Pink Clouds and Sunshine

Really. I hope you read this, Mr. Cain. I hope you read this and feel bad about the inconsiderate comments you made regarding people who are poor and unemployed.

“If you don’t have a job and you’re not rich, blame yourself.”

Thanks, Mr. Cain. On top of everything else that recent college graduates are going through (crippling debt, having to move back home, working three crappy jobs for which they’re way overqualified instead of the one job they actually dream of having–just so they can afford gas and monthly payments on their loans), we’re supposed to sit here and drown in self-blame because of the lack of opportunity?

Where did this lack of opportunity come from? Where did all the jobs go? Why are the companies for which we want to work suddenly having to cut positions, cut pay, cut benefits, and not offer jobs to bright, young, motivated people who want to bring everything they’ve got to the table?

Mr. Cain, I’m 22 years old. I spent 17 of those 22 years in school, focusing on my studies, my grades, my extracurriculars, my internships. I started working summer jobs when I was 14 years old. I did everything right.

But basically, I’m still just a kid. So how is it my fault that there aren’t any jobs for me? How can I possibly blame myself for the lack of opportunity? Up until now–since I’ve graduated college with two majors and done some graduate work–I haven’t been qualified to make ANY contributions to society, positive or negative.

How can I sit here and “blame myself” for the fact that I’m now smart and qualified and motivated and excited about making a difference, doing something purposeful, and being successful, yet I’m sitting at home unemployed and in debt up to my forehead, while applying for every job I can find and never having any success?

Are you saying it’s my fault that I’m the next generation? It’s my fault that I spent a lot of money on an excellent education? It’s my fault that while I was growing up, people in YOUR generation were screwing up the economy, the job market, the national debt, and the tax situation?

Thanks a whole heck of a lot for those comments Mr. Cain. Thanks for making me and my fellow college grads (there are a ton of us) feel like poor, unemployed failures (because, as you stated, your quantification of failure is a person who is poor and unemployed). Sure, most of us didn’t study economics, politics, or accounting in college and therefore, we don’t really understand all the problems our country is facing right now. But we do know that we’re qualified for work, whatever problems the country is facing are preventing us from working, and we were playing on the playground, learning multiplication tables, and going to college football games while these problems were being created, SO IT WASN’T OUR FAULT.

I’m not saying that the world owes us anything. We came into this knowing it wouldn’t be easy, knowing we’d have to work REALLY hard to get what we want, live the dream, all that good stuff. But we ARE working hard. We’re trying to push through the walls that are being put up in front of us. We’re trying to stay positive. But the state of things right now isn’t letting us continue to move forward.

It’s bad enough that we’re stuck with college debt and no income and seemingly immovable obstacles keeping us from our dreams. Don’t add the burden of guilt and self-blame to already emotionally overtaxed recent college graduates who only wanted to pursue their passions.

Also, if you are elected next November (God forbid you make it that far), I’m going to write you daily letters about how much I don’t like you.

The end.

First of all, let me say that I am endlessly grateful to all the friends/family members/semi-strangers from Twitter who have sent me links to interesting companies and interesting job postings to add to my “to apply for” list. There are SO MANY places with jobs I could do, and sometimes it seems impossible for one person to find all of them. With a little help, I’m pretty sure I’m going to. And I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. But there’s a sense of accomplishment that comes with hitting the “SEND” button on a job application. And it gives a person another thing to be excited about when they wake up the next morning. I’ve applied to some REALLY cool (albeit far-fetched) jobs, and it’s fun to spend the day thinking about what I’d say over the phone if someone from any one of the zillion and a half places I’ve applied called me.

Then the day drags on, I write a few more cover letters, I hit SEND a few more times, and my spirits drop every time my phone rings and–after running to it and picking it up with shaky hands, hoping to see an unfamiliar phone number on the screen–it’s only my dad, calling to ask what we should cook for dinner.

And then, all of a sudden, it’s 5:00. The time of day I dread and despise. Does anyone remember the song “Five O’Clock World” by The Vogues? It’s from 1966, and it was the theme song for the Drew Carey Show. It’s the very antithesis to the statement you’re about to read about 5:00pm.

