Morgan Jerkins

Hi friends and subscribers,

I have created a tinyletter and I’d love for you to subscribe: http://tinyletter.com/MorganJerkins

I’ve seen plenty of my colleagues and twitter followers use TinyLetter and so I thought, why not give it a try? If it works, great. If it doesn’t, hey, I’m just experimenting with different forms of writing. So this means for right now, my Tumblr page will be inactive.

In “Meraki”, I’ll be writing about NYC living, publishing & freelancing, the lit world, dating & relationships, black girl ruminations, and other miscellaneous stuff.

Catch you on the other side.

Hi friends!

I hope you’re doing well. I know that I haven’t been keeping up with the blog as much as I should be and I hope you’ll forgive me for that. I have an excuse trust me. I’ve been revising my novel so if I’m not working then I’m trimming and splicing sentences, or reading aloud chapters. I know how to revise. For God’s sake, I’m a freelancer so I know how to revise. But for some reason, earlier this month, I was hit with a whole bunch of anxiety that I was not prepared for. I kept feeling like I was inadequate and I was making a big fool out of my self with this story. Although it was debilitating, those thoughts made me realize how important my work is to me. Thankfully, that negativity has receded but whoa, was I caught off guard.

What made me decide to write a blog post today was because I went to church this morning and I almost cried in the pew. The message was about seeking validation from other people or trying to force someone to see me when they are always going to be blind to me. This is exactly how I feel when it comes to dating. I don’t know how to relax and dial it back in the beginning. Once I like a guy, that’s it. I put all my cards and chips on the table and have no idea how to moderate myself. And 100% of the time, I end up feeling drained, unwanted, and to be honest, quite unloveable. But today, I reminded myself that I need to feel then release so hopefully this message will help someone out there too. You can never manipulate someone to see how great you are. The people who recognize that don’t need to be told by you. This is what I’m focusing on this Sunday before I take my nap. I can’t seek validation from men no matter how handsome or well-educated they are. I know in my heart that I’m worthy of the greatest love there is out there and I should be more protective of that faith by exorcizing anything or anyone in my life that does not nurture me. I know I can go above and beyond for someone I care about so why do I accept so little in return? It needs to end.

Last week, I treated myself to a 90-minute massage and a steam room session right in Koreatown. It may’ve been the first time since I’d been in New York that I’d done something solely and specifically for myself. And of course, I felt good. I reminded myself that I have friends and family who love me, I got my dream job, I got my writing, and the freelancing is going well. I’m doing fine and I’m doing myself no favors by beating myself up. I have to recognize my own greatness.

Deep down, I still think of myself as the awkward eighth grader who hated her looks, was teased, and never got the attention of any guy. I’m still burgeoning into the woman I am meant to be at 23 and beyond. It is difficult admitting that you don’t know what it’s like to be in a romantic relationship where you gave as much as you received. It’s difficult admitting that you fear that you’ll never have that. It’s difficult admitting that this anxiety shouldn’t be in your mind when you’re only twenty-freaking-three. But it exists and I’m acknowledging it. Now that I’m acknowledging it, I can expunge it.

Maybe I’ll write a letter of all my fears and then burn it. Or maybe I’ll store all the worries in my mouth and push them out in one long exhale, open the window, and allow them to fly elsewhere. I don’t know. But at least I’m being honest and open with myself and to you.

Until next time <3

I think I mentioned this last week but I felt like I was stuck in a professional rut and I wanted to push myself to write for bigger publications. Well, I reached my goal quicker than I thought. I was published in The New York Times this past Monday and I’m still in awe about it. The other day, I was flipping through one of my large notepads and inadvertently came across an old list of publications where I dreamt of being published. The Times was one of them. That list is getting smaller. The thing that I both admire and dislike about myself is that I don’t sit on any accomplishment for long. In my mind, I’m like, “there’s still work to be done”. There’s always work to be done. I’m just trying to be the best that I can be, the best writer that I can be. But I will admit, this past Monday, when I had some alone time on a train that was heading to White Plains (tutoring responsibilities), I smiled. You did good, Morgan. You really did and I’m proud of you. And frankly, I’m never proud of myself. My whole office congratulated me. The editor told me I got great feedback and yeah, that was awesome.

Over the weekend, I went to my first literary party. I felt like a middle schooler going to her first seventh grade dance. I have all these cocktail dresses in my closet and I was finally able to put one to good use. The party was held in the lower level of a midtown Manhattan hotel. There was complimentary beer and wine flowing all night. A photographer was around at every corner, snapping photos. The DJ was playing 80s hits and Robyn songs. I was nervous in the beginning because it felt like I was standing by myself while everyone was in groups. But luckily, that didn’t last for long. Someone recognized me--and also told me how much she’s read of my work. It’s kinda weird being recognized. It’s still kinda weird being read. The good news is that I was able to hide my blushing because of the dim lighting. I stayed until the end of the party which is something that I never do, as a die-hard introvert, which means that I had a hell of a good time. I made new acquaintances, hugged quite a few people who I knew from twitter, and exchanged contact information. It felt like my introduction into the literary scene. These were my kind of people.

The more I explore New York, the more I realize that I made the right decision coming here.

That’s all for now (because I’m tired)

Tonight I wanna talk about money. It might be cliché but then again it might not be. I’m going to try to make this essay encompass freelancing, adulting, and being in New York City. Ready? Here we go.

