change. And though I feel like I have made significant strides, I am still after that journalism dream that has been on a ship to no where for a lot of people.

Of course, there are other things I crave in life, but I feel like I have been so lucky to have a supportive family, amazing friends, a boyfriend who I want to spend the rest of my life with - all those elements in my life feel more or less complete and I feel like I should have had more of a grasp on that pesky thing I love the most: writing.

I know that there are so many young journalists my age who do not have jobs or are struggling in many of the same ways I am - I see it all the time with those who I speak to or those I follow on Twitter. I see the passion that people have for this industry that has failed them and it upsets me. Of the 10 emails to editors that are unanswered, at least 50 are ignored. You can forget about a staff writing position at the moment, because frankly they don’t exist.

When I started following “Ed2010″ probably more than 5 years ago, the idea of achieving my dream journalism career in 2010 seemed so far away, so out there in the cosmos, but now, in 30 days, 2010 will arrive and I am afraid of what it will bring. Last night, I drew out a simple diagram of what I’d like to achieve in 2010, which I am crowning right now as “the year of journalism.” That piece of paper holds my dreams and goals for the next year and beyond in the form of the Los Angeles Times, LA Weekly, Real Simple and GOOD. Here’s to hoping that on Dec. 1, 2010 I feel a little less somber and a little more hopeful than I do now.

Anywhere But Here

I have the worst case of the Mondays, and I fear it’s not going away until Friday. Oh dear.

My Life as Frida

Halloween is always something I look forward to. Despite my inkling this year to dress as Lydia from Beetlejuice, I went with my art idol and all time head bitch in charge, Frida Kahlo.

Of course, with great power comes great responsibility and Frida Kahlo came with a unibrow, which wasn’t any stretch of the imagination for me as someone who is Armenian.

Lately, I haven’t written much here and I’m not sure why. Probably a combination of being extremely self conscious of my writing, along with trying to concentrate my writing efforts else where. Sometimes when I look at this space, the only sentiment I seem to come up with is “What’s the point?” I don’t have any direction here - this is not a blog strictly about journalism, or food or any other niche topic. It’s more or less about me and my likes, dislikes and observations. I still haven’t come to term yet with the fact that that’s ok, because not only do I see other blogs/websites who are so successful because they are niche, but because the directionless feeling I experience on this blog reflects how I feel in my daily life.

I want to be a writer, a reporter, a change maker, and although I have made some strides in that department, the mountain I have to climb just keeps growing.  Maybe that’s why I have been so drawn to Frida Kahlo, although the trials and tribulations of her life cannot even be compared to mine. She’s fierce. She’s strong. She left her mark on the world in some way. Being her for a day reminded me how much I want to be that person. That intrepid reporter who finds stories within the crevices of the world, that writer who manages to seamlessly blend words together, that person who is not just living, but progressing and aiding progress in the process.

That’s enough of my ranting, here are some more Frida Kahlo photos. Don’t mind the ugly.

Fuzzy Focus and Other Uninteresting Things

Internet, I’ve once again reached a strange plateau in the relationship I have with this blog.  I feel unfocused and that feeling worries me. I’ve been struggling about what to make of this space of mine - it’s a place where I feel I can and should write down whatever I like, but that’s begun to worry me a little. I feel at times that I’m all over the map. One minute I’m writing about a cake I made, the next minute, I’m providing updates on fires in Los Angeles.

My worry mostly is: is this ok?

I mean, why shouldn’t it be? It’s my space, my little corner of the interwebs. I pay each month for this damn it, I should be able to write whatever I please. Still, it worries me. There are times when I feel that I should just stick to one topic and write about it exclusively. Then there are moments when I feel like I can’t do that, because my interests are so varied. I want to talk about food and traveling, yet I feel a great sense of urgency and desire to talk about writing and music and Bollywood.

Then there are other times where I come here and start an entry about how horribly I have been aching to write more  - even more than I do now. I have dreams about working at the Los Angeles Times and as soon as they begin, they end and I’m thrown back into the turnpike in New Jersey known as reality.

Lately, I’ve had an obsession with wedding photography. I can spend hours upon hours scouring sites, ooing and awwing over photos. These are things that I feel are unworthy of even appearing on this space, as if I’ve built this strange “man behind the curtain” persona where I don’t feel comfortable exposing my inner most thoughts and desires.  I want to keep this place lively and funny and not full of my whiny wants and needs - but perhaps those are things which make for the most interesting reads.