When you aren’t working, 5:00pm is the WORST time of day.

And as the week progresses, watching the clock strike 5:00 gets harder and harder. Because 5:00 means it’s the end of the workday. And it means that you have to wait another 14 hours before a prospective employer could be at his or her desk, your resume in hand, dialing your phone number to ask for an interview.

Inevitably, after four days of moderately horrid 5pm freakouts, it’s eventually 5:00pm on Friday. The worst hour of the worst day of the week. While members of the employed population are rejoicing over margaritas–or whatever employed people do to celebrate the end of the workweek–I am sleeping. That’s right. It’s gotten so frustrating to watch another workweek come to an end with nary a phone call that I’ve taken to plopping down wherever (a chair, the floor, whatever place is closest to me) at about quarter till five, and sleeping until 5:15, just so I don’t have to watch 4:59 change into 5:00 and know that all my prospective employers are going home for the weekend and very pointedly leaving my resume and all thoughts of me, at work.

Who knew that being on the job hunt could completely change my feelings for a time of day that I’ve LIVED for for most of my life (along with just about everybody else on the planet)? Five pm and Friday have become such dreaded things that I’m ready to boycott any song about 5:00 and any song about Friday. And the funny thing about that, is the longer you think about it, the more you start realize just how many songs there are about them. And the more you start to realize that none of them are written from the perspective of someone who, at least at the moment, isn’t too fond of them.

I can’t wait to have a job!

Finally. A post. With some humor.

1. Things could be a lot worse. Yes. Granted, I wouldn’t wish the feeling of not being needed in the world (you think I’m being dramatic, but you try spending eight weeks applying for jobs and not receiving calls on A SINGLE ONE OF THEM, and then see if you feel like the world’s most in-demand person) on my worst enemy. And I wouldn’t wish moving back home after four years at Michigan State University on anybody, either. But, like I said, there are bigger problems and I have worlds of admiration for a couple of friends of mine who can get themselves out of bed every morning and take on those problems. They’re teaching me a lesson or two, that’s for sure.

2. Cats aren’t that bad. The term “cat lady” bothers me for so many reasons. I know a lot of women (some my own age) who embrace the term, and that’s cool. But when people tell me I’m going to become a cat lady, I’m offended. Because to me, that seems like they’re trying to tell me—as gently as possible—that I’m never going to meet the love of my life. When they tack the word “crazy” onto “cat lady,” that only makes it worse. So I used to tell people that I hated cats, just to make them stop. But our next door neighbor has a cat who spends about half of his waking hours in OUR house (we’re still trying to make sense of this one), and he’s been a great companion while I’m alone all day applying for jobs. This doesn’t mean I’ll become a cat lady…but I can’t hold it in anymore: I don’t hate cats.

This is Freddie. He really is cute.

3. Leggings still aren’t an acceptable replacement for pants. Okay, okay. So I wear them when I’m at home by myself and all my other pants are in the laundry (like today, for example). But then I made the mistake of LEAVING THE HOUSE in them. Knowing full well that they have a hole in them, too. I figured it was fine, since all I was doing was running over to the school to pick my brother up from cross country practice. I’d just wait for him in the parking lot and NOT EXIT THE CAR. But of course today was the day the coach called me over to talk about a knee injury my brother is complaining about. And then I was dragged into the school to say hi to a high school friend-turned-teacher. So there was tacky, unemployed me, in my leggings, a sweatshirt I’ve had since 2004, and Birkenstock clogs with socks (oh yes), wearing a hipster-style knitted hat because I didn’t do anything with my hair today, standing in front of a friend who has her dream job—and a GREAT wardrobe—trying to make conversation without sounding like a complete hack, even though my choice in clothing clearly screamed, “THIS GIRL IS A COMPLETE HACK.” I’m never wearing leggings again.

4. Saturday Night Live fixes everything. This show has become my lullaby. Every night, instead of lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling thinking about the thirty jobs I’ve applied to, I watch Saturday Night Live—and silently giggle like crazy—until I fall asleep. And to the sweet sound of “Weekend Update with Seth Meyers,” (and gazing into Seth Meyers beautiful blue eyes as he says funny things–really. He’s a writer. How could I NOT have a crush on him?) things seem a little bit better.