Let me say that I love New York City. I love that each neighborhood has its own distinct personality. I love how I can get any type of food or entertainment I want. And the amount it takes to live here is mitigated by the fact that I’m always meeting someone interesting. But with that being said, it’s expensive as hell. Every single day, I’m reminded about how much things cost and how every little thing seems like a luxury.

Every month I pay approximately $116 to have unlimited rides on the train. Now this may not seem like much if you compare it to how much I’d pay for a month’s worth of gas back in New Jersey but all at once, it can be overwhelming. Groceries can cost anywhere from $60-$100, the latter end is when I’m trying to nourish my body in a better way by cooking something more than TV dinners and ramen noodles. And rent. Oh rent. Rent, of course, is the biggest expense. Every day, I think about these three things: rent, metrocard, and groceries.

Every time I’m at work, I pack my own lunch: a ham and cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a small Welch’s fruit snack. The office fridge is always stocked with San Pellegrino, which is considered a small luxury for me. At home, my mom would get Perrier bottles by the crates because she knew I loved sparkling water so much. But I don’t do this for myself. Instead, I drink water that’s been filtered with Brita, put some ice chips in the cup, and do with that. Whenever I have a bottle of San Pellegrino or Perrier in my hands and I hear that first sizzle, it’s like magic. It makes me feel like I really earned it. I sometimes envy my co-workers who can go out for lunch every day, whether it’s for a Starbucks sandwich or for noodles at a nearby Japanese restaurant.

I still have a hamper bag full of clothes that need to be dry cleaned and I’m procrastinating on that because last time, my dry-cleaning costed a smooth $80. That $80 could’ve be for groceries. I have a library card now because buying books as a grad student is too expensive. As much as I want to fill my shelves to the brim and then some, this is an economically wiser choice.

And don’t get me started on dining with friends. The other weekend, one set of friends was all in town and we were out for drinks. I ordered an $11 glass of Dry Riesling. I didn’t want to be left out. The next day, another group of friends was in town and I could only stay for dinner not drinks, a club with a $20 cover charge, and a group activity that would’ve probably costed another $20.

I’m dating someone right now who works in finance and has an affinity for wines. As a perk, he gets $40 bottle of wines but he also has a profile at a local winery. Whenever I see him pour himself a glass or talk about rum, I stay quiet--astounded even. I want to be able to treat us to a $40 bottle of wine. Maybe even an entree of Paella Valenciana that costs $25 a plate. But I’m nervous. Feels so weird when you can see the differences between you and those you deeply care for.

And let me just say, I’m not destitute. But damn, would it be nice to purchase a dozen macaroons and not worry about how I could’ve used that money for necessities, like toilet paper or soap or sanitary napkins? Wouldn’t it be nice to buy a whole crate of Perrier bottles when I get a new byline because I earned it? Or maybe take a cooking class or go to a cheese tasting event? Y’know, live on the wild side.

That’s why when I get paid for freelancing, it helps to take the edge off. I don’t rely solely on this money but it helps for when I want self-care to be something that I can give to myself. Self-care for me is basically a nap and a warm blanket. Often times, “we” talk about self-care but not so much about how it can be commoditized. I like to treat myself with food. I want to try a nice tender steak with some shrimp or a lobster tail. I want tapas, a pitcher of Sangria, and crabmeat, lots of crabmeat.

I want to get a suite at the Mandarin Oriental just for one night and when it gets really dark, turn off all the room lights and let the lights from other buildings illuminate my bedroom. I dream about a St. Lucia getaway. I’m not struggling. I’m on my grind because I want to get to this place. And maybe as a 23-year-old, I should cut myself some slack. I don’t have any student loans, my credit card is always paid on time, and I have a huge support system from my family.

But there’s just something about getting a luxury, whether big or small, for yourself. When you hold that luxury in your hand, you feel powerful, not because you’re thinking about how others might esteem it but because you know that you imbued your work into said thing. The tangibility of it all, I suppose. Even if it’s for a short while.

Happy Sunday. I hope you’re enjoying the day even better than last Sunday since you most likely have off work tomorrow.

Where should I start about this past week?

Let me say that I feel like I have a properly-working body again. My sutures and stitches are beginning to dissolve. I don’t feel them as much as before. Now I can laugh as hardy as I want to without flinching and cradling myself and I can drink alcohol again since I’m done with my antibiotics and other medication. I’m usually not a person who regrets much if anything at all but I do have one: I should’ve taken a week off of work. I may have mentioned that in my last post but I regret not taking more of a breather. But the blessing in disguise is that I learned more about my limits, both psychologically and physically. I’m learning that I can only expand so much. I need to return to myself, which is why I’m spending more time blogging and writing in a diary.

I’ve also been thinking about “my career” as a writer. It feels weird even saying “my career” as if I’m someone important. But then again my writing is like my baby, my career is kinda like my baby too. I must nurture them both. I’ve been feeling a little irritable over the past few days and I realized that’s because I’m not stretching enough. I know my potential and now I need to turn it into kinetic. I sent a few emails to editors of publications where I’ve always dreamt of being placed and I’m making some headway. Basically, I don’t want to be trekking around the same mountain. I gotta scale and climb another one. I want to be published in new places, exploring new terrains of thought, and establishing relationships with new editors. Now is the time. Why do I need to wait? I’m not concerned about my output. Productivity is never an issue for me. I’m more concerned with substance and placement. How am I channeling my energy and where is it going? I’m trying to stretch and strengthen new muscle here.

