Let's take a moment and acknowledge that this photo of Ryan Gosling's interview on Conan was the best thing ever. Let's also acknowledge that he too thought that going to a late night show in person would reap some in-house special for the audience, like calling a random audience member to go up on stage.
Let's now stop dwelling on that, because I honestly just needed a picture to share that I have a "meet," casual, cool vernacular for an interview, tomorrow. Naturally I thought of couch interviews, which made me think of late night shows, which made me think of Conan, which made me think of Ryan Gosling.
If this thought process started with something so simple as baby seals or guava juice, I think I could probably bring it to Ryan Gosling a la Kevin Bacon too.
But not now! Now, it's about me, and life, and a conversation I had with some strangers I met at a Star Trek viewing.
We were sitting down at a restaurant, talking about the movie, debating our orders, attempting to learn names, when it came out that I was new to New York. A New New Yorker.
No this won't be one of those posts.
"That's very brave," the guy across from me said, after learning that I majored in journalism—a very dead degree, we agreed—and moved here because of an infatuation with Felicity. This brought everything nicely together as we had just watched another of J.J. Abrams' project. We applauded ourselves for connecting these dots.
"Brave? Brave how?" I asked, smiling but realizing it anyway. I then admitted that my minor was English, and we all threw our heads back and laughed at how I really didn't have plans on making money.
And it was funny and sad and true all at once, and they were very nice and encouraging, especially about my move. A financial lawyer near me told me that it was all in how I marketed myself, and this got me to thinking about what exactly it was I had to market myself for.
First, I hate that. I keep getting job advice on how to market myself, and while I applaud it as a strategy, nothing can make me feel less like a human than someone telling me that I'm marketing myself wrong. I'm sorry my Tweets don't follow one specific hobby, unless complaining of subway riders is a hobby, but I am terrible at trying to figure out what marketing myself means anyway. What would I market myself as?
Well, nothing evil, I figured, and nothing gluten-free, because I talk about baked goods as much as I talk about subway rides. So there goes those marketing strategies. But here's the kicker to all of this market-yourself-or-die line of thinking: I realized that right now, whatever I do is relatively open, though exasperatingly tremendous, but I sort of have no idea what it is what I want to do anymore. I don't know what market I'd even want to market myself.
It's sort of like, "come and get it, boys! It's just here! And...uh...you should just get it. Thank you."
I've had a lot to think about this, especially since I cherry pick the jobs I apply for. Do I want to be a receptionist? Do I want to try doing social media for a sports website? Do I...
You get the picture.
I was talking to my friend Kat about it when she came to visit. Now, she moved here a year ago with the promise of a paid internship, and since then, she moved from paid internship to paid internship, trying to find a job. But they were pretty nice internships. And she's had a lot of experience with internships I would love to be a part of.
Initially, she wanted to work in publishing. She wanted to write a novel. She wanted to be published. But she learned a lot interning for a publishing house here. It was too big. She was lost in the shuffle. She need stability. Or at least attention.
And just hearing that wasn't actually heartbreaking because I could see the American Dream faltering—
fine, yes I went to go see The Great Gatsby and feel dramatic now—but it was heartbreaking because I realized that I closed off those thoughts of doing something I wanted to do now too. I mean, I wanted to write a novel. I wanted to do something with books—what, I don't know. But right then, I heard my own thoughts come to life as Kat described getting ready for a job in social media for a start-up. She was happy, and I was happy for her, excited even because she's been here for a year and started to worry.
So why was this upsetting?
I think I've grown ashamed of my idealism. Yes, I want to write and publish stories. I want to write for a living—writing what, exactly, I keep saying I'm a little vague on—but I know I'm happiest when I write. I know that reading something passionate or romantic or funny or sad got me through so many things, and that I always knew that I wanted to be a voice to someone when I grew up.
When I just graduated or told people I was graduating, I always got people asking me what degree I had and what I planned to do afterwards, and I always gave them a big fat scowl or a smarmy remark to tide them over. But Life, that sassy maven, is telling me that I actually have to answer that question now. And I guess I should also admit that people aren't out to get me when they ask that.
So, yes, I want to write. I want to be a humorist essayist. I want to write a novel. I want to support myself doing something I actually want to do for a living, and yes, it sounds idealist and I might look back years later and scoff at Past Georgette and her naivete.
And maybe it won't work out and maybe I'll realize later that I wasted my younger years not laying down a good foundation for my future me to really bank on, but we can blame the economy or global warming or Twilight.
Besides, this really shouldn't be worrying now. I'm happy right now. I'm trying to do something I love right now. And I'm living in a city with tons of opportunity, and I don't have to worry about panic attacks while driving because I don't have to drive.
So maybe, I expect a little more from myself and have optimistic views of what's out there for me, but sometimes good things happen, something surprising things happen.
Just look at that girl Ryan Gosling pulled out of the audience on Conan. She got an interview.
And I have one tomorrow.