I designed this magazine cover when I was 16 years old. At the time, I was working at The Young Women’s Project (YWP) in Washington, D.C. as part of the Summer Youth Employment  Program (SYEP). I was a member of The Body Image Team and we were five deep. We decided that our summer project would be to create a magazine that would promote healthy body image. During the previous school year, while working with Teen Women in Action(TWA), we discovered just how pervasive low self-esteem was among our peers (and even ourselves). The thought process went a little bit like this:

1) Many teen girls have low self-esteem.

2) Most magazines help promote the unattainable beauty ideals that create such low self-esteem.

3) Teen girls like to read magazines.

4) So why not create a magazine that promotes healthy body image instead?

It was definitely an inspired idea. It was also feasible- a project we knew we could accomplish over the summer using the resources already available to us- and one which we hoped would have an immediate impact. I had never written an article before (and it was decidedly more difficult than the essays I wrote for class or the occasional poem) but I learned. I worked so hard on this magazine that summer because I was excited about what we were doing and I wanted to contribute as much as I could. So I penned the advice column, wrote two articles and compiled a list of resources in the area for teens in need. I recently re-read those articles and I was proud of my 16-year-old self.

I came up with the name of the magazine and designed the cover because, as I recall, no one else showed up to work on it once all the content was written. I remember wanting the name and the cover art to reflect both our mission and the girls we hoped to reach- young women who were like us and the girls we knew; girls we went to school with, confided in, competed against and compared ourselves to. Looking back over our work, I’d say we did an impressive job.

Years later, after graduating from college, traveling a bit, and living a lot more, I find myself still inspired by the work I did at 16 and still dreaming similar dreams. I’m excited to see where they will take me this time around.

So, I was reading Ebony Magazine (yes, I said Ebony) while I was at my grandmother’s house a few months ago, when I came across an interview with Pearl Cleage who offers some great advice for writers. Even though I felt called out for my general trifling-ness about my own writing (and especially how I have neglected this blog), I really needed it hear it (yes, I said hear). Maybe you do, too.

EBONY: What advice do you have for writers starting out?

CLEAGE: My advice to new writers is to take their own work seriously enough to do it every day. All of us aren’t lucky enough to be able to write full time, especially at first, but you have to be able to put some words on paper every day. I tell writers to think of it as if they were ballet dancers or trumpet players. Nobody thought Miles Davis got that good by waking up every day or so and playing a few notes on a trumpet when he didn’t have anything better to do. Nobody gets to be a prima ballerina without going to class every day and working that body! It’s the same with writing. You have to get comfortable with the part of your brain that wants to tell stories. A friend of mine, also a writer, said once, “What you have to do is find out what makes you comfortable and then you’ll tell everything you know.” She was right, and that process takes time. If it means getting up a few hours early so you can write before you go to work, or staying up late so you can write once your house has settled down. That is a routine that you have to develop and stick with it. Nobody ever gives anybody permission to be a writer. We have to believe in ourselves and do the work that is required to make it real.

So, I think it’s safe to say that I am fucking up. And in a big way. I know, I know, good girls aren’t supposed to use that kind of language, but can we be real for a minute? Better girls know that sometimes, there is seriously no other way to say it. And the worst part is, as difficult as it is for me to admit that I’m doing it (actively, by being so passive), I don’t know how to correct it.

See, it’s what usually happens after you get something that you want—you eff it up. And I have, not irreparably so, but enough to make me quite ashamed of myself. And, shy though I may be, I’m not often ‘shamed.

I always say that it’s easy to dream and it’s even easier to talk about those dreams—what you would do if you could do anything, who you would be if you felt free to be yourself, where you would go, and how you would leave your trailblazing footsteps behind as a reminder for future generations that you were…something special. I’ve done my fair share of that kind of dreaming and planning over the years and, judging from the responses I’ve gotten, I give good plans. Great ones, as a matter of fact. Following through, however; is something else entirely. I mean, it takes a lot of work not to be mediocre, and for those of us who feel like we really have no choice (I’m sorry but some people just don’t have the constitution to be average), life is hard work. Consistently. And rest, well, I’ve come to believe that restful sleep is for those without a lot on their minds. I am not fortunate enough to be one of those people. The thing is, though, as much as I love my sleep (and I do love my rest), I’ve never wanted to be able to get enough of it. I’ve always wanted to be someone who always has something going on. A mover, a shaker, an international women of mystery, jet-setting off on a whim to cover stories no one else is writing about, because I am that good and because, well, because I can. I guess I just never realized that a dream job could be so much work and though personally and professionally rewarding, not always quite so pleasurable.