Rejections will come but so will the acceptances. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about working in publishing is that subjectivity can be a bitch. When editors tell writers not to take it personally when their work is rejected, we actually mean that. Do not take it too personally. Every writer has a particular beat. Every website has a rhythm. Every editor has a dance. Now by the nature of an editor’s job, he or she may know different dances but that doesn’t mean you need to change your beat. Does that make sense at all?

I’ve come across so many submissions that weren’t “bad”. The language was clean, the premise understandable, and the characters interesting, and yet the works are rejected. Why? It didn’t click. But why? I still am trying to figure this out. I’m trying to figure out the intangibility of prose. What makes writing leap off the page? It’s different for everyone and as such, do not take it personally when an editor rejects your work. You are not a talentless hack. You are worthy and your work is as well. Your passion will be sighted by someone.

Until next time. 

xxoxx

Two weeks ago, I had surgery. I didn’t tell most of my friends because I was a bit shameful of my decision. The surgery was not necessary, definitely not life-threatening. I decided to go through with it in order to make life a little less uncomfortable. Dimmed by the percocet and valium, I was unsure of who I was anymore as I watched the doctor cut away and stitch me back up again. All I wanted to do was sleep but in one small corner of my mind that was left untainted by the local anesthesia, I knew that I was going to be forever changed on the other side.

And I didn’t give myself a break. My mom begged me to stay at home in New Jersey for a week and take off work but I refused. I wanted to feel like I mattered while my body was all wounded and bleeding. I wanted to be valued. So I made sure I went to work, leaving my apartment sometimes 10-15 minutes before I usually do. I had things to edit, pitches to look over, and an essay of mine that needed to be reworked.  But mid-week, I had to ask one of my superiors if I could run to the nearest Duane Reade. I forgot my Advil and I needed something--anything. When I came back, slightly out of breath, one asked me if I needed to go home and I blurted out, “No”. I popped the acetaminophen pill so fast you would’ve thought it was a tic-tac.

Basically, it was a pretty rough week. I didn’t feel like myself. I felt like I was carrying a body, not living in it. I felt impaired. I felt weak and I was resisting  it with all my might. So you could imagine how relieved I felt when one of my writing buddies invited me to a get-together for a new freelance writer co-working space all the way out in Brooklyn.

Now generally, I shy away from social activities where I only know one person. But this friend was different. She’s been a mentor to me for quite some time. She helps me edit my writing, gives me contacts, and allows me to vent about my failed romantic ventures. She’s also got a book deal, going to Paris in less than a month, and getting all these offers for columnist gigs at big-name publications. Basically, I look up to her in so many ways. And we’d never met each other in person. So I wound up all my courage and pushed past all my physical pain to go to Brooklyn on a rainy Thursday night to meet her.

And I don’t know guys, it just felt right from the moment I waited for the L train to arrive. The air felt smoother, the people less tense. When I got off at Morgan Ave, I knew I wasn’t in Harlem anymore. Graffiti was plastered all over the walls of buildings, very few people were on the street. I made sure I took my earbuds out so I could be aware of my surroundings at all times.

And when I got to the space, my friend greeted me like we’d known each other for years. Besides my job, I’d never met so many beautiful people in one spot in New York. People willing to give you names of editors to contact, old lovers being able to be within two feet of each other, writers exchanging recipes, writers discussing gentrification and anti-capitalism. And I was in the midst of it all. I felt like I could be myself. I didn’t worry about if I was the least attractive or least accomplished. I was there. I did matter. 

I left out of there in such high spirits that I didn’t feel any pain in my body. I felt like I had myself back or the people back there retrieved bits and pieces of it for me through their warmth. As I transferred from the L to the 2 train, I thought, were those people even real? Did I project them and that space as a place of refuge for all the pain and loneliness that I’d been feeling all week? But no, they were real. There’s always a place to be and I felt blessed that I found it.

I’m still learning how to navigate being in the creative class, or whatever you’d like to call it. I fumble whenever I have to introduce myself. I don’t know whether to say I’m a freelance writer first or a web editorial assistant, as if I value one more over the other. I don’t know if I should say both in rapid-fire speed and if that would be pretentious.

But I didn’t feel like an eighth grader that night. I felt like a woman. I felt like an artist. I didn’t know what the heck I was doing but no one else did either. There is no such thing as the popular table. Freelancers aren’t uber competitive and petty. They gotta pay these bills just like the rest of us and that’s the part that older people forget about millennials. We don’t have that financial security like our parents but we are still finding ways to band together.

I want to go back to Brooklyn to find those who I met that night and to go for no reason at all. I want to hop around bookstores in Park Slope, go to museums in Crown Heights, dine in Williamsburg. Art definitely has a different feel than that of Manhattan. Art feels a lot more youthful, a lot funner. The “struggle” seems more romanticized. I’m satisfied with Harlem but I wouldn’t mind settling down in Brooklyn.

And ah, what can I say about my dating life? Were you missing that part? Well, it’s stagnant. Before you start feeling sorry for me, don’t. I don’t feel sorry for myself. I had a brief but profound talk with my Dad this morning and he revived my hope in finding someone like me, that I don’t need to give up on that someone out there who can reciprocate with the same vigor as I can. I shouldn’t have to accept less because that’s not my style. Everything I do is 110% and I deserve the same. So even though, I admit, I continue to swipe on Tinder and scope out OKC, I am more mindful of what I want and how I will not make the time for anything less.

