Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

Visiting the Ghosts of Your Journal’s Past

Wednesday, October 23rd, 2024

The seasons are changing, the sun is retreating, and midterms are looming. It’s time to buckle up for a serious talk on mental health!

When I finished my last journal, I remember flipping through the pages and seeing a lot of repetitive statements. On my worst days, I often wrote, “I wish I could get rid of these kinds of thoughts.” As someone who suffers from anxiety, I have a hard time turning my brain off, especially if it believes something terrible could happen. I dwell over a lot of What-ifs that are outside of my control, which often leads me to worry constantly. When I have more intense anxiety attacks, I have a tendency to mull over the same existential crisis, “What if this is going to be the worst day of my life?,” for hours until I reach some kind of resolution; sometimes this is just the day coming to an end and I thankfully realize nothing bad happened. By that point, I am grateful, but I am also emotionally drained.

Rereading my journal was a hard pill to swallow. While I was aware most of my journaling takes place when I’m not doing well, I had difficulty facing the fact that maybe I wasn’t doing as well mentally as I had thought. Wishing I had seen more “Today, I have felt great,” or “I felt anxious, but I was able to overcome it and enjoy my time,” I also felt disappointed in myself for not writing more appreciation for the little wins I experience daily. I immediately realized I wanted to work towards rewiring my brain to think positively first rather than with worry and panic. When I brought it up to my therapist, she said it was important that I recognized my thought patterns, as now we could work towards dismantling them–fun times!

Hands-on activities like painting, building, organizing, and decorating help me relieve my anxiety and feel more in control of my thoughts.

Visiting the ghosts of your journal’s past is not always a happy-go-lucky experience. On one hand, it can be hilarious to reread journals from 5 or 6 years ago, laughing at the things you used to think were problems, or even just the way you wrote (“Oh my gosh, the way Matthew constantly touches his crotch is like, SOOOO icky”). On the other hand, rereading your journals can be an eye-opening experience that brings about a new level of self-awareness. It can show your growth, or it can show you that maybe you need some extra help. 

What I learned from rereading my journals and talking about it with my therapist was that I experience unwanted, intrusive, and repeated thoughts that cause anxiety. Because of this, I need to take active measures to recognize my anxious thoughts versus my actual thoughts. I challenge my anxious thoughts, stay active, and, most importantly, give myself compassion. Luckily, my journal is a great outlet to do so.

When I journal for help with my anxious thoughts, I usually start by reminding myself that while anything can technically happen on any given day, the worst outcome is not the most plausible one. I take time to write down, “I guess today could be the worst day of my life, but it is far more likely that today will be a beautifully ordinary day, so I should focus on that instead.”

Additionally, sometimes I write out all my worries on paper so they feel less scary. I find that saying your fears out loud, writing them down, or talking them through can help you face them, process them, and eventually turn them into personal growth. It’s also important to write what you hope for. For example, one could write, “I have anxiety, and I fear something awful will happen today that will cause me immense pain, but I know that is far from likely, and I am actually just being triggered by ____ ____ and _____. I am strong, everything will work out the way I intend it to, and there’s no valid evidence to suggest otherwise.” At the end of writing out my worries, I add “The End” to close off all of my worries and end the cycle of thoughts. Usually, I’m left feeling like I’ve done all that I can, and I have to be content with that for now.

Going on walks and listening to podcasts (currently obsessed with Giggly Squad!) also helps me lessen my anxious thoughts.

What I’ve also practiced in my journal is writing mantras. These help me challenge negative thoughts and build confidence in myself against my existential anxiety. I also say these mantras out loud when I do not have access to my journal. I tell myself “My fears are not my reality” and “I am in charge of how I feel, and today I choose happiness.” It may feel odd at first, but it does help! We may not have control over most things, but we do have control over how we respond to the world around us.

While these are just a few journaling techniques, there are many more that can be helpful for those struggling with their mental health, or those just having a bad day in general.

As you move about your day, remember that no one is perfect. Give yourself the grace you deserve, and prioritize your mental well-being. Life can be very overwhelming, which is why finding tools (plural!) to help us through the harder moments is so important.

