the inaugural newsletter!
Hi all,
It's been some time since I set this thing up, so if you subscribed months ago, thanks for your patience! Things have been busy since Saving Time published. I'm still getting used to it being out in the world, but have also been moved by the open-mindedness and generosity of readers willing to go on that weirdly-shaped journey with me.
One highlight among all the events was visiting Powell's in Portland, not just because they've been amazing supporters of both my books, but because I remember going there as a 16 year old and happening upon Alain de Botton's The Art of Travel -- a book that made me think I might like to write nonfiction someday. One of the workers at the store told me this kind of experience is common among writers who come there to do events, which is pretty incredible if you think about it.
I also got to visit KALX 90.7, UC Berkeley's 60-year-old college radio station and one of the counterexamples I gave in How to Do Nothing of the "algorithmic honing-in" of Spotify. While chatting with the KALX folks, I found out one of the reasons for the notable variety of music (something that got me through the pandemic and accompanied much of the writing of Saving Time). They not only require each set to have at least one song each from three different genres, they also apply the "grandma rule": the genres would have to be distinguishable to your grandma (so you can't have it be, e.g., doom metal, death metal, and black metal). Now I want to figure out how to apply the grandma rule to my whole life. Here's what just part of their physical archive looks like:
And one more highlight: After the San Antonio Book festival, as I was visiting a dear friend and fellow artist in Dallas, we tried out the Merlin Bird ID app. It's been recommended to me many times as "Shazam for birds," but I've never had much use for it here in Oakland because the local songs are very familiar at this point (including my favorite, the oak titmouse's "skidoo skidoo"). In Texas, the Merlin app worked really well, almost like using Google Translate in a different country. I loved how, after listing out the different audible birds, it would highlight each name in the list as its particular song was happening. Besides teaching me who was there, this made the time-based qualities of their impromptu composition much more palpable -- changing the way I listen even at home.
Bay Area folks: I'll be in conversation with Maddalena Bearzi and Alexis Madrigal, and signing books afterward, at the Bay Area Book Festival this Sunday, 5/7, at 11am (details here).
Friends down under: I'll be at the Brisbane Writers Festival, Auckland Writers Festival, and Sydney Writers Festival this month (see their websites for details). Everyone else, stay tuned for pictures of weird birds and maybe even a potoroo.
I also want to take a moment to point to a few projects by friends and colleagues:
• Brendan Tauszik, whose project (with Pendarvis Harshaw) Facing Life I referenced in Saving Time, documented people's successful work lives post-incarceration, as part of a campaign for L.A. County's Fair Chance Hiring Program.
• Sofía Córdova, whose piece "Underwater Moonlight" and words about observing the cuarentena appear toward the end of Saving Time, has a solo exhibition called "In My Mouth The Words Are Melting" at the Buffalo Institute for Contemporary Art. I am always floored by her work, especially in person. You're lucky if you can get over there and see it.
• Not as recent but no less important: I loved Lio Min's book Beating Heart Baby, which was published to rave reviews. It defies categorization -- even the most basic one, of "young adult fiction" -- and had a more interesting approach to memory and identity than anything I'd read in a while.
Lastly, I've done a number of interviews in the last couple of months, but I thought it might be nice to share something different here. Alexa Yang, a college student who first contacted me when she was in 8th grade, recently asked me for some advice. Toward the end of Saving Time, I emphasize the importance of seeing ourselves and others as existing within time, an always-unfinished amalgam of our experiences. In a similar vein, answering Alexa's questions gave me a chance to reflect on my trajectory as a writer and the incredible support that I had along the way. Thanks to Alexa for the questions and for permission to share them.
Q: One of the biggest questions I am currently faced with is how to make my impression stand out. I exist amongst a flood of similarly minded, similarly perceived peers who all present similar resumes and similar cover letters. As someone who worked with a myriad of students, what makes a particular person stand out? This is in reference to all contexts: class, resumes, internships, etc. Have you ever come across a student and thought to yourself “I can see their potential”, and if so, what about them compelled this line of thinking?