And dare I say that I’m willing to wait?

A few days ago, one of my bosses and one of my favorite editors asked how was I liking publishing and I smiled. As you may or may not know, cracking the publishing industry is hard, especially as a woman of color. You may intern at several different publishing houses and literary agencies but getting the opportunity to be even an editorial assistant may seem like it’s miles and miles away. Forget about being an associate editor or *gasp* a senior editor. What? You’re just trying to do leap frog on sinking rocks--leap frog on wobbly legs. That’s how I’ve felt for some time.

I’ve mythologized New York for quite some time. My original goal post-college was to move to Secaucus with one of my best friends where we’d both commute into the city everyday for our publishing jobs. What happened was a year spent in podunk South Jersey tutoring underserved kids. In the meantime, I was dealing with heartbreak and that friend was applying to MFA programs. She’s now in Iowa and I’m where I’ve always wanted to be. I’m a bright-eyed 23-year-old web editorial assistant at a new publishing venture. I’m lying in bed, anxious to get back to work because I love what I do so much. I feel like in New York, struggle is romanticized like we’re all in the middle of some indie film. We’re supposed to hate our jobs and love what we do after we clock out. Well I love my job. Is it because of my youth, my naiveté, my passion, or a mixture of both?

It’s weird sitting at a desk and looking at an inbox full of submissions from writers who’ve spent God knows how long on their pieces. I have to reject most of what I see and I feel a little pinch in my heart for doing it even though I know it must be done. When people say the industry is extremely subjective, it’s so true. I’ve likened editing to dating. A person may have all the criteria that you want but if there’s no “click”, there’s no “click’.  It’s that connection that you can’t quite articulate (go figure) and you can’t force it. It doesn’t matter how well-constructed the sentences are or how many bylines the writer has, if there’s no pull, you cannot tease it out. It’s a dance and if one editor isn’t hip to the rhythm, you gotta move to the other side of the room. Your feet may get tired and hey, you may have to change your shoes altogether, but you gotta keep moving.

When people ask me how do I feel about publishing, I tell them that I love it but I still feel like an outsider. I connect with countless writers and editors on Twitter but I’ve only met less than 1% of them in real life. It’s kinda hard watching writers who I admire have their own groups and I don’t feel like I have my own. Deep down, I’m still that 8th grader who desperately wants to be at the popular table. But perhaps that popular table doesn’t exist. “We” keep crossing rungs and climbing ladders to a space that doesn’t exist nowhere in reality, but only in our minds.

Maybe I don’t have a particular group with actual perimeters but rather a venn diagram of sorts that merges and separates depending on the conversations that go on. As a matter of fact, I prefer that one. I’m a writer and I’m shaping up to be an editor too. I’m learning the business side while nurturing my passionate one as well. In this industry, I’m still a baby. I’m absorbing everything yet unable to ascertain the magnitude of what all this entails, such as an agent coming into the office or an advanced copy slipping into my hands. To others, it’s no big deal. To me, it all feels like gold. 

Last week, I told you about a guy I was seeing. We went on two dates, both of them I considered to be great. He was handsome, successful, well-off, a little bit cocky but I thought that he deserved to be that way. Our conversations were always stimulating and interesting. He even took me out to dinner to celebrate my new job.

I thought that since he took the initiative to ask me out twice, then I would be the one to ask him out for a potential third date. I had it all planned out: I would text him at around 9:30 am, as soon as I get into the office. I would say good morning, wish him a good day, and then ask him out. I have formulas, you see. I don’t want to appear overzealous. I just wanted to throw it out there that I could make time for him. I am an indifferent and busy woman, you know. But actually, not really. He flippantly replied, “my weekend’s not looking too free”. I felt like someone slapped me on the back and knocked the spit and the breath out of me. No “can we reschedule”? No “let me get back to out”? Nothing.

What I hate more than anything is the feeling that I’m a nuisance to someone else, especially someone I like. I know that a certain guy is busy but by being too mindful of this, I devalue my own work and time. 

So you know what I did, don’t you? Yep. I started to beat myself up. I thought to myself, “I got a brand new job, writing opportunities, and a great place to live, and I can’t even get a third date. What’s wrong with me?” I created a deficiency for myself when none exists.

The following day, I met up with a writer friend of mine who’s been in a relationship for two years. I apologized to her beforehand because I told her I may not be my perky self. When we sat down in Madison Square Park, I told her something that I’d never told anyone: “I can’t even imagine a man saying ‘I love you’, and that scares me.” She narrowed her eyes at me and said, “How did you get to feeling this way?”

The biggest difficulty in being in a cosmopolitan city is reminding yourself that you alone have intrinsic value. I feel the most valuable when I’m editing and reading submissions, writing, and going to staff meetings. In short, I feel the most valuable when I’m working, when I’m providing a service. I’m trying to learn that I am enough. There doesn’t need to be a reason to the aforementioned statement. My body, mind, and soul are invaluable. Everything else complements who I already am.

Dating is difficult for me because I take everything personally. Saying that a failed romance is “not about me” doesn’t compute in my brain. When I’ve worked for everything else in my life, it’s hard to reorient and know that I shouldn’t have to “work” for the people who are supposed to be there. Try telling that to a workaholic, huh.

My difficulty is reminding myself that I’m worth it not by the work that I produce but because I’m here. I make the mistake of believing that the latter will cause me to feel entitled. But then again, entitled to what? Love? Attention? Time? Who lied to me?