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Brenna Sheets is a graduate student in Emerson College’s Writing and Publishing M.A. program. She is also a teacher, currently specializing in middle school history. Her hobbies include going on long walks, reading and writing, and watching bad television.

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Today I Wanted to Throw Things (But I Wrote Instead)

Friday, October 18th, 2024

Drumroll, Please.

Today, I want to talk about the patriarchy (Run!).

As I have gotten older, I’ve become more and more startled by the sexism I’ve endured. I always naively assumed that these experiences would diminish as I got older. When I was a teen, I thought being an adult meant men would finally start to think with the heads on their shoulders. Between the ages of 18 and 22, I shamefully let a lot of college guys off easy. In reality, they deserved a punch in the right place, and it was all for the same reason: It was ingrained in me to think “Well, they’re just boys, right?” equating them to dogs that keep shitting on the carpet well after their puppy years. I also didn’t want to be the girl with a problem who was no fun because she couldn’t take certain “jokes,” or the girl who cared too much about right and wrong. Now, at 24, I am finally and simply beside myself. There is no other way to put it. I keep thinking about how the mistreatment of women gave rise to James Tiptree Jr.’s Houston, Houston, Do You Read?, a story where men no longer exist and the effects of the patriarchy are long forgone.

In the past few years, what has surprised me the most is the number of women I’ve met who perpetuate the patriarchy: women who’ve belittled me because I’m younger than them so my presence makes them insecure about their age: women who believe being unmarried makes my value as a person decline; women who objectify and shame each other, and unapologetically support men who do. 

I have just started my third year of teaching at a new school, and there is no AC. The classroom I teach in faces the afternoon sun. When I started working in September, temperatures reached well above 85 degrees Fahrenheit inside. After about a week of suffering in slacks, I wore business casual shorts. The fabric went past my fingertips when I put my arms down by my side—adhering to the school’s dress code policy. I even asked my boyfriend if he thought they were fine, and he said yes. Despite other female teachers wearing skirts and dresses the same length to no complaint, I was pulled into the office by an older woman in the administration. She said, “You’re new and so young, so you’re already drawing attention from the parents. You wouldn’t want to give people the wrong idea, too.” I froze. I think eventually I just said, “Okay.”

We are not always in such a privileged position to say what’s on our minds. Though we’d often like to let people have it without facing some kind of consequence, life doesn’t work that way for the majority of us. Let’s not forget, too, that BIPOC communities and women are often punished more harshly for the same mistakes as white men in the workplace. The things some men got away with doing and saying at my old jobs without even a pat on the wrist were absurd. The number of women I saw get let go for less harmful or comparable instances was worse. 

When you’re angry, it’s good to get out and enjoy nature for a while.

What’s Your Damage, Heather?

Believe it or not, this is not some exposé of the U.S. education system and its flaws. The sad fact is that I’ve simply had a very ordinary epiphany. I guess I’ve fully realized that the patriarchy is everywhere, toxic masculinity is everywhere, and I am just another young woman who’ll have to deal with it for the majority of my lifetime. After the shockwave of this realization subsided, all I wanted to do was curse out every person around me.

When we desire to hurt those who have hurt us, what are our options? Which ones leave us in the healthiest position (with the smallest chance of getting arrested)? 

In an NPR interview last week with Rachel Martin, Margaret Atwood said, “I’m quite vengeful. I can’t help it. It’s who I am. So I make [critics] into idiotic people in fiction.” This idea of rerouting your anger and using it for creative, internal gain is similar to rage journaling. 

Rage journaling, where you write out all your nasty anger until it diminishes and some clarity of mind creeps in, is less preferable to, let’s say, smashing someone’s windshield. This is because we crave a physical, visual outcome that satisfies our primitive need for control and dominance. If someone breaks us, we want to see them, or something of theirs, break as well. 

Obviously, we can not and should not resort to violence or outward aggression that is directed at and negatively impacts other living things. Therefore, using a rage journal can be a cost-effective and healthy way to help you let out your anger safely. It can also fuel your creativity when writing antagonists for your novels!

