In an alternate reality, I was too anxious to send this email and also I thought of a shorter subject line.
Musings on writing and living with Vanity Fair's Delia Cai
When I first saw a tweet from today’s guest, Delia Cai, I felt seen. I don’t even remember what it said anymore, but I remember it showed me that I was not alone, and what greater gift could there be besides that?
Then I saw the description for her forthcoming book, and I thought I’d stepped into a parallel universe because (check the above tweet for some uncanny resemblance) my mom is from small-town Illinois and once brought home my white, New Yorker father to meet her Chinese immigrant parents at Christmas so, (luckily) minus the cracks in the relationship, this is a story I know but have never seen told outside of my own experience. And oh how meaningful it is to see stories that see you. It reminds you you’re alive.
This is something much of Delia’s work does. A staff writer for Vanity Fair, she’s written about everything from internet algorithms to celebrities to Squid Game and she’s also the blueprint for cool, hip media newsletters, IMO.
Basically, I’m freaking out that she’s right here inside my very own newsletter.
So, of course, today we are talking about alternate realities, writing, and ~existing~.
Let’s. Get. To it.
Hi. I think you’re really cool. I also think it’s really cool to see Asian women doing awesome (and important) things! Something you wrote for your newsletter Deez Links really resonated with me (a lot of what you write resonates with me, but this in particular):
“For my whole life, the compulsion to make shit—primarily, to write—stemmed from a childhood preoccupied with the fear of obliteration, with the belief that if I didn’t carefully document of all the thoughts and feelings and filaments of my interior somewhere, anywhere—in a Harry Potter-themed planner, on the inside flap of a biology textbook, on the back of my hand—then there would otherwise be no proof that I existed at all.”
That deep-in-your-gut urge — one that I almost feel I have no control over sometimes — that arises when I have a thought or see or think something that I need to write down almost always ties back to a fear I have that I won’t be understood or that I will never have a new idea again or that, like you said, if my being is not distilled into a few poetic words, there will never be any proof that I ever existed. Where is a place or space (physical or non-physical) where you feel you’ve been able to make your existence known, seen, heard and why do you think it is important to show that we exist?
Like most people during the pandemic, my relationship with my home has changed quite a lot. I moved into my current apartment during the summer of 2020, and it was my first time living alone. It's this tiny one-bedroom that barely clocks in at 150 sq feet. I didn't really know how to "decorate" it when I first moved in, outside of the mid-20s impulse to tape up clippings and throw all my books on the bookshelf indiscriminately (the best part of the apartment is this huge set of wall-mounted shelves the previous tenant left behind). I just wanted to fill the space, you know? In a perfect, non-COVID world, I wouldn't be too fussed about having my place look "nice" because I'd barely be home, or I'd try to make it cute in service to all the guests I imagined I'd have over. A sense of "curation" was like the last thing on my mind.
But now I've spent the past two years conducting a pretty solitary life — I'm a writer, I work from home, I don't live with anyone else. I really spend most of my time living in my head. Sometimes it's dreamy, oftentimes it's very isolating. I think it makes me lose touch with reality a little, in that the whole world sometimes feels like it's shrinking down and there isn't anything left except the internet and these damn 150 square feet. So I've started to be very conscious about the items I leave around the apartment, or the way I arrange my books, for example, as these physical reminders not only of the outside world but also of my own life. Is it weird to have to remind yourself of your life? I'm kind of self conscious about it, like when I do have people over, I wonder if they look at some of the stuff I've put up and think I'm extremely vain or weird. It's a little embarrassing to have like, a single mention of my name in a newspaper from 5 years ago framed up, or to have a drawing some student did of me once when I was walking through Washington Square Park in my room. It's weird to have a sketch of yourself displayed, right? But I remember feeling really touched when that student gave me their drawing. That was a day when I felt more unmoored than usual, so it was a shock to even be reminded that someone would see me like that. So I guess the way I arrange my apartment is the best outlet I have for leaving "evidence" of my existence to myself. There is a huge chance it's all just vanity, though.
What is the coolest thing you’ve learned about yourself through writing?
This is a nice question because usually the writing experience is a humbling one that reminds me of just how few words (or ideas) I think i really have, ha. I guess one cool thing I've learned about myself is that I've become less of a perfectionist. I used to spend a lot of time staring at a blank document and agonizing over why the right combination of words wouldn't magically come to me. Now, in the interest of deadlines and the kind of pragmatism it requires, I've realized it's much easier to just begin by writing a totally horrific stream-of-thought draft first. It's almost fun to do this part, to see how "bad" it can be. I've noticed that I end up rewriting most of it, but that first shit draft helps me get the basic shape of what I'm thinking down. And then it only gets easier from there, because then it's just a matter of sculpting each sentence into place, but you've got the starting material already.
Do you have any advice for people who want to write more? Or write more like themself? Or who just want to remember they exist?
Not to be one of those people, but I've kept a journal semi-regularly since my middle school days, and I think that's probably single-handedly responsible for keeping any semblance of self intact. A few years ago, I got introduced to the "morning pages" concept from Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way," and I regret to inform you that, to be honest, it works. One thing I've also added to my journaling routine is that, at the end of each month, I go back and reread the entire month of entries. It puts a lot of things in perspective, and it also helps me notice recurring themes or anxieties or even specific writerly flourishes I might be getting into. By the way, "The Artist's Way" is honestly properly rated. It's this creativity self-help book that has a bit of a cult following, and you can be a real purist about it and go through the 12-week "course" if you want, but I just loved reading it because it approaches creativity as something akin to "play time." Our culture has yoked creativity with productivity so closely that I think it puts this enormous pressure on us to SUCCEED IMMEDIATELY or at least turn whatever creative endeavor into a money-making measure. The whole point of "The Artist's Way" is rewiring your thinking around any kind of creative endeavor as the equivalent of like, allowing your inner child to mess around in a sandbox for an hour. You wouldn't fault a little kid for not making a perfect sandcastle, right? If they're having fun, that's all it matters. If you want to write more, I think you have to see it as a way of tending to your little child. Give them lots of play time, with no agenda. If you're only in it for external validation, it's never not going to be miserable.
Finally, what is a question you wish you could ask your mom, or someone else in your life?
Both of my parents are immigrants; they came over to the U.S. for graduate school in the '90s. I love the life they've built for themselves here, but I also spend a lot of time wondering what it would have been like if my parents didn't leave China. This one decision to move countries totally redefined their lives — and mine. I wish I could ask my mom if she ever thinks about the alternate universe where she and my dad stayed in China. Does she let herself think about that? It's the side of the immigrant tale our culture doesn't really address, because of course then it would call into question the whole idea of America as "the beautiful country." I don't necessarily think my parents regret their decision, but I wonder if we'll ever get to a place in our relationship where we can muse honestly about the very real tradeoffs that happened.
Letter to a Loved One
Write with me?