I’m gonna do better. I will.

Until next time.

So, I finished my first week at Catapult, and it was surreal to say the least. You figure, three weeks ago I was a teacher at a summer school all the way out in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. I ate ham and cheese sandwiches at a small student desk and commuted two hours a day. Now, I work in Flatiron, my commute is only an hour tops per day, and I have a view that overlooks the neighborhood. Talk about a come-up.

The first day, we had a few meetings. I remember when the boss called for the staff to come into the conference room, I hesitated. It’s not because I was afraid but rather I had to remind myself that I was a part of a team now. I was hearing discussions about books, literary parties, press releases, and I loved every second of it. But most of all, I felt like I mattered. Even though I’m only an editorial assistant, my superiors on the web team value my opinion and use it to make decisions. I don’t feel like my role is any less important than theirs.

In addition, I became an Assistant Agent at Fuse Literary (!) and I’m making great headway with my own lit agent. I can’t really divulge too many details because I don’t wanna jinx it but I’ll just say that Autumn is shaping up to be a very busy season. I think I have to put dancing on the back-burner, unfortunately, for both financial and professional reasons. Right now, my writing won’t let me take another lover, and I must oblige.

As for my personal life, well, it is complicated. You see, I’m my own worst enemy. I push myself to do and be better which helps me to accomplish many things. However, I’m trying to learn that I am enough because I exist. It doesn’t matter how many words I write or how many pieces I get published. They do not make me who I am, but complement me. This trickles into dating, of course. I want to be excited and smitten by someone and have that reciprocated. But sometimes, I take myself out of the game before I even play, if you get what I mean. I make excuses for why this man wouldn’t be interested in me as if he is somehow better because of some trivial reason.

But no more. I’m not doing it anymore. Starting this morning, I woke up and said to myself, “Surrender. You are enough.” I am enough. I am enough. I want to live the best life and experience the greatest love--and I’m gonna have it. I’m cleansing my mental energy and personal space to invite this to happen. Yes it’s hard and yes I may oscillate when I’m not feeling so well but I’m trying. 

I’m still dating, of course. I don’t know where it’s going but I am enjoying myself and I think he is too. I’m getting more and more comfortable with being honest and open. Who cares about small talk anymore? Now all I gotta do is remind myself that if a person is meant to be there, he will be there. Don’t worry about saying the wrong thing. The “wrong” thing will still be understood by the right person. 

Until next time.

Hi, friends.

Sorry I haven’t been updating as much as I should. A lot has been going on, both internally and externally. So scoot a little closer to your screen and lean in:

There’s a new publishing venture called Catapult that I’d heard about since I’m a constant Internet dweller. The company will pride itself on community engagement, relationships between emerging and established writers, and overall, extraordinary storytelling. I signed up for the newsletter as soon as the news broke and I followed the twitter page.

A few weeks ago, I saw that there was an opportunity to be an assistant to the publisher or a web intern. I applied for the former because it was better paying and would make me feel like I’m actually a part of the company. Much to my surprise, I was offered an interview that lasted a little over an hour, one of the longest I’ve ever had. I left feeling mighty confident but not too much.

After all, I’ve been applying for publishing and digital media gigs for over a year. I used to travel over three hours to get to midtown Manhattan for interviews that lasted less than 25 minutes. When it was over, I would ask the employer, “Will I be able to know whether or not I got the job?” He or she would always reply yes but then I’d hear nothing. Weeks later, I’d follow up and then I’d get a quick response of how they chose someone else. Then the tears would follow. Those were some rough times.

Don’t get me wrong, a lot of good had happened too. I built up my freelance portfolio and though I will continue to do this, I yearned for some kind of stability. I wanted a home, some kind of haven.

After my Catapult interview, the employer wanted me to call him the following Tuesday and I was expecting a rejection. We got along very well so I thought maybe he wanted to personally call me to make everything go along as smoothly as possible. I wasn’t offered the assistant or web intern role. I was offered an editorial assistant role.

An editorial assistant. Me. My mind and body were dissociated from one another for a split second.

Was he kidding? Me, really? Yes, really. I’m going to be a part of an exciting, new company, doing what I love--and getting paid for it. I can freelance and work on cultivating a community of writers at my new job. What a blessing, right?

I still can’t believe it. I’m already planning on what I’m gonna wear for my first day and how I will be the best asset I can be. Most of all, I feel....wanted.

So many things are falling into place. I walk around every day feeling so happy.

Side note: I know I usually discuss dating here but I didn’t feel like doing that much this week. Let’s just say, yours truly is burned out from it. I’m giving away my energy to men who aren’t right for me. I need to sit back and regroup. My new chapter will allow me to do just that.

Until next time.

As mentioned in previous posts, yes, I have been dating. In fact, I consider that a very active part of my life now. I meet guys, we exchange contact information, and we might even go out once or twice. What’s interesting about these interactions is the overlap between how I communicate with them versus potential employers.

I finished my Brooklyn teaching gig this past Tuesday. It was six weeks of intense review with children ages 7 to 15. I had to grade quizzes and midterms, come up with extra work for when we finished lessons too early, and go over extra credit. Although it was only twenty-five hours a week, it became a full-time job when I factored in commuting two hours a day. Still, the money was really good and I liked my kids. I even received a chocolate bar and keychain toy on my last day from two different students. I sure am gonna miss ‘em.