I love this man.

5. The cute boys who work at Costco are not interested in anything but helping you find the boxes of grapefruit that were misplaced when they, inevitably, re-arranged the store since the last time you were there. No matter how many times you smile at them, how many funny things you say, or how nice you think you look that day, they will NOT flirt back. Ever.

6. A near-empty bank account actually goes a long way when your parents don’t charge you rent or demand that you pay for the large dent you make in their refrigerator and pantry. Seriously, I’m livin’ large after years of eating dorm food, Noodles & Co., or microwaveable veggie burgers. Granted, instead of paying rent or buying food, I DO have to contribute to cooking. But thank goodness for mom and dad.

I even made homemade Pad Thai without setting the house on fire or chopping off any of my limbs.

7. Life after college will never, ever, ever be just like college. So wishing for things to go back to the way they were when the only thing I had to worry about was homework, next weekend’s football game, and whether we could get away with not paying cover at the bar, is a waste of time…and a waste of tears (because yes, quite a few have been shed over this realization).

8. Writing cover letters never becomes a streamlined process. Don’t listen to people who tell you they can crank them out like a factory cranks out Ford Fiestas. Every cover letter is different, and every one must be perfect. For that reason, writing one will always be just as difficult as writing any other.

My cover letter file. Filled with files. Whose names are blacked out so you can't see all the jobs I've applied for and not gotten.

9. Persistence.

10. Patience.

11. That thing that they make recovering alcoholics say. You know the one: “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.” I’m not an alcoholic, but sometimes I can be a persistent worrier, a complete spazz, a bit of a wuss, or any combination of the three, so this is a great mantra to live by.

Anyway. Now everyone can stop asking what I’m up to. Because basically, I’m learning lessons every day.

And Ottawa Lake is boring, so if you know of a way to get me out of here (i.e. job opportunities in publishing, journalism, communications, creative marketing, writing, editing, or anything related to putting words on paper) or if you just want to hang out with me (I promise I won’t talk about being unemployed) or if you want to tackle the Toledo bars with me (I’ve never been and would really like to experience them), get at me at devonebarrett@gmail.com, @devonbarrett on Twitter, or in the comments. I’ll love you forever.

Facts about being a writer: 

1. During any given year, there are 2 million (that’s 2,000,000: a lot of zeros) people writing something that they think is worthy of being published.

2. By the end of that year, only 200,000 of those things will actually BE published.

3. So, in any given year, 1.8 million writers–or people who call themselves writers, regardless of whether they actually are–hopes and dreams of being published are dashed upon the rocks of despair.

4. Those writers who are lucky enough to be published are known to have worked on their projects for years, have probably queried 20 or more agents.

5. Those writers who are lucky enough to have found an agent (who dug their work from the bottom of the 1.8 million manuscript deep pile of crap) sometimes wait months while their agent solicits to all six major publishing companies and God only knows how many smaller companies before they find the right editor.

6. Editors are known to initally send twenty-five page, single spaced editorial critiques to an author whose work they’ve just read.

7. The author may or may not go through months and months and months of revisions before the work is fit to be published. Most do.

8. Romance sells.

Facts about being a publishing professional:

1. Editors work a lot. Days, nights, weekends.

2. Some authors are such terrible writers that their work needs a LOT of help once it makes it into the hands of an editor.

3. Marketers in the publishing industry sometimes have to go to great lengths to convince the public to read a particular book. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

4. Some publishers regret turning down certain books because another publisher picks them up and turns them into bestsellers.

5. Sometimes writers drive editors crazy.

6. Romance sells.

So what?

Yesterday, I received my first rejection letter from a literary agent. I allowed myself an hour of wallowing in self-pity about how my novel was no different from the other 1.8 million pieces of crap that will never ever be published. It “wasn’t what the agency was looking for at this time.”

This morning, I had a meeting with the director of the Denver Publishing Institute. After she offered to find a few contacts for me that could potentially help me get a paying job, I told her that all I really wanted to do with my life was write (granted, I need a paying job, too, but, like most, I have one REAL passion, and that is writing).

