Lingering in Doorways

October was bewitched, bothered, and bewildered month, my favorite time of the year. This is my season. Whenever I think of fall, I think of Alejandra Pizarnik: “It’s like autumn arriving. You expect nothing from its arrival. You expect everything.” And it’s true — my expectations for the next few weeks are at their highest. I’ve always thought one of my greatest inner qualities is my insatiable need to find beauty, in all things, and my environment needs to reflect that: everything from golden foliage to crisp, sweet-smelling air, the promise of finally being on the cusp of the holiday season. Now more than ever, living in a country with actual seasons (or as close to seasons as you can get on the West Coast), I am finding more excuses to be outdoors, for the sole purpose of being outdoors. It’s nice. It’s new. I’ve always been a homebody, and so when I get that urge to leave the familiar comforts of my bed and my books, to dress up and make that five-minute-walk for an overpriced drink in Koreatown, I try to revel in it. I like being the person that actively pursues things to romanticize, and for whatever reason, this is easiest to do in October.

I got a job in retail this month. It’s still so crazy to me, to say those words: I have a job. I am on my feet for the entirety of my shifts, but I’m surprised by how quickly I’ve grown to like it. I know I’m not the most adaptable person. Jobs are for grown-ups, and I’m at my most comfortable when there are responsibilities to ignore, tasks to push to the next day and the next. But this is something I actually enjoy, and that I almost look forward to. Everyone I work with so far is nice and eager to teach, and I’m grateful that my first week was a breeze because of it. There are other things I like too: I like the idea of financial independence, and that on Thursday there will be money in my account that I know I’ve actually earned, that I won’t feel too guilty spending. I like where I work, because it was my happy place when I was little, and I still feel the initial joy of walking through those double doors. I like that there’s a Starbucks inside (10% off all orders), and books that I can browse through on my lunch breaks, even though I’m fully assimilated into library culture and won’t be purchasing any time soon. Most of all, I think I like that what I do doesn’t require a sizable amount of brain power, and so I still have enough energy saved up to open my word documents when I get home. I used to imagine that I thrive most in intellectually stimulating environments, but I’ve come to realize that the mundanity of routine works well too. I can save the creative energy for what actually merits it.

One thing about having work — or school, or really any thing that gives my days some structure — is that I pay closer attention to the little things, the small pleasures I take for granted with uninterrupted leisure time. Every film I watch or hobby I partake in holds greater weight, and I’m pickier with the things I choose to invest in. I think this is how it was always supposed to be: being more present in situations that don’t always demand it. With limitations, I feel like I’m not just wasting my hours, or that I’m stuck in that dreadful stasis of simply passing time. And it’s not like school, either, or at least the past five years of focusing solely on academics. There’s no frantic pressure or burnout, nor the nagging reminder that I should be doing something else. It’s a blessed reprieve, and a welcome one. I feel like I’ve finally settled into that tricky in-between.

Earlier this month, I watched the Eras tour film with two of my aunts. We had a lovely time. It was three hours of that emotional high you get with soul-touching music, and I left the theater feeling changed somehow. I have a feeling I’d have felt that way even if I weren’t such a big Taylor Swift fan. It had more to do with the collective energy thrumming through that room, or the feeling of singing your lungs out while privately reliving the last decade or so (which is what happens when an artist is the soundtrack of your girlhood), or the fact that her songs are just that good — I was wiping tears by the bridge of You’re On Your Own Kid. I spent the next few days in a haze, walking around with a renewed sense of self I can’t explain but felt vividly. It inspired me. I think that, for every artist, the goal is to create something that touches hearts and speaks to them, and the Eras film reminded me of that. I want to one day make something greater than me. That has always been the dream.

Two days ago, I got on a call with a long-distance friend. I’d mentioned before that I was no longer sure I wanted to study filmmaking, but now I was certain. The reasons I gave sounded rehearsed to my ears, only because I’d repeated them to myself in times of doubt: I love film, I just don’t think I’m in love with it anymore. My final year at film school seemed to have zapped a chunk of that passion out of me, and I remember feeling like the assignments that were supposed to excite me were a chore, something I was only forced to accomplish. I’d never felt comfortable saying it out loud before. I think both time and distance play a factor in that revelation, and the fact that even as I struggled with that inner turmoil, I still continued to write. This, among a dozen other things, proved to me that lack of creativity was never the problem.

I used to tell my friends that I never considered formally taking up writing before because I was convinced that it would always be there, and that I can always pursue it on the side. But why, I’ve started to wonder, does it have to be? There has never been any doubt in my mind that I want to be an author. Almost all my free time has been dedicated to the pursuit of that goal: the books I devour, the obligations I delay to make space for daydreaming about words. Stephen King, in his memoir, says that you can tell what a person is passionate about by what they do when no one else is watching, and that’s always been writing for me: the very act is sacred. I do it not only because I want to, but because I have to, because I’m convinced that not doing so might actually drive me insane. I have never known a life without it.

I mention this because we’re on the topic of joy sparkers, and my list can never be complete without the contribution of literature. I love books, and I’ve long since given up being shy about it. My life is richer when I’m lost in some private inner world, one that makes my own so much lovelier to live in. I’m reading Ian McEwan’s Atonement right now, and it is everything I want in a novel: his mastery of words, the way he imbues his stories with the most delightful imagery. I’m like putty in his hands because of it. I’ll believe anything he wants me to. Reading McEwan is an exercise in drawing poetry from everything around me: I find myself scrutinizing every slant of light, every warped reflection, the stillness and movements of my direct surroundings. I people-watch and wonder to myself if they are conscious of their internal spiels the way Briony and I are; if their life feels as real to them as mine does to me. Above all things, I love it when a novel changes you in some way, when it alters your perception to some degree. It’s like magic in that way, a form of telepathy. Writing is witchcraft.

There are other things that are making my October the gift that it is. Smaller, more ordinary pleasures. Twelve-packs of Cherry Coke minis, fresh California milk at Honeymee, mint mojito coffees, and bubbly fountain drinks — I always make it a point to mention a beverage of some kind, the easiest way to make me happy. I am loving the weather, the sudden coolness of the morning, of waking up shivering and wrapped in fresh sheets. I adore the discovery of new music, in all forms: earlier this month, my dad and I went to the Night Owl downtown to read (I was wrapping up Babel, or the Necessity of Violence: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators’ Revolution then — he was reading Things We Never Got Over) and we went out back to watch the local buskers with their guitars, crooning their folksy love songs. I loved the raw intimacy of that moment, of the handful of late-night bar-goers milling around some flannel-decked stranger perched on a stool. The whole scene felt very fall, very Stars Hollow. Some of my favorite artists dropped new releases this month — Boygenius with their extremely short, four-part EP; Maisie with The Good Witch deluxe; 1989 Taylor’s Version. I love the excitement of listening to new music for the first time and knowing that it will define the next era of your life. It’s an act of hope, imagining — anticipating the good that’s to come. It’s what this season is for.

I’m ending October on a high note, with NaNo just around the corner and my grandfather coming in four days. I’ll be spending its final hours clocked in tonight, with hopefully not too much unwelcome excitement. There is housework to accomplish, and laundry to fold; I have five or so library books in my dad’s back seat that need returning. Life is quiet, and uneventful, and good. I am good. I hope you are, too.

I love you. Take care.