woodstock
some incomplete thoughts on nostalgia
in the summer of 1994 some friends of mine did* a small act of vandalism: they made a template and spray painted ™ on the welcome to woodstock sign.
welcome to woodstock™
it was a couple months before woodstock 94 and they were sick to death of the commercialism. listen, we were like sixteen years old. it was probably the first full-scale example we’d seen, despite our hometown’s long history of being artsy, but in a commercial way. artsy™ if you will.
*i can tell you about this now because (1) i will never reveal their names, and (2) i looked up the statute of limitations on property damage and they’re in the clear.
so, yeah. i grew up in woodstock, new york, among other places (the main other place was new york city). i lived near the top of meads mountain and spent a lot of my teens on the village green, back when it was actually green. i was friends with a lot of local bands and went to shows at the community center (where my mom and stepdad met at a square dance night), tinker street cafe, the joyous lake, and an assortment of venues ranging from an industrial loft in kingston to someone’s basement.
it was pretty fucking amazing.
in new york, i took theater classes with people who are famous now. like, egot winner famous. in woodstock, i hung out with people who played woodstock 94 (not the same ones who did the vandalism).
perhaps it is understandable that so much of my work deals in nostalgia. i came of age in a damn exciting time, and i had some adventures—or at least, i was near a lot of people having adventures. now i live in a state of nostalgia, fighting against the conservative urge to paint it in too rosy a light.
at the moment, i am deeper in it than ever, working on a novel about a woman in her forties reconnecting with a band she was friends with in her teens. none of the characters are based on real people—not even me, or, like, hanson (i did not know hanson)—but there are elements borrowed, and i am treading so carefully to make sure i don’t write anything that could hurt those real people or make the past sound too magical.
i wonder sometimes, though, if i am actually nostalgic for the time or for the place (or for the secret third thing: both).
a few months ago, i was asked to write something for an upcoming (and as-yet unannounced) anthology. having a story solicited is one of the few things on my short fiction bucket list, so as you might imagine i was absolutely delighted. except, i was in the middle of reading for an award and could barely remember my own name, let alone how to write short fiction. i had not finished a single story since the summer of 2023.
i said yes anyway, and managed to get an extension because the original deadline would have given me less than two weeks to write it (due to my own schedule, not theirs).
the extended deadline was today, and when i got up this morning i had a word file with about 700 words, all of them possible starts to a story i had absolutely not written yet, and a separate file with five bullet point ideas for the story.
reader, i finished that story.
to be perfectly honest, i am shocked. i did not think i could do it, even with my lifelong tendency to finish work on the due date. the story is a fairly rough draft, but the editor will work with me to get it ready for publication. i feel like i have cheated death, won the lottery, and gone to the beach without getting a sunburn, all at once.
xxoo
annika