“This isn’t a writing course,” she said, eyebrows raised.

I know that, obviously, having spent a month here being taught by some of the greatest publishing professionals in the country. In all it’s NON-writing course glory, it’s been completely invaluable. I can’t imagine entering the publishing industry without knowing the things I know now: things about how difficult it is to project the success of an unestablished writer’s work, guide the writer through the process that makes their book sellable, convince thousands of people to read a book and buy enough copies of it to make it a bestseller, and then push a really terrific author past the writers block so they can write a sequel.

But I also can’t imagine tackling the process of getting my book published without knowing what I know now. Because even though this isn’t a writing course, I know that the book publishing industry wouldn’t exist without people like me, who need to write like they need to breathe. Editors can say what they want about “that crazy author who cried when I suggested she change paragraph four on page three hundred twenty five.” They can say that dealing with us is like dealing with a petulant child and that we foolishly treat our manuscripts like a best friend that we will defend to the death.

Without writers, editors wouldn’t have a job and the point of the Publishing Institute would be completely moot.

And without editors, marketers, and publicists, poor, starving, homeless writers would be forced to xerox their typo-ridden manuscripts and peddle them to the masses from the baskets of their rusty bicycles.

So yes, agents, editors, and publishing professionals: you DO want my book. You might not know it right now. You might spend a few minutes of your day writing me a rejection letter that, despite its cold, genericness, tells me my work isn’t what you’re looking for at the moment. But to put it simply, you need me as much as I need you. And I’m really excited for the day someone finally figures that out.

A/N: What am I up to now? The Publishing Institute wraps up tomorrow morning. I’ll be flying back to Ottawa Lake this weekend as a real-life unemployed person and the prospect is both horrifying and exhilarating. Starting Monday, my manuscript and I will both be hunting for our place in the publishing industry–me as a publishing professional who wants nothing more than to make writers dreams come true, and my manuscript as a future bestselling Chick Lit novel with lovable characters and a plot that makes you wish your life were that exciting.

This Publishing Institute is no joke. Aside from the altitude and constant dehydratedness (WordPress is telling me that isn’t a word, but WordPress clearly hasn’t spent any time in Denver in the summer and, despite consuming 239847234 gallons of water per day, still felt exhausted and thirsty), it’s seven-ish hours a day worth of information being thrown at us from all directions.

On Monday we heard from editors who are responsible for the editorial work on more than a few famous authors’ books, and also from an author who spent 15 years working on his book before he sent it off for publication and landed on the bestseller list. On Tuesday we heard from a literary agent. On Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday we heard from freelance editors who know EVERYTHING there is to know about all things editing, and later on Friday, after our brains were all effectively fried, we did a copyediting workshop that, in true copyediting fashion, got everyone all fired up (because grammar and usage, as anybody involved with #msupw and #wra360 remembers, is touchy).

In between all of that, we’ve had homework assignments and TONS of things to think about. Like the fact that four editors who’ve made it in the business have all said that being in New York is necessary (there goes my life plans). And the fact that getting where they are right now takes years and years of perseverance and paychecks the size of peanuts (not good for indebted recent college grads). And the fact that a lot of editors are workaholics (in the best possible way…but all the same) and I’m afraid I’m not good enough for a job like that. And the fact that I’m 1,228 miles away from home and Mom and it’s really taking its toll on me.

I adore Denver. My five-year love affair with this place hasn’t changed, and I couldn’t be happier to be here for three more weeks.

But I find myself, in moments of severe distress–of which I’ve had quite a few–wondering why the heck I was so excited to get a move-on with my life.

I remember those nights, back in the gray, gray misery of February in East Lansing (trust me, it’s miserable), in my room in our bat-ridden basement apartment. The wind would be piling the snow against the red Chevy Blazer that lived in the alleyway between my bedroom window and the house next door. Cold would be coming through the blinds that I kept closed against the winter (out of sight, out of mind, right?) I would sit on my bed with a blanket and a cup of tea, listening to radio feeds of hockey games online while I typed furiously on my novel, intermittently conversing with my roommates about ridiculous things and distracting one another from our homework.