I’ve been neglecting this place, only because I am trying to be so thoroughly focused on a few other projects I’m working on, mostly my ezine and the freelance writing I am doing for a few places, including a newspaper. Yes, that’s right - a real bona fide, print newspaper. It’s quite thrilling. It makes me happy and gets me back in the creative process and I really live off that, to be honest.

There is so much I want to do - on this here space of mine and in life and I’m trying to figure out if it behooves me to have a strict focus or go and do wherever my mind takes me. When I figure it out, you’ll know.

The Half-Year Mark

Sometimes I love sitting on the cool kitchen floor, when the entire house is silent and the crickets outside make me feel like I live in the countryside, instead of Los Angeles, even for a few minutes. The ground is white marble and invitingly cool in this summer heat. I’ve been home for five hours, yet taking off my shoes hasn’t crossed my mind yet. If I let them stay on any longer, they might just permanently become molded to my feet. Henry the Maltese is of course, right beside me, chomping away on some iceberg lettuce. 

It’s the first time in a while I feel like my mind is almost crystal clear. It feels nice. The wind blowing in from the half-opened window over the sink is making things better. I hate and love being tired all at the same time. It makes me feel useful and accomplished, yet tonight, I feel its effects all over my body - not a good feeling in the least bit. 

In a few days, August will settle in. More than half a year gone. I have begun vividly remembering the last few years, moreso than I ever did when I was younger. This year, I remember Disneyland on New Year’s Eve, my sister’s Alice in Wonderland themed birthday party, London in March - moments that I wish were frozen in time. I remember the excitement I felt that I was going to have an article published in print. My name. In print. On actual paper. In a magazine. You can’t imagine how that feels for a writer. I remember the Sookie Stackhouse explosion that sort of took over my life, the films I wrote about, albeit self-consciously. I remember arguments and laugh out loud moments and more hours spent in traffic than I would ever like to admit. Perhaps my proudest moment this year, I remember all the time and energy I put in to produce this here ezine and the amazing response I’ve received so far. I remember contemplating about going back to school - a thought which crosses my mind every day, but not applying because of the fear of not being accepted - I’m still working on getting over this. 

Half the year is gone, and though there are hundreds of things I should have done, could have done and wished I would have done, I’ve come out pretty unscathed. Here’s to hoping the rest of the year is better.

Tonight, We Are All Iranians

My mind is in a few different places at once now. I can’t decide whether to stay up tonight on Twitter following the protest scheduled in Iran or get some sleep so I can be up on time to go to the protest in Westwood.

The last couple of days have been quite difficult for me. Difficult in the sense that it was very hard to concentrate on anything but Iran - everything else, work, life, even food just seemed secondary. Everytime I complained about something, like the fact that my car had a malfunction, followed by a towing, I regretted it. My concerns, my pet peeves or insignificant struggles could not and can not compare in any way, shape or form to those in my hometown.

At times, I can’t believe this is all happening, unfolding in front of the world’s eyes - I keep imagining how those who voted for change feel, how upset and angry and passionate they must have been to say, “you know what - NO, I will not stand up for this, I will stand up for what I believe in.” That takes real courage, courage that many of us have never known in our lives.

Every day, while I read the tweets, listen to the news and watch the videos, I am reminded of the situations my parents and entire extended family must have been in during the 1979 Revolution. I cannot even begin to fathom what life was like, it many ways it wasn’t a life at all, but then in other ways, it was like they were REALLY living. I’m not sure how to fully explain what I mean by that last sentence. I mean, it’s as if everything in life that didn’t matter just melted away and the important things hung around. The ones you love, the fight for social justice, morality and human rights - that’s what took over.

For example, this is a personal blog and although I can post whatever I choose at this very moment, I cannot bring myself to do it. Something is getting in the way. Something is telling me, “No, it’s not appropriate. There are bigger things in play. There are lives at stake.”

Things worth mentioning in regards to the Iran Election 2009:

1. The outpour of support from around the world, especially the U.S is just amazing to me. It is so touching and amazing - everywhere you look in Twitter, you see a green tinted icon and messages offering all in Iran their support.