I didn’t even get a full day’s rest before I was out again, going on interviews, making phone calls, and sending out resumes. To prevent burn-out, I’ve taken up dancing again for 5-6 hours a week. This isn’t a hobby by any means but an actual investment. Each night I come home and my feet are in pain but my body does feel good. I come home and I might not eat a full meal because I’m lazy and don’t want to walk the two feet from my bedroom to the kitchen. In addition, I’ve been writing. Oh have I been writing. Nowadays, it seems like I’m sending out less pitches and alternatively receiving more requests from editors to write for their publications. This is what I’ve always wanted. I feel in demand and it’s scary. I’m always worried if I’m not going to measure up or if I reached my peak with a previous article. But I’m grateful every day. I come home tired but with a smile on my face because I’m doing exactly what I want.

Yet when I speak to other people, especially guys, about my life, they always comment on how busy I am. I admit that I have a tendency to rattle off what I do like I would in an interview and perhaps this is overwhelming. But I don’t think I’m busier than the average person. I won’t bore you with how I like long walks on the beach, napping, and OITNB-binging but maybe that’s the point. I wonder if I’m giving the impression that I’m just all work and no play. 

I have clear-cut goals for myself. I’m working hard to live the life that I want, take care of my parents, and build a legacy for the family that I’d like to have someday. Sure, I daydream about vacationing in St. Lucia or Bazaruto Island but in order to make it there, I have to plant here.

The thing about being busy is--you don’t know how to unbusy yourself. I like the pace of my life. When my mind becomes idle, it drifts into extremities, be it good or bad. I know that I need more self-care besides eating my favorite sushi or napping for two hours mid-day, but I need to make more money for the things I really, really want to do (like get a spa package at a fancy hotel, buy a dozen macaroons at Ladurée, or treat myself to a dinner at a five-star restaurant). Time is money and there’s money to be made.

For now, I need to work. Yet the work is what I love. maybe that’s why I don’t realize how much that I do because it doesn’t seem like work at all.

Good morning, friends.

I hope you’re enjoying the weekend.

I’ve spent the entire morning making finals and answer keys for my classes and I realized that I should update my blog since last week’s post was unexpectedly “successful”. Thank you for reading. Anyways, there is a story that has been pressing on my mind for several days and I was afraid to share it but I’m gonna do so anyway. So please bear with me.

I love romance. I love the idea of romance. I’m a hopeless romantic. I think about how romance will present itself to me day in and day out. I wonder if I’ll notice it upon our first encounter or if it’ll sneak up on me.

I thought it did, actually. It was about two Wednesdays ago. I was dressed in a business dress with my hair pinned back and the sweat from my nose was dripping onto my purple-painted lips. I was waiting for the N train to arrive at 42nd street when I saw a man descend the staircase to the side of the platform where I was standing. He was of middle height and brown-skinned with curly-kinky hair that was cut down low on the sides and left to move wildly on top. I dreamt that he was an artist and he was making his way to Brooklyn to throw paint on the walls or make music with trash cans. I tried not to make eye contact with him but I could not help but lift my gaze from the text of Saint Mazie. 

He approached me and asked, “Do you know if the R train already passed?”

“It did. Just about a minute before you came down.” Oof. He now knew that I was watching him.

“Thanks.” His eyes narrowed at me and he cocked his head to the side. A grin emerged. “I like your energy.” 

“Thank you.”

I heard the wheels from an approaching train. It was the R.

He took out his phone and said, “What’s your number?”

I gave it to him, then he left.

As I waited for my train, I wondered if romance could have been that simple. I’d never been approached with such tact and poise. Maybe I’d been reading too many Humans of New York posts and got carried away but I felt lucky. 

Later on, he asked me out on a coffee date and we couldn’t agree on the time so he wanted for me to call him. I wasn’t used to men wanting to talk on the phone especially if they hadn’t known me for quite some time. Nevertheless, I obliged. The request signaled to me that he was different and more mature than the rest.

The conversation was going well. We talked about our day, our professions, and some of our dating experiences. But then, the conversation took a...peculiar turn.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“35.”

I almost coughed. He looked like he couldn’t have been older than 27, 28. Then again, Black people deceive Age itself so it made sense. But there was a dull tinge of discomfort in my belly. I’d never considered dating a 35-year-old. Thirty-three was my cut-off. But I continued the conversation.

“So why are you single?” I facetiously asked.

“I’m single but I’m separated.”

My eyes widened as I stared at the silhouette of my window pane on the opposite wall. 

“You’re married?”

“I’m married but I’m separated. We’re not together.”

As he explained the genesis and subsequent demise of his marriage, I was spacing out. A married man? A married man? I felt like I committed a grave sin for even talking to him. He eventually took my silence for tiredness and we hung up. I knew that I was not going to be able to sleep peacefully that night so I texted him and told him that I couldn’t do it. I want a man who is single not only by label but also by law. 

And he responded in the most perverse way. He sent me a six-page text talking about how he thought I’d be relieved that he was being honest with me, that he wanted to make me moan until tears came out my eyes, and that he wanted to be the master in the bedroom. 

I never responded and deleted our entire text thread.

But it didn’t stop him though.

He called and left a voicemail a few days later and I accidentally deleted it. A few days after that, he called and left another voicemail. This time, he was singing and asking why didn’t I call him anymore?

I was so afraid that I shed a few tears in the middle of the night and contacted friends at 3 am because I was on the verge of being in full-out panic mode.