The hockey game would come to an end–a loss if I were listening to an Avalanche game, a win if it were the Red Wings–and I would start to lose focus on my writing but not feel like going to sleep just yet. I’d wander into a roommates room and we’d whine about having to wake up and walk 30 minutes to class in the frigid, miserable cold the next morning. Sometimes we’d urge the weekend to come faster. Spring to come faster. Graduation to come faster. Life to come faster. Just because we were tired of East Lansing winter, homework assignments, and the drudgery of college.

Little did I know that five months later, I would be sitting in a dorm room in Denver, Colorado, learning everything there is to know about the field I’m about to enter, and longing to have those nights in February back, when I knew that the next morning, even the next month, for that matter, I would wake up and walk in the frigid cold to class, come home, curl up with a blanket, and listen to hockey on the radio while worrying solely about writing the next chapter in my book, rather than writing the next chapter in my life.

Because let me tell you, I am way better at moving characters around on a page than I am at moving myself around on this big, fat, horrifying canvas of uncertainty that has suddenly appeared in front of me.

I thought I knew exactly what I wanted…but now, I’m just not so sure that’s going to be an option.

When I moved into West Holmes Hall on campus at Michigan State University nearly four years ago, my roommate (who I met for the first time the very day we moved in and who I ended up living with for three years–randomly assigned roommate success story, for sure) and I were the lucky ones whose room was right across the hall from the RA. Not that it bothered us. My roommate and I were well-behaved. We studied a lot, spent a lot of time away from the dorm, and were only involved in a floor-wide shenanigan once.

Yet, having the mentor across the hall proved to be a valuable experience. Sure, there were moments when we wished we could laugh loudly or slam a door without her peeking from her doorway and asking us what we were up to. But there’s one little nugget of wisdom she had for us the minute our parents left us to figure out college on our own. It was a silly little nugget, I thought it was silly the day she told us to do it, and I surely never thought I’d do it again after “Welcome Week” of 2007.

“Leave your dorm room door open when you’re in the room.” She told us, “it encourages people to stop by and say hello.”

Typical first-week-of college advice that you’ll forget about and never use again, right?

I’m 22 years old. I have a college degree. And I’m on a pretty wonderful adventure right now. And I used the advice yesterday.

I’m in Denver for this fabulous publishing program (I’ve blogged about it. Many times. And about Denver. In case you forgot). I flew in yesterday, arrived on site at about 6:00pm, and was surprised and terrified to find that there was NOBODY around. Not a soul, save for the front desk people.

I went up to my floor. Empty. Down the hall. Empty. I walked into my room and set set my suitcases down, peered into the kitchen of the apartment-style suite I’m staying in. It connects my room to another room. But there wasn’t a suitemate in sight.

Had everybody already arrived, settled in, and gone out to dinner without me?

Was everybody really shy and quiet and not interested in keeping my lonely self company?

I looked around the room I’m going to call home for the next month and started feeling the flutters of homesickness creep into my stomach. Homesick. After five minutes in my dream city (I really love Denver. But you already knew that).

I was about to call my mom. It felt like my first few days of college, all over again. Which isn’t allowed when you’re 22 and searching for a job and ready to move away from home and have your own life.

And then, out of nowhere, something I haven’t thought of in years, but suddenly recalled in the similarity of the circumstances: ”Leave your dorm room door open when you’re in the room…it encourages people to stop by and say hello.”

I opened my door. I propped it with my suitcase. And it was barely open for five minutes when a group of girls walked past. They stopped in the doorway for a flurry of introductions. Introductions turned into dinner invitations. Dinner turned into grocery shopping. Grocery shopping, of course, turned into hilarity. Lonely was gone. Homesick was gone. And it’s safe to say that friends were made.

And I didn’t really think about it until later, when we’d all retreated to our rooms to put away groceries and settle in for the night, that I’d used an old freshman-year trick in my now grownup life.

I’m telepathically thanking my freshman-year RA (wherever she is and whatever she’s doing).

–

Now, for me, it’s a month of living in the Denver area, listening to lectures from publishing gurus from around the country, and filling my brain with all sorts of wonderful book knowledge that will help me find a job. Or help me find a place to ship my manuscript.