A: This is going to sound a little bit paradoxical, but I think one of the best ways to ultimately stand out is to not worry as much about standing out -- and focus more on what is meaningful to you for its own sake. Regardless of what that is, a distinct sense of commitment, curiosity, and sincere interest -- if it's real and genuine for you -- will come across without much effort on your part. Another way of thinking about this is to focus less on targeting specific attributes, skills, or topics, and more about cultivating your own natural enthusiasm, which affects your work in school but is not necessarily confined to the school context. I remember having certain students in my art class who just felt very awake and alive, and would approach assignments with an air of experimentation rather than being too worried about doing it the "right" way (which there often wasn't). They had this attitude not just toward class but toward life in general, and whatever they were interested in at the moment, they were really interested in.
I know that quieting down fear and perfectionism can be hard in a competitive environment. It can feel like there is one right answer, and if you don't get it, you're doomed. But if you can try and let all those worries drop away and imagine the most fascinating, ambitious questions or projects that you -- as a person, not just as a student or a prospective employee -- could possibly imagine at this particular moment, that's a good North star.
Q: What are the most valuable experiences you believe undergraduate students should invest their time in? (I find you especially qualified to give this answer given the subjects of your books.) While putting in the effort to get good grades, apply to internships, and establish networks are generally givens in college, what are some experiences that most people underestimate the value of?
A: I think it's important to put effort into finding what is most interesting to you (while knowing that this may be a lifelong process!), and to understand school as just one part of that. A few times when I was a freshman at Berkeley, I decided to take an hour and a half's worth of public transit across the bay to the Legion of Honor, an art museum overlooking the ocean. I didn't know anything about San Francisco at the time, and actually, I knew very little about art. This was before iPhones, so I had to write down all the directions, bus lines/stops, etc. and figure it out in advance. I wasn't entirely sure at the time why I felt compelled to do that, other than that it seemed interesting. In retrospect, it was important for all kinds of reasons: I saw some incredible art exhibits, I was in a context very different from college life, and I needed to have the experience of making plans for myself and fulfilling them (as opposed to doing an assignment). Of course, this might be more obvious to you given that you're in New York, where you're really in the midst of all kinds of things, especially in the arts. So I guess I would just suggest going out of your way to experience or attend things that seem intriguing even if "irrelevant" to your studies -- and if you can't find anyone to come with you, just go by yourself! College is amazing at teaching you how to learn, but knowing what you want to learn is kind of a bigger task, so it's good to cast a wide net and see what speaks to you.
Q: How did you decide on the topics of your books? Was it a matter of following your passions, or were there more factors influencing your decision? If it did result as a large part of your interests, what drew you to “the attention economy” and the issues of “saving time” in the first place? As someone who will probably do research in the future, deciding on a topic is a question I’ve increasingly grappled with.
A: I think that there is a kind of lifelong interest that is best described as a line of questioning. As you answer one iteration of this question, the next iteration naturally appears. In my class, for example, I used to have my students choose a theme for all of their projects -- if they had trouble coming up with something, I asked them to "think about what they think about": What is something that preoccupies you, a question that fascinates you or that you keep coming back to without trying?
As a teenager, I found myself drawn to books about perception and optical illusions. When I was in grad school, this morphed into an interest in perspective, which influenced the collages I made of manmade elements from a satellite view. The question there was something like "what happens to the familiar when we view it from an unfamiliar angle?" Having explored that, when I was at the dump, it turned into "what can we understand about systems when we view their everyday elements from an unfamiliar angle?" and "how does consumerism rely on our inattention?" Then the 2016 election happened and I wondered, "what is the political nature of paying a different kind of attention?" And then after talking to people about How to Do Nothing, the questions became "what is the relationship between time and the ability to pay certain kinds of attention?" and "how does perspective change how time feels"? You can see that all of these questions are kind of related -- the progress is less like a line and more like a spiral, or maybe like a good conversation where each speaker pushes the other into new territory. That said, when you're just starting out, you don't have to, and in fact you can't, see all of the subsequent questions you'll have in advance. You just need to start with your current question. The real trick is to find the live edge of your curiosity.