I texted him: “Please don’t contact me again. I’m not interested.” I made plans to file a Police report if I had to. I was afraid that he wasn’t gonna to get the hint. For a week, I walked all the way down the platform at 42nd street so that I wouldn’t come in contact with him again.

For now, he hasn’t gotten back in touch with me and I’m relieved. I felt filthy and immoral for talking to him but then I realized--with the help of a loving friend--that I did nothing wrong. I stood my moral ground and pushed him away. He was the one who crossed the line and felt entitled to my attention after I told him no.

Astounding, isn’t it? One cordial encounter can lead to a potentially dangerous situation. My rose-colored glasses are losing its tint but I’m thankful that although I’m new to the dating scene, I ain’t stupid. I have discernment and I used it to push away what could’ve been an attack to both my spirit and body.

On the flip side, last Wednesday, I went out to dinner with a friend who I met during my summer residency at grad school. As we sat down to talk about foreign languages, travel, our respective families, and religion, I delighted myself with the caramel rings around his eyes, his thick, crop of curly hair, and his olive skin. We laughed. We ate chicken. We philosophized. Then I realized, it was the first time that I was able to stay in the moment.

I enjoyed this man for who he was and what he was about. I would love to hang out with him again but if not, at least I can cherish the dinner that we had.

That’s what I learned from the tale of two men: Stay focused on the stimuli in the present. Be cautious and conscious. Proceed only if you feel comfortable. Have fun. You got this.

Until next time.

-Morgan

you’re never alone.

Today marks the one month anniversary of me being in New York. I know I should be updating my blog more often but I always doubt that anyone will care about the minutiae of my life. But since you’re here, I’m pleased and will go on.

I love New York. I love watching mothers play with their children during subway rides, the incessant chatter on my block during the evenings, the smell of soul food cooking around West 125th. I look around and I realize that this is my small piece of “making it”. I’ve wanted to be here for so long and now I’ve made it on my own.

I live in a beautiful three-bedroom apartment with a garden out front where peaches, currant, and kale are grown. My roommate is an intellectual who spends his days reading the scholarship on The Great Gatsby when he’s not working out or shopping at Trader Joe’s. He has an extensive book collection and a flair for cooking, too. In other words, we get along very well. He’s the only person who I talk to every day. He also encourages me to eat better, which I have. I made chicken seasoned with tumeric, thai curry powder, greek yogurt, a dash of tomato juice, olive oil with lemon juice, and some basmati rice. All on my own. It tasted just as good as it smelled.

Monday through Friday, I work as a summer school teacher in Brooklyn. I have a two-hour commute each day and during that time, I read--no, devour--books. I can finish 300+ page books in 2, 2 1/2 days. It’s great, mental-wise, but not so much for my wallet. The money I make from teaching is really good but I’ll be glad when my commitment is over because two-hour commutes five days a week can take a toll.

After work, I usually take a long nap, wake up, cook dinner, and then have dinner and conversation with my roommate. Every weekend, I’ve been going out with friends but I needed to stay in today. Tired ain’t even the word to describe what I feel. I don’t want to see anyone else’s face but my own. I want to be horizontal all day long. Thank God for the days when no one needs me.

Then again, saying that doesn’t make me feel entirely prideful. Being in a city has made me crave for intimacy with a magnitude that overwhelms me most times. During the day, I’m on the grind, hustlin’ and bustlin’, but during the night, I yearn and yearn and yearn. I don’t know if I’ve said this before but I’m not good with transience. I can’t take when a good thing is only good for a split second because it makes me feel as if I’m to blame for the demise. New York is forcing me to change my thinking.

I’ve been on dates, yes. They’ve ended because the guys were looking for less serious attachments and I’m not that type of girl. Some days, I wish I were but it’s not in my nature and I can’t fight it any longer. In a city of over eight million people where only a few know your name, is it wrong to want to cling to someone else? Now, I’m not desperate, no. On the contrary, I’m more confident in my standards where in New Jersey, I was very flimsy. But I do spend some nights, lying in bed, looking at the shadows on the adjacent wall, pining for someone I don’t know, someone who is only a silhouette like the window frame’s shadow. I stay up for several minutes, knowing that he’s there somewhere, and it feels crazy to write that. I try not to think about it much but the summer along with its awful heat can intensify any sort of emotion.

New York has taken all my emotions and stretched them. The city wrings out my body every day and night. But it hasn’t taken my mind. It’s made me appreciate the beauty in the smallest of measures and reverted my sensitivity to that of a newborn child. I feel more in tune with my environment and its people but not necessarily aligned. Such is the conundrum. 

Well y’all, I moved to New York. Ain’t it cliché, a writer moving to NYC? Dah well. That’s exactly what I did. Let me back up a little bit for context: When I finished undergrad, I had no job prospects and only an MFA acceptance to make me feel like I was worth something. My initial dream was to move to New York straight out of college, start working, and maintaining my writing on the side. But God had another plan. I never expected that I would spend a whole year at home but I think it was the best thing for me. I was able to save money and build up my freelance portfolio, which led me to gain some pretty cool connections.

After a while, it seemed like I needed to make that move though. It was hard driving 45 minutes to the nearest Bolt Bus and then going an hour and a half to go to Penn Station. And that’s not even including the subway ride to wherever I needed to go. For the longest time, New York seemed so abstract, so close and yet so far away. I wanted to go but I was scared. I had a great relationship with my mom and everything I knew was in South Jersey. But I had to do this for me.

