on nostalgia

When I was about ten years old, I was living in San Diego. As a half-Turkish kid in such a sunny city, my skin was ten shades darker than usual and my hair was bright blonde. I was what my family affectionately dubbed a "towhead." I've never looked up that term before today. Turns out it's a term from the 1800s that likens light hair to a type of flax.

I lived in a condo at the time. My parents were only about 26 years old, which is so bizarre to think about now at 27 myself. I wandered around my neighborhood on my bike, picking up lizards and the occasional baby bird that had fallen from its nest.

The year was 2008, so it was all about Twilight, High School Musical, and Pokémon. I often visited a neighborhood friend who had a ton of cool Pokémon cards. He'd try to teach me how to actually play, but I didn't want to lose any cards in a battle. I'd beg him for the shiny cards he held and he'd begrudgingly hand them over. They're probably worth a solid bit of cash now. Too bad my little sister chewed on most of them in 2009.

Nostalgia is a weird thing. Not exactly revelatory to say so. I ruminate a lot about my past despite knowing it's not the healthiest habit. I try to brush those memories to the side, then I'll get a TikTok of people tearing open packs of Pokémon cards searching for that holographic gem. The next video in the scroll has the sounds of mourning doves cooing, asking the user to remember the 2000s, accompanied by a slideshow of photos that depict a child's room. A swing set with monkey bars beside it. A sunset over a home that looks strikingly similar to the one I grew up in.

I have lot's of fond and bizarre memories of that time. In 2008, I spent a lot of time on my computer. I got in trouble for watching the music video for "Stacy's Mom" on repeat. I ventured outside with my iPod nano and listened to Avril Lavigne. Most important of all, I fell in love with reading that year.

I hated school. I've always had trouble respecting authority, and my parents were so young and preoccupied with their lives, which meant I was on my own to commit to doing homework. That year, I was assigned a book called The Last Dragon. A precocious elf, the last of its kind, goes on an adventure to find the last dragon. The elf went by Yorsh, short for Yorshkrunsquarklejolnerstrink. I raced ahead of the assigned pages, much to the ire of my teacher. I still have that book on my shelf. I stole it from school.

Not long after that I began journaling about my days. It's a journal I still write in to this day, committed to filling out all its pages. I crammed the first 20 pages with the name of whoever I had a crush on that week. Decades later, it became packed with stories of whatever thing at work I was worried about that week.

My writing journey, as I've oft repeated, eventually led to a blog on Tumblr. I wrote thousands of words about boys and school, which I deleted off the web shortly before becoming a journalist. Extremely dumb move. I wish I still had those copies.

Lately, I can't bring myself to write about much else than raw emotions. I wrote several drafts about an AI conference before giving up and turning it into a story about earnestness. It's gathering dust in my Google Drive at the moment.

I felt pretty heartbroken to lose my love of writing. I saw this tweet recently: "a cool way to ruin your life is to get a job you find even marginally meaningful." Unfortunately relatable.

When I was choosing my career, I had planned to become some sort of technologist. That's what I got my degree in. But I loved writing more than anything. My grandpa told me that money doesn't matter, you need to follow your passion. So I did. What I didn't realize is that commodifying your passion is a very good route to burnout.

I told a friend recently that I'm so burnt out from writing I can't even touch my blog without anxiety. She responded thoughtfully: "Don't let them ruin writing for you. Your voice and your talent and your gift belongs to you. I know that's easier said than done. And I know what it feels like to feel like the one thing you felt good at no longer belongs to you. But don't let them take your gift from you. Period." Shoutout to Christina.

Still, writing has been a hard relationship to win back. It turns out, I'm not exactly passionate about explaining what Jack Clark said in a panel discussion. I do love dissecting technology in a snarky way though. And contrary to the popular stereotype of journalists, I do actually love technology. I would agree with the mob that's rare, though.

So I suppose I'm still trying to figure out how to tackle that. What is bringing me to write today is a feeling. It's the tickle in my heart when I think back to adolescence. Nostalgia! Don't you remember the sun on your skin as you messed about with your friends outside all those years ago? It's something I hold much more dear than the cold circuitry displayed in a launch video from an a16z portfolio company. The latter brings me little joy to write about, even to dog on.

I once had an editor tell me that my writing has too much "throat-clearing." She was right! I don't want to give that up though. It's how I talk. It's the warmth, at least to me, that feels like the sun in San Diego that holds a reader through a calculated topic. Maybe that's not exactly great writing. Whatever!

In high school, at lunch break, I'd sneak to a dark corner at the edges of the quad with my Moleskin notebook. One afternoon, I wrote that I don't like writing with rules. Isn't this supposed to be an expression? Why do I have to abide by anything? There's that trouble with authority again.

This piece would probably make any editor cringe. I love mess though. I love sitting here to jam out and yap. I'm at least committing to that.

I sent Christina this draft. She's always honest with me. She replied:

"When we turn what we love to do into careers, the stuff we love becomes work. And that sucks. But I hope no matter what, no matter who reads it, whether it is published or not, that you keep writing."