Freshly thirty and newly heartbroken, the second class of our writers' workshop found me at a very midlife crisis time in my life. On Monday, things ended with the man I thought I might marry -- the one I'd spent my 20's with; the one who might've been the father to my children. On Tuesday, I turned thirty, alone, and contemplated my life and future while floating in the jacuzzi at the Russian baths. The baths were empty, practically, but for three of us, all of whom had birthdays on January 13th. In my writing class, too, I was surrounded by January birthdays. Me, my teacher, and the sweet nerdy man from Toronto all were born in that bleakest of months.
"Forty for men is the female thirty," I heard the hosts of a popular dating podcast say, yesterday. "Where you're like, I have time, but I don't have forever." They nailed what I was feeling. If the slate of my love life was being wiped clean at this particular juncture, I'd better get moving. A new start, I thought to myself, the image of Tobias Fünke's vanity plate flashing in my mind.
True Capricorn that I am, it felt nice to have writing class homework to focus on while I took a state of the union on my life. Each week, we were meant to turn in 5-10 pages of work, read what our classmates had submitted, and give notes. I had fiftyish pages of my novel already written, and worked on adding to that number throughout the week, while I turned in the first ten for workshop, so that everyone would be oriented in my story. So sure, maybe my personal life was a great unknown, but at least this class was infusing my writing life with new purpose, structure, motivation. Caps are known for being disciplined, practical, hardworking, and ambitious. As I hacked away at my ten pages, I thought of the vision board I'd created just two weeks earlier at the start of 2026. I would finish a novel draft this year.
Since our first class, the distractingly beautiful former beauty editor had gone to a Jungian analyst friend and had her Tarot cards read with regards to her writing life. Genius! I thought, and reminded myself to reach out to my Jungian Tarot-enthused friend who's currently studying at a psychoanalytic institute in New York. Surely, she would have insight into my process and where I should be headed in my book.
In the section of my book that I turned in, we meet Mila, my protagonist, who's getting her PhD in creative writing at the University of Michigan. Her mother, who was mentally ill, left her family when Mila was a teenager, leaving behind her diaries. As her dissertation, Mila plans to pick up where those left off, and fictionalize the ending that she herself never got. We then meet Rachel, her thesis advisor, mentor, and pseudo mother figure in the program. She's an old woman, and Mila totally idealizes her. Idealizes that stage of life, even, when most of the action has already played out. She fantasizes about being Rachel's age, and knowing just how the plot unfolded, as opposed to the terrifying uncertainty she's faced with, in her late 20s.
Perhaps it's the perfect time for me to be writing into that feeling right now, as I look toward the next decade with so many unanswered questions. The thirties are pivotal -- for women, especially -- everybody knows. The decisions I make now, it feels like, will impact the trajectory of the rest of my life. I suppose that can be said of any age, any time in life, but it feels particularly salient at thirty.
I love the way my teacher talks about Mila. It feels great to be read -- especially new work that hasn't yet seen the light of day. "She's living a textual life," he says. "She's a translator of her mother's psyche and soul." I write that down. What a beautiful way of putting it. He describes my writing as overflowing consciousness; Bernhardian. I'm intimidated by the breadth and seriousness of my teacher's references and those of my classmates. "Have you ever seen The Debussy Film, by Ken Russell?" The distractingly beautiful former beauty editor asks me. I hadn't, of course, seen this obscure 1965 TV documentary, but resolved to look it up on YouTube later. "The movie is about them making a movie about Debussy's life," she explains. The interruptions -- the instability of the film -- reminds her of how I write.
My novel is told from the first person perspective. The distractingly beautiful former beauty editor tells me that "it's a high speed inner dialogue." She has good insight into my character. She asks, "what would it look like to pare that down during Mila's phase of depression and malaise?" Yep, brilliant. I make a mental note to text my Jungian analyst friend. She's got the right idea.
Writing from first person perspective is a lot of inner monologue. My teacher tells me that my narrator needs to wrestle more with herself. In order to make things really interesting. In order to make things really real. He tells me that I need an oblique strategy. That every time Mila takes one of her own thoughts for granted, she immediately must invert the logic of that thought out of a restlessness, an anxiety, and a distrust of her own inner process. He recommends a card-based method pioneered by Brian Eno, where each card poses a challenging constraint for beating writer's block. To this same end, the distractingly beautiful beauty editor recommends using the Proust questionnaire, which I'm familiar with, since it comes at the end of each issue of Vanity Fair. I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, I'm cultured enough to get the reference. I make note of everything else I need to read and look into when class is done: Brian Eno, Bernhard, J.G. Ballard, Debussy.
We continue to workshop my novel, and I receive more abstract direction from my teacher. "Every scene needs some kind of release," he tells me. "I want each scene to have a spiritual orgasm." It's a crude way of putting it, maybe, but I know (at least theoretically) just what he means. "Something needs to erupt and grab hold of the story in a way that's unexpected." Yes, yes, I agree. But how can I do that with every scene?
He tells me too that my narrator knows too much. That it's natural for us writers to give our characters knowledge. That it takes a lot to remove said knowledge from a character. In fact, he has this same critique for all of us. We're playing god. It's our tendency, as humans. Maybe, I realize, writing a novel is a way for me to sublimate my own desire to play god. To know just how life is going to play out. What my thirties will look like. Will I end up getting married? Will I end up with the children I so predictably want? Will I have career success? Will this novel of mine end up getting published? I think, then, of Mila. Of the way she puts her mentor Rachel on the pedestal. The way she'd like to curl up into the nooks and crannies of her life, which feel so cozy in comparison to her own. The old condo filled with art from her husband's life as a curator. The five cats, with whom she lives. It feels simple, easy even. Like Rachel has all the answers, simply by virtue of already having lived out the bulk of her life.
Co-Star tells me that Capricorns like to direct the scene. Certainly, we writers do. Omniscience, control. It eases my anxiety. This year, in addition to finishing my novel, I've resolved to rebuild a spiritual practice. I would like to find god. The god I've lost sight of. To remind myself that I -- the writer, the narrator of my own inner monologue --- am not it. There is, in fact, something greater than myself. And for right now, I'm finding it in the writing.