Q: Speaking of publishing, how did you begin your work as an author? Writing is something I’ve considered as a possible future endeavor, and I would love to hear your advice on how to get started!
A: I had dreams early on of being an author, which I pretty quickly sidelined because it seemed unrealistic (though I did major in English in undergrad). What actually happened was far more incidental: as a teacher for many years, I learned how to communicate and demonstrate ideas, which helped me write better artist talks and lectures. As you may know, How to Do Nothing was based on a talk by the same name that I gave at a conference in 2017. The transcript, which I posted on Medium, made the rounds online, and one of the people who saw it was the author Adam Greenfield. He contacted me to say he thought it could be turned into a book, and connected me with someone else who gave me guidance in terms of writing and submitting a book proposal (this was really crucial because I didn't have an agent at the time). I was fortunate to have it picked up by a small publisher, and as I did the research for the book, I began to absorb more ways of writing and articulating ideas that I admired.
I will say that now seems to me like a volatile time to be a writer -- it used to be the case that writers could get a lot of attention (as I did) on Twitter, but I am truly uncertain about what's going to happen with that site. So for now, I would just pay close attention to how the media landscape is changing. The other thing I'd say is that, more than having any particular kind of job, it's important to try to find a line of work that lets you learn and relate to people and the world in a way that feels true to your values, either because 1) that's what the job entails, or 2) it's a financially and emotionally sustainable day job that lets you pursue your own projects. From what I have observed, people who take a job because of its prestige or appearance don't generally end up happy, and while it's certainly true that some jobs are more fun than others, every job -- even being an author -- involves its own bullshit and challenges. If you really believe in what you're doing (whether on or off the job), those challenges will be more meaningful and less soul-sucking.
Q: What are the most important types of people one should surround themselves with? In all your years of work, how have you characterized the most helpful and sustainable relationships?
A: Two groups of people come to mind: peers and mentors. Peers are people doing similar work -- though I'd note that for me, it doesn't necessarily have to be the same kind of work (so my peers include artists, filmmakers, poets, etc. who are working toward a similar vision of the future) -- who you feel close enough to share your process and give/receive feedback. This is a relationship of friendly competition or no competition: because you're involved in each other's processes and helping each other to improve, you feel that their success is your success, and vice versa. (If someone is resentful of your success, they are not a peer and you should move on.) With this group, it is really important that you show up for each other: if someone has a reading or an exhibition, you're there; if they write something, you read it and you tell them what you think, etc. When I was making art in my 20s, my peer group started out as people I knew from grad school who were still living in SF. Now, because my work has changed, this group includes more authors (for example, I'm in an email group with six other women writers of color). One of the most joyful parts of being an artist and writer has been experiencing the work of my peers.
The other group is mentors. When I was just starting out, I was lucky to find a mentor who was an artist and longtime curator. He helped me with practical questions (like how much to charge for a commission, or what kinds of residencies might work for me), connected me with the local Asian American artist community, and just generally believed in me. Another mentor is a poet who was my thesis advisor in undergrad; we reconnected when I was writing How to Do Nothing. He's now a close friend, but also because he's much older than me and has known me for so long, he routinely has a perspective on my work that helps me understand both what I'm trying to do and how I can make it better. Especially if you have a tendency toward self-criticism, having a mentor is invaluable because they want the best for you and, being further along in life, they can more easily imagine all of the things you're capable of in the many years ahead of you.
And on that note, one perhaps unsolicited piece of advice that applies to me as much as it does to you: Remember that you're playing the long game. It's all going to add up in ways you may not yet be able to imagine. For now, just try to stay open and enjoy the ride!
That's all for now. Thanks for subscribing, happy spring, and I'm especially sending my best to anyone involved in the writer's strike.
Jenny
p.s. If you haven't already, you can find me on Mastodon at @jennitaur@social.coop.