Up and Out

I'm going to really miss eating alone. The loneliness that I felt at the beginning of summer in the my first few days of moving to Westwood have come around full circle, and now I find myself really longing for more of the solitude and familiar routine that has reigned over these past few months.

One of my worst, more irrational, fears when I was younger was of eating alone. There are too many negative stereotypes about people who dine in public alone - either they are social outcasts or they are somehow incapable of carrying out normal tableside conversation. Or they have some sort of gross deformity that repels even the most understanding of dining buddies.

None of these are really true, though, because people who are able to venture out and eat on their own in public have to be pretty dang comfortable in their own skin to do so.

Either that, or they have to quickly become comfortable.

Over the summer, every lunch break would be a mental and physical break from hours upon hours of talking, listening, writing, planning – exercising my journalistic prowess, if you will. I’d grab a pen and paper and just write – freeform, stream-of-conscience poems, blurbs, thoughts, stories, as I munched on a wrap or stabbed at some salad.

The first day I did this as a form of security, because I didn’t want to attract sympathy for my dining alone even if I had done it by choice. I wanted to get over this irrational fear of mine. But over the weeks, turning down lunch invitations didn’t feel so bad anymore – I rather looked forward to having a meal by myself and being able to gather my thoughts in an hour away from work, home, or obligations. I felt at ease in my solitude.

Friday was my last day at the Daily News, and I'm really going to miss working there. The features department has become my journalism family, and they've adopted me as one of their own, which is flattering. I'll miss Sandra's advice, Rob's sarcastic quips, Sharyn's blunt observations, even Simone's long, drawn-out stories about interviewing John Cusack and Dave Matthews.

I think that it was honestly very rare and lucky for me to stumble into such a nurturing work environment. My editors came off as cold and calculated in the beginning, but I've since learned that just because they aren't overly, fakely happy to see me all the time doesn't mean that they dislike me. In fact, I really appreciate the way they treat me like a real human being, as opposed to a golden intern spouting hope and naivety. They’re realistic and down-to-earth and so much what I needed to get my head back in the journalistic game.

Their quiet approval and support throughout the summer really helped me to move out of my comfort zone and learn to be more proactive in my quest for the story. If I wanted to cover an event or issue, I had to speak up. If I was unsure of what to do in a given situation, I had to speak up. Nothing came easy, and they intended it to be that way. You get what you give, and sometimes more if you’re lucky.

I got lucky.

I learned as I wrote, and really discovered what I was capable of doing as a journalist and as a writer. Simply being genuinely interested in a person and having good follow-through opened doors in ways that being pushy and condescending probably could not. Understanding and empathy made reporting a joy rather than a burden. Telling stories in intricate new ways was a challenge I loved to meet.

This is what I’m meant to do with the rest of my life, I’m pretty certain.

Well, maybe.

Don’t know how long this certainty will last, though, but I can say this: even in the face of a dying journalism industry, I think there’s still a place at the table for me. I hope there is.

Even if it means dining alone out in the real world, because at least I’ll have my thoughts to keep me company.