So, here I stand. I’ve been given an amazing opportunity to do what I want to do—write—about things that no one else is writing about, (albeit in NYC and not Anyplace, Worldwide…yet) and I just can’t seem to get a handle on it. I have little to no idea where these stories are (which may explain why no one else is writing about them), which sucks when finding them is the basis for what I do. I spent my second day on the job in tears and going into my fourth week, I don’t know that crying at this point would make it any better. I know what I have to do, buck up and go out there and get. it. done…I just don’t know how. And that, I think, makes me sadder than you know. I’ve built myself up to believe that the only thing missing in my life was the opportunity to do…and now I realize, I have the opportunity…so if I’m unable to accomplish…what does that say about me?

This girl came up to me in Washington Square Park today and asked if she could take a picture of me—okay, not me, exactly, but of my jacket, but since I was wearing the jacket, the picture was also of me, by necessity. Surprisingly, I let her. And I don’t know why.

Thinking about it afterwards on the train, I wondered if I should have asked her what the picture was for before I agreed. What if she’s one of those photographers that scours the city for “fashion don’ts” and puts me on blast in the back of Glamour magazine in three months with a black bar over my eyes? Then I thought, so what if she does? Who cares? And for a moment I was proud of myself for taking control by relinquishing some of it.

I’m the type of girl who always likes to have a plan. Seriously. I even have two resumes— a real one that lists the things I’ve done and a dream one, which lists all the things I plan to do. I have a list of places I want to work and concrete ideas about how they will help me advance my career and a folder full of fellowships marked “to apply for” when I have more years of “professional experience” under my belt. Even this blog is part of a larger plan, but when does careful planning become too much?

I don’t online bank, I pay my bills with checks so I have a paper record on hand just in case I need it. I always make photocopies of applications and receipts before I mail them off, just in case they get lost in the mail. I have a folder full of copies of paychecks I don’t need, but keep anyway, for my records. (Nevermind that my “records” consist of a bunch of unlabeled folders). I like my books lined up according to height, all the wood furniture to be the same color, and I adore coordination and symmetry. I may be messy as hell at times, but I like things in my life to look a certain way. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because that system actually works better for me, or because it makes me feel better about me.

I would love to be one of those people who packs a suitcase, buys a one-way ticket somewhere and just travels from place to place, working to earn a living and exploring the world. My “spontaneous” departure would have to include a contingency plan for my hair, emergency cash, actual cash, a list of countries to visit, and an estimated time frame of a year before I move onto the next thing. And I hate that I’m like that, but I also know that right now I need it in order to feel secure.

There was a point in my life, right after I finished undergrad, when I didn’t plan enough and ended up wasting time and “getting behind” in my goal to accomplish everything worth accomplishing my 30—law degree, house, luxury car, marriage, kids, career, accolades. In a way, I’m still trying to make up for all that I didn’t do during my post-baccalaureate slump, in order to feel like I’ve done enough with my life now that I’m on the other side of 25. So, I plan and use my checklist of accomplishments as a barometer for my success. Everything considered, I’m doing okay.

But what I really want is to be confident enough in myself and with my talent to be able to deviate from my plan with ease. To create a path through the grass, without thinking it to death first. Maybe one day soon.

Right now, though, I’m already trying to figure out what I’m going to do once I get my refund check- use it to pay off credit card debt, invest it, save it, okay…spend it- well, after I photocopy it and file it away, of course.

Here’s the thing, I am a magazine junkie. I subscribe to a lot of magazines and I never throw them away, like ever. Some I don’t even read, but it’s cheaper to subscribe than to buy single issues at the newsstand each month. As a result, I have a little magazine library in my apartment that I take fairly seriously. I’m a collector, so, like my books, I don’t loan them out, bend the pages, or mark them up. I love them dearly, which makes me critical of them, to a fault.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself rolling my eyes at a recent critique of the lack of ethnic/racial minorities in mainstream magazines and an examination of the stereotypical ways black, Latina, Asian and white women are represented in them. Not because the author didn’t make some valid points, but because everyone always makes those same points.

Now, I could go on ad nauseum about the lack of diversity in magazines (evidenced both by page content and the editorial staff composition) but that’s a very simplistic assessment of the problem—one that shifts blame and doesn’t address the deeper issues that manifest themselves in “whitewashed” and “overly photoshopped” covers. And, well, being the kind of girl that I am, have to try to look at this from all sides.

Magazines don’t show more “women of color” for the same reason that they don’t have more plus-sized models, handicapped people, or unattractive girls—they don’t have to. It’s not about racism or bias, which is the convenient culprit, but more so about privilege. And although privilege is something no one likes to talk about, or even acknowledge, unless they don’t have any, the simple fact is that we all enjoy some form of privilege in our lives that, by its very existence, oppresses someone else.

“Women of color” take issue with not being nearly as represented in mainstream magazines as they should be- and with good reason. Perhaps they wonder why the industry, whose EICs, publishers, and staff do look like the girls on the pages, don’t do more to address the problem. Well, it’s kind of like the extra skinny model issue that came to a head last year— it’s all about perspective. Many people agreed that runway models were becoming a bit too white and much too thin and railed against the fashion industry. “It’s discrimination,” said some, “it sets an unattainable ideal,” said others, “it’s just not attractive,” said a few. The problem was written about, discussed and dissected to death and after a while, like all causes of the moment, the drama died down. But in real life, where we all live, most girls don’t pay any attention to the fact that many stores don’t carry sizes larger than a 12. Why? Because they can always find their size, so they don’t have to.