In my journal, I curse people out, call them names, tell them their mother would be disappointed in them, and the best part is I can still face them the next day not feeling guilty, embarrassed, or knowing that my last check has already come in the mail. Rage journaling validates your emotions, gives you time to process your feelings, let your anger out, and learn how to proceed with a conflict in a more appropriate manner. Overall, if you rage journal first, you can choose, to respond with rationality as opposed to heated emotions.

That being said, if you are someone like me who has anger that can’t be disposed of because it concerns the world and how it works, rage journaling is not a one-stop solution. Rage rooms are a good supplement. So is exercise, especially boxing. Screaming into a pillow is cathartic, too. Therapy is a must.

Me sunbathing, fully clothed, during my lunch break.

Truthfully, you should also stand up for yourself when you get mistreated, in the workplace or otherwise.  If you find yourself repeatedly having to rage journal or having to explain to someone else how their actions have caused harm and you’re still being treated unfairly, that is a whole other story. At that point, it could be time for HR to step in, or some kind of higher authority with the power to make things right, even if you do have to bring representation in. While we don’t like to think about things getting that out of hand, it’s important to recognize the severity of a situation and evaluate the best course of action.

The hope is that we can rage journal, show up to work the next day, and have a productive conversation that changes things for the better. It is important to try to handle conflict with patience, clarity, and logic, and sometimes that is hard to do if you are blinded by anger or hatred. At least your journal will never yell back at you.

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Brenna Sheets is a graduate student in Emerson College’s Writing and Publishing M.A. program. She is also a teacher, currently specializing in middle school history. Her hobbies include going on long walks, reading and writing, and watching bad television.

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Dear No One: Letters That Stay Unsent

Monday, October 7th, 2024

I’ve written a fair share of letters in my day. It’s the romantic in me who feels written words, those that are so exquisitely accurate in their portrayal of love and loss, are the pinnacle of my existence. If I love someone, I have to write to them; it’s instinctive. This doesn’t mean, however, that I send all or even the majority of the letters I write. That is the coward in me, too afraid people will hold me to the words I write at a specific moment in time, too embarrassed to have a crowd of recipients holding physical evidence of my admiration for them.

As a general rule, the best course of action for most situations is to be honest and share your feelings with others. If you love them, admire them, miss them, are happy for them, or want to let them know you’re thinking of them, then, by all means, send them a letter! As long as you are not hurting anyone by sending this letter, there is no reason to be ashamed of your feelings. More importantly, you could make someone’s day. For me, nothing is more touching than receiving a handwritten letter from someone I care about. When I die, bury me in a coffin full of all the letters written to me.

Sometimes I do work at Emerson, sometimes I take a whole meeting room to myself and take selfies in the sunlight. First come, first serve.

A different truth is, of course, that life goes on. People hurt one another, lose touch, or slowly fade into the background of one’s existence. Things are constantly fluctuating, changing in ways we can’t prepare for. We are so busy! Work, school, internships; new friends, new subway lines, new bars; a big love, a big house, a big quarter-life crisis. Our minds are often scrambled, just trying to get through the motions of everyday life and enjoy it as it comes. Then, it creeps up on you, that random Friday afternoon. You hear a song you haven’t heard in a while, and it brings you back to a few years ago. Time freezes as you relive a life that you are so far removed from you wonder if it was ever even yours. Now, you’ve found yourself missing people you shouldn’t, realizing the window of opportunity to reach out has long passed, rightfully so. You’re flooded with nostalgia, rose-colored and inflated. Pouring your heart and soul out to them now would be more than wrong. 

Alexa, play ‘Bad Idea, Right?’ by Olivia Rodrigo. Let this be a call to all the dewy-eyed girlies: Do NOT listen to that voice in your head telling you to make a harmless phone call to people who’ve hurt you. You have an alternative, and while it may not be as riveting of a story to tell at the cute cocktail spill-all, it is the healthier thing to do. The past is in the past, and you will never get it back, nor should you want to! More importantly, you are not the person you once were, and that is a good thing. Understand, too, that sometimes it is simply fun to reminisce, to repaint the past with the fresh perspective of a refined frontal lobe, but that doesn’t mean you should run with your naivety, expecting a new rendition of your past to become your reality.

