Draft Four: Endings

Scroll for a best of the year list.

On January 15, 2023, I picked 41 people in my life as the first recipients of these letters, which I called Draft Four – a corny pun based on the current decade of my life, and a book on writing narrative nonfiction.

I imagined they’d ask why I was suddenly sending out a newsletter. “Let's just call it a year of weekly letters that I’ll use as tools to figure out the next chapter of my life”, I explained.

Nobody knew I was about to do this. I was sitting at the kitchen counter of a smelly AirBnB in Bucharest, where I had moved in my haphazard way of trying to process both the closing of the magazine I ran for 13 years, and the end of a romantic relationship that defined me as an adult.

“I have no clue what will be in here, or where it’ll take us”, I said in that first letter. “The unknown is scary as shit, but easier to tackle alongside other people.”

Here we are today, with more than 2.200 readers having joined that initial group of 41. It’s also the end of the year, that stereotypical time of retrospectives (this is a great tool!), reflections and resolutions. So, do I have it all figured out? Do you?

A pin I got as a gift from a friend who runs a production company. It probably expresses art director angst best, but it fits this newsletter, too.

Over Christmas I read David Grann’s new book of nonfiction, The Wager, the story of a British ship that capsized of the coast of Patagonia in the 1740s, and the men that fought over the story that was going to be told about their (literal) trials and tribulations. In the book, which is a subtle indictment of the ambitions and falsehoods of empire, Grann delivers a good reminder that no matter how we decide things in life – slow or fast, by procrastinating or by delegating to others, by intention or by chance – we’ll still come up with a story explaining why it had to be like that:

“We all impose some coherence – some meaning – on the chaotic events of our existence. We rummage through the raw images of our memories, selecting, burnishing, erasing. We emerge as the heroes of our stories, allowing us to live with what we have done – or haven’t done.”

It’d be tempting to put a narrative bow around Draft Four and say: “Thank you! I figured all of it out. All grief is gone. New job on the horizon. New adventures. New partners. Godspeed! Also, please buy my personalized online class, where I will take you through four ways of conducting your own search for meaning. It’s at a discount if you sign up today!”

But I won’t. I don’t have the answers, and I’m at peace about it. I actually still have many of the questions I had throughout the year: Who are you? What do you wake up in the morning for? When are you at your happiest? When are you in a state of flow? What would you do if you there were no restrictions on your choices? Where would you go?

If anything, I’m content in the uncertainty of living among questions. The main reason is that I’m acutely aware, as Grann writes, of the fallacy of our own mind. Whether you want to tell yourself a story or not, you will anyway. Whether I want to slot 2023 in a box or not, eventually I will. There will be a story I’ll tell about this year, about these letters and what they meant.

A book publisher reached out to ask me if I don’t want to collect some of them in a book. It was flattering, but I resisted. There were a few reasons – I didn’t want to monetize these writings, I don’t think all our slightly edited thoughts need to be bound between covers –, but I also didn’t want to make a that big deal out of it.

I anticipated some of this when I wrote about how we answer questions about becoming, about our multiple identities and allegiances, and how those shift constantly:

In life, we’ll shift categories, definitions, labels – hopefully as many as possible. But every little shift hurts. And one reason they hurt is that we’re often shifting away from a choice we made previously – sometimes years ago. And when we make choices, one way we work up the courage to do so is by committing to the change: “This is it! The choices that came before it were wrong! Finally: this is the right job, city, career, partner, country, color, ideology!”

But it’s often not the right answer. It’s simply the right answer for who you have become. The person who made the previous choices did the best they could. Integrating former selves into your narrative is essential, even though the integration is tougher.

These letters are the best I could do. They are not the answer, they are simply a part of the journey. And while I haven’t figured out the future of my personal or professional life, they did give me something that might be even more valuable. Or to be blunt, you gave me that something.

*

You gave writing back to me.

As a process of discovery, as a way to think, as a discipline (I didn’t miss one single week), as a source of joy, as a form of conversation and connection. A couple of months ago, after moving into my current place (remember the crazy renovation stories?), I wrote the lines below:

It’s embarrassing to admit, but I’ve looked forward to this: to Saturday, to silence, to setting Word to focus mode (highly recommend), to tapping these somewhat oily keys. I recently told a few people that writing (these letters) is the only moment during the week where I feel absolutely no guilt turning off my phone, or any other inputs, for a few hours.

I don’t care about what happens in the world and who is looking for me.

I am here. I’m thinking as I type. I am scared. I’m ecstatic.

What if this is who I am?

I always loved to write, and I love spending time with people who write.

Yet for the last 10+ years I identified mostly as an editor. I still love editing complex stories just as much, but embracing the editor identity was also an acknowledgment that the writing I was doing was mostly email and recommendation letters (plus the occasional opening essay for DoR’s print edition).

Over the past year I spent maybe an average of a workday every week on Draft Four; some were rough, some were lighter, but they were all fun and meaningful. And it’s not just these letters: I’m currently working – as a reporter and writer – on a couple of stories about sexual harassment in university settings. They are tough to tell, mostly because I’m scared shitless of getting something factually wrong. But every time I go back into the story to edit, tighten, rewrite, I’m ecstatic. What a privilege to be able to spend time polishing a piece of journalism, so it will be better received by the audience.

This is not new to me – the telling of true stories is who I am. I’ve touched on this idea throughout the year, too. “When I envision the day-to-day work – which is always less fun and more boring and tedious – I’d like it to be done in proximity to making true stories. Journalism is hard work, it’s painful and stressful. But I still find a lot of joy in the process of imagining it, doing it, editing it, debating it. Work is work, and dreaming of an ideal situation where everything is perfectly calibrated is an exercise in futility. To me, the more important question is: will this grind be both meaningful and fun?”

