Karina+S’s+OpEd+Article

I n Julia Albain’s novel, A Glamorously Unglamorous Life, she recounts her journey in New York City. As a 22 year old, Ohio native, she wasn’t necessarily prepared for a year in the city where concrete dreams are made of. As I indulge her fabulously written non-fiction book, I can’t help but dream. I dream of that life that she lived for a year. To live on a street in Brooklyn with trees that scatter the street. I dream of living in New York, being a writer, an actress, a director, just like her. And though she lived in a dingy apartment with an air mattress as a bed, a leak in her bedroom ceiling, and a mouse in the kitchen, I don’t care, and neither did she. She had her bad days, days she just wanted to go home, days she didn’t think she could make it through, but she did, and she is a much better person for that. I don’t care about the downfalls, they make us who we are, I just want to live that Bohemian life that she did. I don’t care if I have no money, as long as I have a pen and a piece of paper, I’m happy. My parents don’t understand this. They don’t understand that I want to go to college and be an English major with a minor in Theater. They don’t understand why I don’t want to be a teacher, and if I did why I would be a high school teacher as opposed to a college one. They don’t understand that if I don’t get into college, it’s not the end of the world for me. I will move to New York on a loan from the bank or from my parents, find a roommate and waitress until I make it. Stereotypical, I know, but I don’t care. This is what I want. I want to live like Mark and Rodger in Rent. I want to be able to struggle, to have that choice, I may or may not, I could make it, and I might not struggle. It is one in a million, and I know that, but someone has to be that one, so why can’t it be me? I’m angry that I can’t get angry. I can’t get mad at my parents for trying to keep me safe. I can’t get mad at my parents for trying to be reasonable. I can’t get mad at my parents, but holy hell am I mad. I want to scream and cuss at them because they care too much and they need to let me go. I want to cry because I can’t express to them that I just want to do this, there is no rhyme or reason, I just want to. And isn’t that okay? Isn’t it okay to buy something, to save something, to do something just because you want to? I want to be like Augustus Waters in The Fault in Our Stars and allow myself the pleasure of looking at something beautiful, my only reason that I won’t deny myself that joy. I’m angry that false hope is something we are constantly protected from. I’m mad that when it is for sure, it is encouraged, but when its only possible, it’s denied. I hate that. Yes, false hope sucks when you are terminally ill, doctors shouldn’t tell you that, they should always tell you the truth. Always tell the truth, but don’t deny the fall. We only know happiness because we know sadness. We only know struggles because we know achievement. We only know white because we know b lack. It is just a fact. This is how the world works, and it will always work this way. False hope sucks. It really does. I know that better than most people, but what I hate is that when the slightest possibility of false hope may be present, parents turn away from the possibility. My parents told me that it is okay if I don’t go to college. They told me it’s not for everyone. I was thankful for that. I was happy they would be okay with that. Then they told me that if I didn’t go to college, I would stay here. Ventura. This tiny little town chocker bock full of old Republicans. The town I love, the place I grew up in, the place that loves me. The place that is the equivalent of creative suicide. I can’t stay here. I have to go to New York. I just have to. I’m mad that parents have sense. That is what all of this really boils down to. Adults loose their sense of whimsy and spontaneity when they age. I hate that. I just hate it. I want my parents to be happy as long as I am happy, which is what they say is the truth, but I know it’s not. They want me to be secure, emotionally and financially. But, I wish it wasn’t like that. I wish they understood that though it may be risky and like jumping off a cliff, getting an English degree and a minor in Theater is what I know I want. I want to surround myself with those two subjects, because it is what I love and I know I can do it. I know that I don’t need a degree to be an author or an actress, but I want it anyway. I am jumping off of this cliff and climbing this hill, and I will do it with or without my parents support. I hate that. I hate saying that. I do n’t like feeling like I am guilty when all I want is to chase my dreams to the edges of the Earth. I don’t want to feel like a disappointment. I am angry that I am.

Think Before You Speak

When I finished editing my second book, I started Googling literary agents who represent Young Adult dystopian. There were few. But just that, few. When I finished my first book I found hundreds, almost thousands of agents willing to represent YA Romance. I couldn’t understand it. Dystopias are huge right? The Giver, The Hunger Games, and Divergent. Boys and girls my age love reading dystopias, so why are none of these agents accepting them? Then, I clicked on the second ‘o’ in the long Google at the bottom of the page. The entire page was scattered with articles from various newspapers and well known writer’s blogs warning all agents and especially publishers not to take on any new Dystopias, because they are on their way out. I was frustrated to say the least. This book that I was and still am so proud of will never have a chance to get published because some cranky old people decided to release a simple statement that gave my book poison in it’s name. I know many don’t know the authors’ journey to getting published, so let me summarize it very simple. First you write a book. Yay! That’s only the first step. Next, edit. Edit, edit, and edit over and over again until you have basically no errors. Then you write a query: this amazing little letter, one page long, where you pitch your book to agents or publishers. Lit agents and publishers normally ask for a query and just that. The frustration of that is a whole other story, but basically, you can’t tell much about the author or book from a query, even if it’s written well. Then, it’s waiting. Waiting for the agents to respond, while you dangle on the edge of your fingertips off of a cliff that looms over the death of your dream. Get ready for rejection. So much rejection, and there is no arguing, no asking for a second chance, maybe, maybe if you ask the agent a little bit after the fact, they will ask you to resubmit, which in agent terms are the golden words for maybe. (something that has recently happened to me!) But, be aware!!! This agent who said those golden words to you will forget that they did so remind them! If the agent’s assistant thinks the agent will like the query they pass it on, and then the agents shows it to all the other agents in the agency, and then (depending on the agency) they have a meeting about all the queries they liked that week and then select a few for each author. Then, you, the tired, puffy eyed, and weak will get your yes. Since I am still sitting here in AmEx, and not on a book tour, that hasn’t happened to me yet, and not because my book isn’t great. If I can only believe in one thing, it is my book. I don’t care if anyone thinks I’m narcissistic, this book is great and it would be huge, and how do I know that? Not because I’m the author, not because I love analyzing literature, and not because I’m biased, but because I am a teenager. Unless, you, the person who wrote in the NY Times that dystopia is a dying genre, are a teenager, please, ever so kindly, shut your huge mouth! You may write about the dying genres in the adult audience, or the agent dinosaur aged readers, I don’t care. I will not fight you, but I will fight you on this. It has been a long, long, long, LONG time since you were a teenager, maybe a century or two, and let me take the pleasure in telling you that times have changed! I asked all of my teen friends, and they all agreed that dystopia seems to be a timeless genre, it will always be popular as long as the book is good. Now, please, before you ruin another 17-year-old’s dream, think about what you publish. It affects other people. My book probably won’t get picked up until the craze over the Hunger Games ends. Also, a shout out to Lions gate for making that in five years, give or take. My dream is to be a published teen author, and I will no longer be a teen this year, so thank you for crushing my dream because you A.) Think you know everything. B.) Heard someone’s opinionated gossip on the subway back to your penthouse and took it as truth or C.) Once had a dream to be an author and wanted to get ahead in your own path, knocking out all the hopeful dystopian authors, knowing it was popular. If you are the latter, well, I would ask you to take a look at your life and reconsider your decision, but you don’t have a life, so I can’t. What we say and do has consequences, and it may be some 17 year old in California, or it could be hundreds, just think before you publish. What we all do and say has an effect. Let that be a good one, not a bad one.