A photo I took of two kids hanging out in Seaport, 2022.

Such circumstances as these are the perfect times to write a letter that is purposefully intended to not be sent anywhere. You can say everything you want to say, feel everything you want to feel, and simply tear it up (or burn it, which is thrilling!) when you’re done reading it over. There’s no regret, no embarrassment, no hurting others by bringing unsolicited memories back into fruition, and no risking your current peace. This is your chance to leave the “But What If?” to die. 

That being said, my favorite place to write letters I’ll never send is in my journal. Sometimes I will rip the pages out, crumble them, and toss them in the recycling bin. Other times I will leave them in my journal to look back on. I have also burned a few. Occasionally, I type them up and pretend I’m Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail, but I usually just put a lock on the document until I feel I’ve outgrown whatever  I wrote down, and then I trash it. I’ve even dropped a few letters in the mailbox with no return or send address. One, I’m not proud of is when I sent a letter down a river, which was environmentally careless, but I was desperate for some kind of cinematic, main character energy to justify my emotions (Ah, to be 18 again). Ultimately, it doesn’t matter where you write your letter or in what way you discard it afterward. As long as you get the cathartic release you need, you’ve done yourself some good, and you should be proud.

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Brenna Sheets is a graduate student in Emerson College’s Writing and Publishing M.A. program. She is also a teacher, currently specializing in middle school history. Her hobbies include going on long walks, reading and writing, and watching bad television.

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Delulu is the Solulu: Journaling for Creative Expression

Monday, September 23rd, 2024

Contrary to popular ‘film bro’ belief, you actually do not need to take psychedelics to unlock your inner creativity. Among the many ways one can use journaling for personal wellness, arguably one of the most popular is to explore creative expression. Often, the idea of journaling is met with the stereotypical image of a teenage girl in her bedroom, feet swinging in the air, a smile on her face, and a familiar “Dear Diary…” monologue that almost always includes a crush on a boy (because what else could women possibly have to think about, right?) However, journaling doesn’t have to be all touchy-feely-existential-dread all the time; it can be a strategic machine that helps writers, lyricists, filmmakers, artists, and other creators overcome their mental blocks and find inspiration. 

A photo I took around this time last year of gloomy autumn weather.

One of my favorite ways to stay in tune with my creative writing is doing something I call “The Five Senses.” When I journal in the evening, I usually recount the most prominent events and feelings I encountered that day. “I am absolutely exhausted” shows up a lot. “Today at work…” is another popular one, unfortunately. But sometimes this can take away from the actual sensations I experience on a second-to-second basis—all the little things that make life so beautifully sappy. I write down the five senses and try to describe the most influential senses I experienced or the ones that brought me the most joy. Here’s an example from my journal from this past Thursday:

Sight: Dark, gloomy overcast. Wet asphalt. Tiny raindrops on the passenger seat window. 

Smell: Orange citrus from my vitamins. Potent, nauseating, artificial.

Taste: Curry tofu, sweet and spicy, rich, crispy. soft, chewy potatoes. Savory, satisfying. 

Touch: My boyfriend’s 5 o’clock shadow. Prickly, comforting, endorphin-releasing, lovely.

Sound: Autumn Lo-Fi Jazz I play at work to concentrate. Soothing, familiar, easy. 

This technique helps me describe sensations in more detail, easing my transition from journal writing to creative writing. It also helps me stay present and appreciate all of the wonderful things happening around me, which is definitely needed in a world like today’s. 

love love love curry tofu in the fall.

Some other prompts can help you think more outside the box. If you need a creative spark that’s going to really turn some heads, consider getting a journal prompt book, which is available online and in stores for cheap. You can also find prompts on the internet and use those once a week or month for your journaling practice. Some examples include:

  • Make a list of questions you would ask a future version of yourself. Which version would you want to speak with the most?
  • Choose a random object in your room. What characteristics do you have in common with it, metaphorically and physically?
  • Invent an impossible tool that would make your life more efficient or interesting.
  • Imagine you get the chance to be any animal for a day. Which animal would you pick, and what would you do?
  • If you could visit the past, where would you go, and what would you do there?

