Stop being more successful than me
It's genuinely getting a little rude.
In your 20s, one friend could be a barista, and the other could be an Oscar-nominated director. Both careers are very respectable, however, it is obvious that one is more notable than the other.
I do not have a barista friend (I should) and I do not have an Oscar-nominated friend (I should not, per this essay). What I do have is weird parasocial relationships with people who have become extremely successful in their 20s, leaving me feeling like I’m running out of time. This is one of those posts that is going to come across as annoying to anyone over the age of 25. Listen to Olivia. She thinks she’s running out of time at 25. What an idiot—you must be thinking.
And you would be right, because I will look back on this letter in 25 years, having built a successful career, my gorgeous husband and our genetically blessed children also successful and happy, and my laugh will echo off of the walls in our ginormous home. I was so worried about nothing…I will think.
Friday night, my best friend from home and I planned to let loose at 169 Bar after dinner with her twin sister. A red wine carafe from Kiki’s and a few tequila sodas, you do the math. I was home and in bed by 10 pm. I woke up on Saturday feeling horrible and wanting to watch TV for the rest of the foreseeable future. I parked my ass on the couch, opened my Letterboxd watchlist, and selected Boogie Nights.
I wanted to watch the movie that arguably launched Paul Thomas Anderson’s career from indie master to one of the great cinematic artists of our time after reading this Substack from Playboy, an interview they resurfaced hot off PTA’s first Oscar win:
Where he discussed the film, something he created at the age of 27.
27? Boogie Nights came out when he was Twenty Fucking Seven?
I was sent into a spiral. Here I was, hungover, eyeliner stained on my pillowcases, exhausted, playing Animal Crossing, watching one of the most prolific films of the 20th century, made by someone who was less than two years older than me?
This was the third bout of young fame I had come to realize recently. A few weeks ago, when I went to a book talk about Cazzie David’s latest release, I did some math while waiting for the conversation to start. If Cazzie was one of my favorite writers because of a book I read six years ago, and this latest book, Delusions, was all about her turning 30, that means the first book was when she was TWENTY FUCKING FOUR?
Of course, it’s important to note her status as a nepo baby, her being the daughter of Larry David granting her unrivaled access to film sets, publishers, and editors that would read her first rough draft of a book or a script. Paul Thomas Anderson seems to be lightning in a bottle himself, a once-in-a-generation talent that from a young age, people had trust in their vision. He wasn’t a nepo baby, it was 1995, and he was persistent. It’s like one of those things your dad says to when you complain, when I was your age, I walked 10 miles to school, already started my own company, blah, blah, blah.
I’m lucky to have a great job that gives me creative freedom and exposure to cool things. I went to art school, which is college for people who have aspirations greater than a company or tenure. For four years, I was surrounded by people who wanted to start their own brand, be an independent artist, a famous photographer, an actress. All of our projects were working towards that. It ignited an entrepreneurial spirit in a way that’s different than an Ivy League business school or a Forbes 30-under-30 list, you just need to make something really good that people want to consume. Something that’s subjective and not for everyone, but for a lot of people.
Recently, I’ve been telling select close friends and strangers I meet for dates or in bars that I want to write a book (now I’m telling the internet). I’ve wanted to for a few years (and even started outlining and test-writing a few chapters), but as I witness and consume art made by people my age no matter how they got there, I feel like I’m staring at an hourglass that’s running out of sand. I have fantasies of going to Paris alone for a week and just letting it rip, writing for ten hours a day and then going to a wine bar to take a breath, cosplaying the mysterious American young writer. Maybe I’ll go to L.A. and let the Santa Ana winds take me away like they did Joan Didion. Or maybe I’ll save the money and just do it from my living room floor, turning into a hermit until it’s done. But what’s romantic about that?
This pressure isn’t new. I jokingly talked about it a lot when I turned 25, because it was the age that Lena Dunham created Girls, the magnum opus of television for me personally. I may be mentally 13, but the reality of my biological age is making me go through some type of quarter-life crisis. I have Hello Kitty clothing and stuffed animals on my bed. Did Lena have that, too?
As I write this, my sister texted me:
It was very ironic and also very real. I genuinely feel like Barbara, the forgotten bisexual from the Real Housewives of New York, season 11, giving a pink toolbox to anyone who will take it.
Clearly I don’t feel that pressured, because I spent the whole weekend drinking tequila sodas and applying eyeliner. I woke up at noon on Sunday. It’s all for the book, I tell myself.
oh barbara…. you will never be famous.
Write the book from Atlantic City, xx