First National Byline

I know it’s only a blog. But it’s a nationally known blog. I know it’s not real print. But it’s based off a real print magazine. I know I’m only an intern – but as it turns out, interns can write too my friends.

So I was quite excited when my first article was published on Parents Magazine’s “Goody Blog” last week.

YES! An actual magazine with an actual blog, giving me… an actual byline. There was none of this published “by the editors” or published “by the staff.” Nope. Britney FREAKING Fitzgerald wrote an article, and then took credit for it. And what a gratifying feeling that was…

So what did I write about? The news? Maybe something baby related? A product recall, or a story about a mother fighting to rid her child of the dreaded, teeth-ruining pacifier?

Nope again.

I wrote about hummus.

Hey. Rule #3: Stick to what you know. And okay, so the article was kind of assigned. But I took great joy in sampling hummus dishes and thinking of adjectives for this refreshing chickpea treat.

If you haven’t already visited Parents Magazine’s blog, click here.
P.S. – A huge thanks to everyone who commented, liked, re-tweeted, or simply read my article. This is a short and sweet post, but your efforts really do mean a lot to me. Thank you again for always taking the time to read my work… even if you don’t like hummus.

Look at those guys, before they got all famous and such.

A Bold Statement

May, June, July.

I was organizing binders for the new editor in chief of the magazine. After photocopying 1500 sheets of paper, 200 needed to be individually separated into sheet protectors. The top of every page read a corresponding month, and they needed to follow the pattern, “May… June… July.”

May… June… July

Soon enough I was on autopilot. My hands nimbly moved the pages, sticking them into sheet protectors, but my mind had long vacated any menial task and drifted wistfully into a land of its own.

The smallest part of my attention span was fixated on making sure the pages were in order.

May… June… July.

How many times had I said my mantra? “Hum… well let’s see,” I thought with the distracted portion of my brain. “There are 1500 pages, and three months, so that means… I’ll repeat this phrase 500 times in my head.”

Oh.

Then my mind really tumbled into Never Land, Wonderland, Whatever You Want To Call It. I didn’t want to do this! Not forever at least. Sure, sure everyone needs to have the crappy jobs and be the intern and photocopy thousands of pages. It’s good for you… and it’s humbling.

But if I knew this wasn’t a permanent setup, then what exactly did I want to do next? Literary agencies are cutthroat and under a lot of pressure to succeed with a failing book market. Publishers are struggling to adjust to the new e-technology and have long since given up as the romanticized 1960s novel-hunters we know and love. Business has beat out creativity and marketing can be more important than the actual book itself.

And then it struck me. Now, maybe you already know what I’m going to say or maybe you’ve already guessed where I’d end up. Maybe you don’t care, but you accidently read this post and now you kind of want to know that…

I want to write.

Zing! That realization hit me like a ton of 1500-page binders.

Yes, I want to write. I want to dive into worlds, true or imaginary, that you can picture and taste and breathe in like a real ocean’s breeze or warm city night. I want to take you through the streets of Newark and show you what it looks like to be addicted to crack. I want to grab you by the hand and drag you though the subways and supermarkets of New York. I want to document personalities and human character. I want to give you the world, my world, and analyze its every fiber to present you with the truest sense of an experience – to present you with an adventure.

And I want you right there with me.

May, June, July.

No, this realization doesn’t make things any easier! Maybe it makes things more difficult. But I know this: I don’t want to edit the books; I want to write them. I don’t want to find the authors; I want to be them. I don’t want to research the stories; I want to live them. And that is a bold statement my friends.

May, July, June.

Ha. How ironic.

The last three pages were out of order.

**********

Meanwhile, in a completely unrelated topic, it was Spring Break, St. Patrick's Day, and Sam's birthday this week! Here are some pictures from around town:

Crazy St. Patricks day. Notice the guy's shirt in front. Ah, one of the many dumb shirts for the day.