Like school, it’s five days a week, but we’re free on weekends and I anticipate more than a few mountain-related adventures. Which, of course, I’ll have to write about (and photograph) at length.

Stay tuned.

To read about my past adventures in the Mountainous Wonderland of Colorado, feel free to enjoy my nine-part series of Colorado travels from December 2010. Back when I came out here by myself for five days of book-research and generally doing whatever the heck I wanted. Oh, and when John-Michael Liles still played for the Avalanche (not that I’m bitter about that or anything).

I was at the grocery store with my mom one day. We were in the checkout line and the cashier was scanning things and putting them in our reusable eco-friendly grocery bags and I was staring off into space, probably people watching as I have the tendency to do. My mom asked me a question, but I was so distracted that I didn’t answer. “DEVON!” She said, “did you hear me?” “Uhh, no,” I replied, snapping out of my reverie.

The cashier, a friendly chap with a boyish face (who, I should note, looked young), chuckled and said, “ohhh, teenagers,” to my mom.

I was confused for a second, before I realized that his patronizing use of “teenagers” was aimed at me.

I put my hands on my hips, raised an eyebrow, and gave him the evil eye. “Just how old do you think I am?”  I asked.

He had the good grace to look embarrassed, “um, probably not as old as you really are? How old are you?”

“Older than you.” I said. “That’s for sure.”

My mom was watching this whole exchange, quite amused.

“I’m 22.” I said, with a snarky, “top that” kind of tone. He couldn’t top it. He was only 20. But he didn’t appear embarrassed that he had mistaken me for a high-schooler. After thinking about it for awhile, I decided that I probably DID look like a teenager, because I was out shopping with my mom, rather than tackling the grownup task by myself.

In East Lansing, age is obvious. Although exact digits aren’t always clear, a large percentage of the population there is college-aged. Whether you’re at the grocery store or teetering around town in high heels on a bar night, you’re most likely somewhere between the ages of 18 and 23.

But back here, under Mom and Dad’s roof (where I’ve been for the past four days, since I moved my life out of East Lansing for the last time), I am twelve again.

Right down to the twelve-year-old brother who knows exactly what to do and what to say to irritate the crap out of me (and make me retaliate in an equally twelve-year-old way and inspire my mom to frequently say in frustration, “I’M FORGETTING WHO THE YOUNGER CHILD IS RIGHT NOW!”)

Right down to getting yelled at about leaving the peanut butter jar open on the kitchen counter, leaving my towel on the bathroom floor, putting dishes in the dishwasher the wrong way: all those things I spent my childhood being reprimanded for.

Right down to going to the grocery store and having boyish, weird cashiers think I’m a teenager. For that matter, going anywhere with my family and having people assume that I’m still a child, living at home.

Right down to my bedroom looking exactly like it did all through middle school and high school (just…with my empty booze-bottle collection and a third bookshelf unit full of all the textbooks I used through college and never got around to selling back). I have an inordinate amount of stuffed sheep on my bed, a bunny rabbit quilt draped over a chair, and a bookshelf full of young adult literature. It’s childish at best.

I’m not saying I want to grow up. Really. This is just fine. And I’m not saying I was offended by the grocery store cashier who (in a misguided attempt to flirt with me, my mom says) mistook me for a little girl. I just wonder when the day will finally arrive that people look at me as a real-life person and not a teenager, a college student, or someone still under the supervision of Mom and Dad. I also wonder if, when that day does arrive, I’ll get around to acting like it.

Because right now, going to pick a fight with my kid brother and leave the peanut butter jar open on the counter just to annoy my dad sounds like quite a bit of fun.

My car is 13 years old. It’s been in my possession since August of 2005. I’ve put more money in repairs than I did into the car itself when I bought it, but it’s been damn good to me for six years.

Now, though, it’s showing its age. The body is rusting off the frame. The exhaust system is leaking carbon monoxide into the interior (at least, I think that’s what that horrible exhaust smell is when I drive with all the windows closed). Something rattles every time the car idles.

For obvious reasons, I suddenly find myself forbidden from driving it 1,238.5 miles from Ottawa Lake to Denver when I head Out West 36 days from  now.