My initial plan was to move at the end of August but because I didn’t wanna lose out on this amazing room in a brownstone, I decided to move July 1st. I can see now I made the best decision. I love my room. I love that my window faces the street. I love that although I live uptown, there are trees lining both sides of my street. Harlem is so historic and vibrant and I feel blessed to be able to be in the midst of all the activity.

Both my roommates are affable people. I’m getting rather close to one in particular because we’re both bibliophiles who love to philosophize at night. I love how different each neighborhood is. And don’t get me started on my productivity--I can produce three times as many words in a day.

Also, my social life has gotten exponentially better. The first day here I went to a book release party. Two days ago I went to a boat party. Today, I’m getting brunch with a friend. Tomorrow I’m doing a reading. I wanted to be in an environment that stimulated me and I’m getting just that.

Maybe I’m starry eyed but I’m happy. Back in South Jersey, I had to do so much to get this kind of warmth from that environment. Right now, it greets me every time I open a door or walk down a new street. God willing, I could see myself here for a while.

Spring is my favorite season because it holds much spiritual and physical meaning for me. The flowers bloom after being dormant for months. Dogs are out and about, smiling as they stroll down the sidewalks. People in general seem much happier. Spring reminds me of renewal, restoration, and of course, new beginnings.

In my previous post, I spoke about how I needed to do more self-care. The two reasons why I haven’t been good at it are because 1) I’m a workaholic and 2) I’m getting over heartbreak.  Heartbreak cuts deep, okay? Heartbreak was a searing pain for me. For months, I was enormously sad. After that, I was angry. Now, I’m peaceful. It’s been a year and I can look back at the moment of my life as just as that: a moment. I may not ever know all the answers as to what caused the demise but maybe it wasn’t meant for me to know. And even if I did know, who says that I would be satisfied? In fact, the opposite effect may happen. It was just a moment in my life. I want to find a greater and healthier love. I prayed about it the other night, actually. I actually said from my lips, “God, I think I’m ready. I want to know what it’s like to be loved and to love in return. I want to date. I want romance.” For once, I didn’t feel stupid about my request because now, I know what I deserve.

On the professional front, things have been happening. Oh, have they been happening. As a writer, rejection happens at any stage. I’m used to it because at the same time, I’m getting other opportunities to write for places where I’d only dreamed of being published and places with whom I have good relationships with the editors. I’m doing interviews, reported features, essays, fiction, and potentially a reading. It’s not even the middle of the year and I’m making great strides.  Sometimes I have to stop and think like “Hey, I’m a writer. I’m really doing this thing. I may not be able to support myself full-time with my passion but I’m getting there.”

As for my MFA, I got a woman of color this term, the only one in the entire faculty. Needless to say, I’m relieved. I’m writing a novel right now where no white people are at the center and I made it known to the directors that I needed this woman. We’re gonna have lots of fun together, I bet.

I’m also working on moving. I’m looking at apartments tomorrow and I’m both nervous and excited. I have an extremely close relationship with my mother and I’m the last child in the house. I wonder how it’ll be when I make that next step in my life. We’re always gonna be close but I may go through a little bit of separation anxiety. Can you believe that? A 22-year-old with separation anxiety? I don’t care. She’s not only my mom but my friend. We’ve been through love, heartbreak, success, failure, and death together. Besides that, I’m looking forward to new adventures, new excitement. I have friends and connects in another place and I want to be nearer to them. I need this for my own personal development and I know that wherever I’ll go, I’ll have a firm base from family, especially my parents.

I’m truly blessed and I’m thankful for every moment, every single moment that proves to me that I’m moving whether in thought or body.

Two days ago I had a very disturbing dream. I woke up in the morning and headed straight to the bathroom. When I turned on the lights, I looked into the mirror and my face was all battered up: lips busted, cheeks swollen, dried blood on my nose, and one eye slammed shut. The most startling aspect about this dream was that when I saw my reflection, I wasn’t surprised. I was getting ready to squeeze toothpaste onto my toothbrush like it was any other day.

In my waking state, thankfully, I’m not in an abusive relationship so I knew that this dream was a representation of what’s going on on the inside. There are parts of me that feel abused and I recognize it but keep ignoring the signs. These internal wounds have been inflicted from other people and myself, pain from either heartbreak, disappointment, and simply from working too dang hard all the time.

I work from Tuesday through Saturday. For the most part, I wake up at quarter to 7 in the morning--not intentionally, mind you--write my daily word quota of 1000 words, read, and converse with the other editors of Side B as well as respond to pitches and edit contributors’ drafts. During my breaks at work, I respond to more emails that have anything to do with Side B or my freelancing. When I get home, I write again. Two nights a week, I’ll go to dance since I need a hobby but I never put myself in my schedule.

My brain is writewritewritereadsidebsidebemailemailwritewriteoohfoodohimthirstyworkworksidebwriting. I couldn’t squeeze ‘Morgan’ in if I wanted to.

Right now I’m in the middle of planning Side B’s launch party and trying to be superwoman but I finally decided that I need to take care of myself. For real this time. Dancing twice a week does not constitute self-care.

So in a little over two weeks from now, I’ve marked out a day for myself. I’m gonna stay off social media for the entire day--or try to--, get a deep tissue massage, maybe take my own self out to lunch, nap, pray for healing, and be lazy. I’m trying to unlearn that I never deserve to take a break, that I have to reach a certain level of success. I don’t give myself nearly enough credit as I should.