Similarly, heterosexuals don’t realize that most ads and commercials are skewed towards their demographic because they are considered the norm, just as Christians don’t have a problem with being members of the de facto national religion. And let’s be real, if men thought about all the ways in which they are privileged just because they are men, they wouldn’t have time to do anything else. Some things are just accepted the way that they are, because for most people, it’s not a problem. The magazine industry is no different. Mainstream magazines skew white, and any publication that doesn’t is labeled “ethnic,” “multi-cultural,” or “urban.” So does that make it right? Of course not! But if we’re going to address the issue, let’s be honest. We pick and choose what types of exclusion we have a problem with, based on our own experiences.

No one has much of a problem with the fact that unattractive people rarely make it into the magazines, unless it’s a “before” shot. The simple fact is, unattractive people do not a popular (or profitable) magazine make, and for good reason. You read magazines to be entertained. Sure, you may also want to be informed, but you want to enjoy yourself while doing it. You don’t pick up a magazine to see real women in clothes you can afford, discussing lives that mirror your own. If you want to see that, go to Macy’s. Or better yet, look around you during your commute to work in the morning. That is real life and I, for one, get tired of living it, let alone looking at it all the time. So why would I pay upwards of $4 to see in a magazine the same thing that I can see on the C train for $2? I wouldn’t and I don’t.

You pick up most magazines because you want to see someone that looks better than most people on the street and to read about something that probably wouldn’t happen in your life, or a dramatization of something that did. If you want real life, go to the park, or go to work. If you’d like a break from it, get familiar with your favorite magazine.

That’s not to say that the industry doesn’t have it’s problems, but my point is that it’s easy to bash the magazine industry because as a whole, they do a pretty piss poor job of being representative. But not all magazines care or want to be, that’s why they target specific demographic. You just have to know yours.

And when you’re in a position of privilege, like magazine publishers are, and which most of us enjoy in one form or another, you don’t always remember to think about those who aren’t. So in addition to railing about the different forms of oppression you feel, also remember the ways in which you take advantage of your privilege everyday, just by virtue of having access to something that others don’t—citizenship, a penis, use of all your limbs and senses, being in your right mind. And think to yourself, how do we fix that? If you come up with any answers, pass them along to your favorite magazine, I’m sure they would be welcome to suggestions.

I am an honest person. And that’s something that I usually take great pride in, or at least I did, up until a few minutes ago. See, honesty is one of those qualities that is okay to claim; it might even be a virtue. But even in saying that you are honest, aren’t you lying just a little? Or at the very least, omitting parts of the truth?

Classic example. Someone asks you, what are your best qualities? You take the obligatory pause to think about it (or at least pretend that you need to) and then say something neutral. My response? “I’m honest,” followed by things like, “I’m smart, persistent, hard-working, caring, kind, and creative.” On a particularly good day I might say that I’m a damn good writer, wittier than most, and a pretty special person. And it’s true— I am all of those things, but I am not only those things, or even mostly those things. So why do we extol certain qualities, like intelligence, over others, like physical attractiveness?

Well, because it sounds nice and reinforces that you are every bit the good person you make yourself out to be, instead of the conceited bitch that you might be taken for if you said, “I’m cute, damn sexy, confident, poised, popular, well-off financially, very convincing, and, frankly, hard to shake.” Why do we have to choose between being good and being good at it?

That’s the thing about honesty, it is by its very nature subjective, so you can be honest and, yet, untrue to yourself at the same time. We are taught to be truthful but not rude, straightforward but not mean, fair but not unkind. So we censor ourselves and say only as much as is necessary to meet the minimum basic truth test, without crossing the line. But do you ever wonder what it would be like to say exactly what you feel, in a manner consistent with how you feel?

What would you say if you felt comfortable enough, careless enough—honest enough— to say anything?

Would you tell him that you can’t be happy for him, not because you still want him, but because you still want him to want you?
Would you tell her that she’s lucky she’s light-skinned, because she’d be considered very unattractive otherwise?
Could you admit to yourself that you really aren’t as deep or as complicated as you make yourself out to be?

What kind of person says those things (out loud to the intended recipient)? Maybe someone like Karl Lagerfeldwho is in a position, socially and financially, where he can afford not to care. Or maybe the kind of person who isn’t as concerned with being good, as she is with being good to herself.

I hope this blog will help me reach a new level of honesty in my writing-and in my life- but is it dishonest in its anonymity? Why am I more willing to put my name on an edited piece of my writing, than I am on something that is completely mine?

Is it disingenuous to just ask the question and not do anything about it? Quite honestly, I don’t know.