Nothing spoke to me on such a personal level as the last episode of Girls. Watching Hannah's every shooting star Hannah every wished on worked, as she kept it real in a way no one in New York City who has to pay their own rent does. She admitted being a success at writing what you want to write is the only success, not writing what people tell you to write, even though that can be fun for a little while, especially when there are free snacks.
And walking away, and the silent funeral that brings might be a right of passage to adulthood. It also might be the saddest departure from a dream to a reality that every young writer travels alone. The question is do you become the GQ sponsored writer who's poetry successes fade away with memories of how your grandmother used to make you a certain cobbler, or was it pudding, you can't remember now. That what happens. Your art becomes cobbler. Something that used to make your friends cry is now a distant memory of mushy sadness.
That magazine writer, concerned with the her new kitchen's tile, because goddamn it she can afford to be, and to buy it, and let's be honest, when we all first moved to New York City we would have felt lucky to afford Thai food more than once a month. I was Hannah. I was 20 something and turned down a front desk position at Interview Magazine because the pay was so low I would have had to commute from Hoboken and knew that by the time I finally was back home, sleeping on a futon, my boyfriend probably cheating on me, there would have been no writing of my own left. Yes, I would have gotten to see Joaquin Phoenix that day, and maybe even naked, or shirt off, but what about my writing Joaquin? You don't even care about me on the inside.
And to conclude, I'm torn. I have to say I love Jenna Lyons, because she's not wrong. She works hard, she wears those glasses, she spends her hard earned money on making her Manhattan apartment even better and at the end of the day, it's clear she doesn't need poetry there are a million Hannahs for that.