If I weren’t a recent college grad, mostly unemployed, and struggling trying to pay the pricey bill for Denver Publishing Institute, I’d be like, “no big deal. I’ll just rent a car to use for the month. Or I’ll just buy myself a new car.” Ha. Not the case.

This should be no big deal to me. I am endlessly grateful for my opportunity to go to my dream city and take part in a program that will, hopefully, result in a job. Car or no car, t’s going to be wonderful.

But I’m also a control freak. And the idea of not having a car REALLY bothers me. I’ve had a car since I was 16. It was the only way to have any freedom back in farm country where you can’t just wander down the sidewalk to your BFFs house in the next neighborhood over to hang out after school. Wherever I’ve gone, my car keys have been the one, comforting little charm in my back pocket. Because no matter what happens and no matter how far from home it might be happening, I’ve ALWAYS been able get in my car and drive away. I’ve been in control.

And I’ve discovered that driving is a cure-all. For whatever ails me. When I was applying for Denver Publishing Institute, I started thinking about everything that could go wrong. “What if I get homesick?” “What if I don’t make any friends?” “What if, what if, what if?!”

“Don’t be silly,” I told myself, “I’ll have my car out there.” Because a couple months ago, my plan was to drive. And somehow, that made me feel better.

As it always has. All through high school, all through college. Being able to come and go as I please. Have a problem? Get in the car and drive until I find a distraction.

Now, five weeks out, that’s not an option. I’ll be trapped. I mean, I’ll be in my dream city with my dream-view of the Rocky Mountains, but I’ll be trapped. No hopping in the car to drive off campus in search of a grocery store. No quick trips to Red Rocks for a run on the paved trails after a day of classes. No drives into Downtown Denver on a whim. No cruising around with the windows open, talking to my mom on the phone, telling her about my adventures. No going to the mountains.

Without my car, I lose control. I have no say over where I go, when I go, and how I get there.

I’ve been throwing a semi-temper tantrum about this for a few days. But now, the logical, grownup person that exists somewhere in my fantasy land where I have control over everything and the clouds are pink and it’s sunny all the time and there are butterflies and flowers everywhere, is saying that instead of looking at this as a setback (or a hideous injustice), I should look at it as a challenge.

A challenge that involves 20 mile bike rides to the foothills down the Platte River Trail (I researched it. Apparently you can get from downtown Denver to Morrison with it, but it’s a 20 mile journey), getting over my unreasonable fear and confusion of public transportation (this lightrail thing is kind of interesting, I guess), and reminding myself that I AM going to make friends. Who might have cars. And might be just as in love with the mountains as I am.

I wanted an adventure. Strangely, without a car, I have a feeling it’s going to be way more of an adventure than I planned. Maybe that’s not a bad thing.

If you happen to be selling a car, or if someone you know happens to be selling a car, let me know. I have come to terms with not being able to drive my car to Denver, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not still desperately looking for a new car to replace it.

I took some pictures...

When I was ten years old, in fifth grade, my dad brought me up here to MSU for my first-ever college football game. It was against Ohio State and I don’t remember too much from it, other than that I took a lot of pictures of the marching band, TJ Duckett’s name was used by the announcers more than a couple times, and we won.

But there is one thing I remember very distinctly. I remember walking into Spartan Stadium, holding my dad’s hand so I didn’t get lost in the crowd. I remember being in the shadow of the MSC smokestack near the student entrance and I remember asking him two questions.

The first was who all the young people were, running through the southeast gates. “Those are the students, Devon,” he answered patiently. “I used to do that when I was a student here.”

“I’m gonna do that, too, dad.” I said, “I’m gonna go to Michigan State and go to football games and you can come with me.”

“You won’t want your old dad with you at football games once you’re in college,” he replied. That conversation will always stick in my head because it was the moment I decided that MSU was going to be my place just like it was my dad’s and my grandpa’s and my great grandpa’s before me.

Another thing I remember asking, as I craned my neck to look to the top of the big, red brick smokestack next to the stadium, was what “MSC” meant.

“MSU used to be called Michigan State College,” my dad said. “Way back before I went to school here.”