All of the avenues were crawling with people in green.

Had to have one of these.

A "plastic paddy!"

We spent most the night in Queens pubs because 1) there were real Irish people and 2) Manhattan was getting ridiculous

Sam's birthday!

She hosted her party at Brooklyn Bowl...

...which happens to have amazing food. We were all grossly full by the end of the night.

Adventures Past and Future

“Bow to your partner.
Now bow to your corner.
Take your partner’s hand.”

I have never been a country girl. Cowboy hats always seemed more like a prop from an old western movie and less like a fashion accessory. Country music makes me cringe, especially the poppy, southern yodeling one can often find on a random radio station. And living in the country itself? No, no. Not for me. Not for the girl who loves people and cities. It’s fine for others; don’t get me wrong…but not me.

Yet, here I was on a Friday night in early June at a barn dance. A man with a southern twang calls steps for the next move. Over 100 people are standing in or near the entrance of the old wooden barn.

It’s humid and sticky. My cotton dress was the lightest article of clothing I had packed, yet I am still burning up. Then again so is everyone else. My hair is a mess of frizzy curls and I haven’t been wearing shoes for the last two hours. I look down at my dirty feet and smile.

Now from what I’ve just written, you would think I would find this appalling, maybe even revolting. But of course…I love it.

Half of the barn before the dancing begins

For five days this past week I went to visit Montreat, North Carolina. This small, Presbyterian-based community doubles as a conference center and college campus. During the summers, Montreat also becomes a day camp for pre-school aged children through high school teenagers. I worked here last summer, helping to run the day camp or “clubs.”

I never came here as a child like the majority of the staff. But my good friend Alice and her family were avid Montreat-goers. Her parents met at a barn dance, her family owns houses on Montreat property, and she grew up participating in clubs. Last year she asked both me and our mutual friend Kelley to join her and spend a summer in the hills of NC.

I had visited briefly before and couldn’t resist the opportunity.

Mountains of North Carolina.

“Now raise your free hand.
If you’re raisin’ your right hand, you’re a right.
If you’re raisin’ your left hand, you’re a left.
That’s how we call the steps.”

I looked around the crowded barn as we prepared to “promenade”. I remember the first time I came to one of these dances, nearly four years ago on my second visit to Montreat. I had expected to be annoyed. I had assumed there would be cowboy hats, cowboy boots and horrifying music. I also was prepared to feel out of place and excluded from the many Montreat traditions that some practice from birth.

Yet Alice, her family, and her friends partnered with me and taught me the important steps and customs for both line and novelty dances. Alice assured me that I would not be out of place, and promised not to wander far from my possibly very embarrassing first attempts.

Now, four years later I am glad they proved me wrong. I am so happy to have had the opportunity to work and visit Montreat, understand its funny little customs, and appreciate its people. It’s not the country; it’s a mountain retreat. There are not many cowboy hats, and if there were I would have to deal with it, because that would be the Montreat way. One of my favorite aspects of this community is that there is not one type of person. There are not just republicans, or democrats, or visitors, or regulars. They are a congregation of many. Last year I found myself standing with an independent, vegetarian, pacifist and a pro-gun, republican, meat-eater. And it was great.

Some of the helpful dance instructors...

“Bow to your partner.
Bow to your corner.
And bow to the Stony Creek Boys.”

We applaud as the barn dance comes to an end and then pile in all sorts of vehicles to go to Blue Cone for milkshakes and ice cream. I already know nearly 30 people will be in line before we even park, but I can’t help but smile as we weave through mountain roads to complete a traditional Friday night.

I’m sad I will only visit Montreat once this summer, but Ireland is fast approaching and new experiences are waiting to be made. In less than two weeks, I will be participating in a different adventure, meeting diverse people, and learning more about myself in an unknown atmosphere.

But of course a visit to Montreat must be made every summer.

Me, Alice, and Kelley stopping by Blue Cone after the barn dance.