2. Social media - All hail the power of social media. I hope Maureen Dowd realizes how wrong she has been about Twitter.

3. Journalism - You can stop buying newspapers, pay us close to nothing, but let’s face it- you still need us. We’re important. When the times are really tough, we are the most important profession on the face of the planet. And it’s amazing.

My mind is racing. I just read that someone received a “goodbye” email from Iran. My mom told me earlier she had heard that many people decided to write their wills and send out their goodbyes, because they knew if they went into the rally, they wouldn’t come out alive. This entire thing is weighing heavily for me and I’m hoping for the best, and fearing the worst. My thoughts and prayers are with all with enough courage to stand up for what they believe in, even though it might mean death.

Before the Taking of Toast and Tea

I had a good cry yesterday. You know, those crying sessions you have where you just let it all out - all the stress and pain and what not, in the form of salty tears. Sometimes you immediately feel better after wards. This was not one of those times.

Like most people I suppose, I suppress real raw emotions when I’m around people that aren’t my immediate family and closest friends. Yesterday  I struggled with that, as there’s only so much contact you can avoid when you work in an office setting.

I held it in for most of the day, but when I packed up to leave, got to my car, the tears flowed while the engine purred all the way home. Driving on the 405, with news of the Santa Barbara fires in the background, the cool breeze felt comfortable against the wetness of my cheeks and the muggy atmosphere of my car. The unbearable heat was a reminder that California summers are here again, waiting in the shadows of Los Angeles to ruin my life.

I’m not sure what I was thinking about in the car that day, because I was experiencing a mishmash of emotions that were dancing and crashing against each other in my head. Fears, hopes, dreams, regrets, circumstance, love, hate, rejection and acceptance - they rose and crashed independently of me.

And in that moment of haze, the only thing I could remember was “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S Eliot.

I wise a wide-eyed and introspective sophomore in high school when I first was introduced to the likes of this poem. Anxious and excited, I walked into the first day of Honors English class to find a photocopied version sitting on everyone’s desk. The assignment? Interpret this 130 stanza poem and bring your written commentary back to class tomorrow. It was a classic “WTF” moment, if only “WTF” had been in popular use back in 1999.

Trying to interpret the meaning of this poem became the bane of my existence. Every explanation we brought in was rejected and it was at that point that I started to wonder about J. Alfred Prufrock. Who was this buffoon of a character and why was he making my life so difficult by not speaking clearly. By the end of the week, I was so sick of hearing about J. Alfred Prufrock and it was the first time, I think ever, that I was happy to see a piece of literature vanish from my site.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

I kept thinking about the passage above and I came to the conclusion that no, there will not be time and not in the Jesse Spano “Caffeine Pill Freakout” kind of way either. There wont be time for a hundred indecisions and revisions. There isn’t time, because you’ll wake up one day and look around and hate yourself for wasting it all. If you want something, make it happen. If you want to go somewhere, go. If you want someone, do all that you can to show how much love, compassion and generosity you’re capable of. The time isn’t later, the time is now. Love, real love (whatever that means, anyway), is not an every day occurrence. It’s not something that lives in people’s lives all the time, that’s why everyone is always out there continuously chasing it.  Most people are not in relationships because they feel they would lose one half of themselves if they were ever apart, they’re in relationships because of convenience, confidence and inability to be alone.  So when you find that person that is always there for you, no matter what, the person that you wouldn’t mind spending every waking moment with, the person that you can yell and scream at but know in the back of your mind that while you’re doing it, everything will be ok, the person that doesn’t try to change you, doesn’t blame you or resent you, grab them and don’t let go.

So no, Mr. Prufrock, there will be no time.  Life is too short to have enough time to dwell, to be wishy washy and to procrastinate.

I made it to my doorstep just as the sun was coming down and as Prufrock was disappearing from my mind. I took a look in the car mirror and decided makeup couldn’t help me at this point, so I tried as best I could to wipe the wetness from my face and step inside, to the sounds of television announcers and the smells of dinner.

There was alot that was left unsaid in my mind and still in the paragraphs above, but real emotions are raw - too raw to be said out loud and sometimes too raw to be heard, even if they’re coming from someone sitting behind a computer. Bringing rawness to the surface is a difficult task and not without consequences. I might write about it one day, but today, I’ll just be happy if I can make it home without having to wipe any tears.