His answer didn’t really mean much to me back then. But now, after it has loomed over my own four years here, I’ve realized that it’s something that at least three generations of people in my family have walked under (I think it was constructed after my great-grandpa was finished here, but I’m not sure) as they traversed the ever-changing campus. All sorts of things have changed, but the MSC smokestack is a piece of MSU that my dad, my grandpa, and I will all be able to say we remember passing on our way to class.

It’s being torn down this summer. The first bricks are scheduled to fall sometime in the next week or so. And all I can wonder is how weird the skyline of MSU is going to look without it, how strange it’s going to be to not have it peering over the top rim of the Stadium on football Saturdays.  I wonder what it’s going to be like to stand at the student entrance in the early hours of the morning before a game and not have the shadow of the smokestack appear with the sunrise. I wonder what the view will be from the new addition to Wells Hall after the smokestack is no longer standing prominently in front of it.

Mostly, I wonder what they’re going to do with the bricks. Where are those iconic white “MSC” bricks going to go when they carefully save them from the demolition?

Where are the rest of the red bricks going to go? Can I have one? Can I walk past the construction site and politely ask a construction worker for one to keep as a souvenir? Can I take one for my dad and my grandpa, too, so that they have pieces of that one building that all three of our MSU experiences, separated by half a century, have in common?

RIP MSC Smokestack. A lot of Spartans are going to miss you.

Hello. Welcome to your the first of what will undoubtedly be a long line of posts about #grownupproblems. Feel free to provide advice, commiserate, or just laugh at how ridiculously unsure I appear to be about what to do with myself now that college is over.

—–

I keep using the term “Real Person” to describe whatever the heck we all are now that we’ve graduated from college and can no longer call ourselves “Students.”

You know, that wonderful label. The checkbox on forms that says, “please describe yourself” and one of the categories is always “student.” Or the price rates for museums and amusement parks, that say “admission: 5:00″ “child: FREE” “student or senior: $3.00″, what’s in between? Who are those people who don’t get any cool discounts? “Real People,” of course.

I suppose we could call ourselves “professionals,” couldn’t we? Some of us (and the collective “us” is referring to classmates and friends I know of who are diving into Real Person jobs this week) are about to be professionals. Communications professionals. PR professionals. Marketing professionals. Professional editors. Professional Writers (I will always, as long as I live, capitalize the “w” on Writer when referring to Professional Writers).

Does that mean that when I introduce myself to you, I can officially say, “Hello, my name is Devon, and I’m a writer.” Because, ideally, that is what I intend to do with my life. And I intend to make a living at it. So I should be able to introduce myself as such.

Because that’s what Real People do.

What else do Real People do? I’m interested to know.

Because it’s so weird to not have homework. To not have to go home from work, look at a syllabus, and make sure I have everything done for tomorrow. I took classes last summer, so this is the first time in WAY over a year that I haven’t had some professor telling me what to do. And, save for a month of publishing workshops at the end of summer, I am done with lecture halls and assigned reading.

So what now, during this purgatory between graduation and my long-awaited adventure to dreamy mountainous paradise?

I mean, I’ll work 8-5 every day (being a Professional Intern…because I already graduated, but am sticking around the place where I did my internship).

But what then? Sleep? Read? Watch the Stanley Cup Playoffs? Go to the bar with my friends? Wander around East Lansing aimlessly? Try not to spend money but find myself inevitably doing so because I want an iPod so bad I can taste it (mmm…iPod)?

It’s odd to think that I can do all those things without feeling guilty (well, except the iPod thing. I will undoubtedly have money guilt after I buy it. But I’ve worked hard for four years. I need…nay…deserve it). I no longer have to be constantly thinking I should be doing something else. Something productive. It looks like now, here in the Real World, as a Real Person, the productivity happens from 8-5. After that…well…I can just do whatever the heck I want.

Because that’s what Real People do.

In reality, I will be working on revisions (and an ending that isn’t a cliffhanger) to my novel and starting test chapters of my next book, the idea for which came into my head yesterday and is already starting to grow into something I’m super excited about. I’ll undoubtedly be glued to the Stanley Cup Playoffs while I write, though. Because, well, that’s what romance novelists/hockey enthusiasts do when they no longer have homework.