The answer is yes. And the more surprising answer is that I want writing – not just conceptualizing and editing – to be a bigger part of my working life.

*

This leads me to the question some of you have asked: will Draft Four keep going?

The short and honest answer is this: in some form or another, yes.

The long answer is that I’ll take a few weeks off from sending it, to think about updating part of its purpose and figuring out some of its built-in tensions. Especially the length! I didn’t think I’d write a year’s worth of 2.500 word essays for Sunday morning coffee! (There’s also the Substack Nazi problem to consider).

While I love writing in English (I find it easier, and I like myself better as a writer in English), part of me would like to write more in Romanian, especially in a complicated year like 2024 – four rounds of elections coming up in a country as polarized as I’ve ever seen it.

It’s also been humbling to me to recognize how much it meant to be seen by you. Part of the reason we write is to belong. I’m not good at taking up space in real life. I’m great at containing other people’s problems or needs, I am a great listener, I get over my shyness by asking questions, and I’m enriched by the stories of others. But part of me still struggles to ask to be listened to or to be contained.

This is also the fallout of many years of being a “boss”: you trade being a flawed human, for power. I’m only slightly exaggerating, and those of you who manage know this reality: other people need you be there for them, listen to them, give them space, nudge them in the right direction, improve their work. But they don’t provide that in return. (And they probably shouldn’t.)

I didn’t anticipate this – I thought you could both lead and stay a flawed and vulnerable peer. But there is a line, and I know now I want to be on the side of the line that doesn’t want to trade being seen for the sake of leading. (I still dream of work where both are possible, of course.)

What I mean is that I don’t want to use these letters simply as forms of sharing and connecting over the hard things in my life. I believe pain and joy always co-exist, and that life is a blend of your inner turmoil, and the outer world’s ups and downs. For 51 letters, your response has always been stronger to ones that focused on personal struggles, and I know why that happens. But if I keep going, I want to write just as much about what’s out there in the world (like I did about Moldova). I don’t want to risk solipsism and self-indulgence – there’s plenty of it in your Instagram feed.

I also want to ponder over the idea that we’d be better off if we did more things together. If we hung out, if we processed things in conversation. Writing is conversational, you replying adds a level of discussion, but it’s not quite hanging out. So how could we do that more?

And finally, money. I am the biggest supporter of creators of any kind who ask their public to pay for the work. But I’m bad at it, and I’m especially bad at it when it comes to writing that I feel helps me, too. The conundrum is probably simple: if I ask you for money (I wouldn’t paywall it thought), I can do more writing (and take less jobs just to pay the bills). But would money also risk spoiling the fun and adding more pressure to the relationship?

*

Questions, questions, questions, but again, the short answer is that I’ll keep writing Draft Four in one form or another.

My final two thoughts for the year relate to voice and intention – which are also about writing but go beyond it. This is what I said in a letter, last Spring:

It’s only recently that I understood something I didn’t when I was in my twenties. A country – or a cultural space – with a history of repressed trauma will push back against those who want to unpack it. Empathy will sometimes be met with sarcasm. Sincerity can crash into cynicism. Tragedy is met with terrible cruelty.

I remember that in my mother’s final days we used to sit in bed and watch TV. The president at the time had been suspended, and the country was preparing for a referendum. The coverage was mean-spirited, to say the least. It was all conflict and attacks, nothing that would be helpful to the average citizen. That’s how you journalists are, I remember her saying. It hurt, but she was right.

In the wreckage that is late stage capitalism, our sarcasm, cynicism, self-involvement, and trolling behaviors (have you seen Romanian Threads?) are turbo-charged. I appreciate the occasional shit-posting or righteous outburst. But we’re a place with a lot of trauma to unpack, and a lot of violence embedded in daily life. Which is why I believe we need more love, acceptance, vulnerability and nuance in our discourse, even at the risk of being laughed out of the community or marginalized.

I don’t think it’s misplaced to keep hoping we can heal, that we can do better things or create better societies in which more people can lead more dignified lives. I’m not naïve: with wars raging, with enormous private companies calling the shots, with power-hungry politicians that have stopped pretending they care about anything but their own well-being, making anything better is tough.

So, as my intention for 2024, I’ll turn to the words of philosopher Costică Brădățan, whose writing on failure has been essential to me: „Instead of talking endlessly about making the world a better place – usually an excuse either to do nothing or to wield power over others – we should perhaps try a little harder and make the world a less horrific place. A tall task, no doubt, but one worth trying.”

Here’s to less in 2024: less grief, less ego, less hiding, less fear.

---

SIDE DISHES:

I went back though the 2023 Draft Four archive and picked 10 letters that were dear to me, but also spoke to many of you. Thank you for allowing me into your inbox and your life, thank you for seeing me, and thank you for reading. I’ll write again, soon.

1. On becoming. On shedding identities, becoming, and learning to be truly kind to yourself

2. How old are you in your head. On turning 42, growing up (or not), and the meaning of life

3. Start where you are. In life, pain and joy always co-exist.

4. In praise of failure. The many ways we fail: in life, in politics, in the way we're built

5. My facts, my truth. What do we do in society when we all have our own set of facts?

6. 20+ jobs I could do. That time I listed more than 20 jobs I could do in the future

7. Be ready for everything. On empathy and remembering my mother

8. Nobody is coming to save journalism. But we could.

9. The world is not a focus group. On being who you were meant to be

10. The price we pay. Everything we do (or decide not to do) comes with a cost.

BONUS: Writing advice from a master's craftswoman, and my Christmas list of 24 things to read, listen, and think about.