Another popular way to unlock your creative expression is to free write. This is a technique where you time yourself and write down whatever comes to mind without pausing to think or erase anything. I often free write with a time limit of five minutes, although it’s not uncommon to lengthen your session. Sometimes when I read over my free-write, it is purely gibberish and more of a stream-of-consciousness than anything. Other times, I realize there is a pattern of thought going on in my brain, and that pattern might be a good topic to explore in my writing. 

Let’s not forget that journaling is a form of creativity in itself. Annie Ernaux, a French writer who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2022, published her diary entries as a collection titled “Getting Lost.” The book was listed as one of the best books of 2022 by the BBC and a must-read by Time. It is a favorite of mine for its honest portrayal of emotional vulnerability.

Overall, there are a ton of ways to participate in journaling as a means of creative expression. You may need to try a few to see which ones work the best for you, but once you find your niche, you’re sure to flourish.  

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Brenna Sheets is a graduate student in Emerson College’s Writing and Publishing M.A. program. She is currently a teacher, specializing in middle school history. Her hobbies include going on long walks, watching bad television, reading, and writing.

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Why Journal, Anyway?

Monday, September 16th, 2024

I consider my first journal entry to be a Tumblr draft I wrote at 14 years old. I remember being vaguely frustrated with my friends, with being a freshman in high school, and with feeling unironically superior to everyone around me (teen angst if you will). In the stairwell of my mom’s old run-down Miami apartment—the paint peeling and the mold accumulating by the second—I took out my phone. Tears in my eyes and cheeks flushed, I began typing a blog post about how incredibly annoying everything and everyone was. I knew I wouldn’t post it, but I just wanted to lift what seemed like the weight of the world off my chest. Putting all my frustration into a Tumblr post also made me feel like I had some kind of control: I could, if I really wanted to, post it and tell my friends to screw all, or I could save it as a draft, hold onto it in case I ever felt like it was worth someone else’s eyes.

Photo of me (16) taken by my sister on my high school football field.

Luckily, my anger subsided once I finished writing, and I saved the post as a draft. From that moment on, I created a habit out of what I would now deem journaling. I wrote in my Tumblr drafts every time I had intense emotions, opinions I was too afraid to speak, or ideas I wanted to contemplate in secret. I felt like I was building a world from within myself that also existed outside of me. I was able to process my life through writing, and it helped me with all the raging emotions and confusion of my teenage years. The first person to lay eyes on the details of my first kiss was not a person at all, but rather my drafts. I felt like I had power over my life via recording the most major and minor details of it. 

The day I turned away from my Tumblr journal was the day I accidentally posted a draft, and that draft just so happened to include a rather repugnant, word-vomit rant about a close friend of mine (“She’s just like, soooo whatever”). I had gotten so comfortable with the idea of sharing my inner thoughts in my drafts that I forgot about the possibility of them becoming public. Once posted, I quickly deleted the journal entry, but my stomach was in knots, and a wave of guilt tackled me for how ill I had talked about my friend, how hurt she would be if she saw it. From then on, I moved my drafts to a Pages document on my laptop, which I put a passcode on. By the time I graduated high school, my Pages document, which I titled “The Drafts,” had accumulated 250,000 words.

A photo from my first visit to the Boston Public Library, 2016.

When I started my Bachelor’s degree at the University of Florida, I moved on to pen and paper. Many times I found myself on campus, itching to write and with a dead laptop, so I started scribbling on engineering paper the Reitz would reluctantly give me. This prompted me to buy a notebook, and then another, and then another. I know all too well how cathartic and romantic it is to hold your thoughts and feelings in your hands.

I have since lost the coming-of-age treasure that was The Drafts in the midst of life falling apart and putting itself back together, as it sometimes does. I do, however, have my physical journals from the last 5 years of my life. It is a privilege—and a cringe fest, to re-read them. Know always that if you decide to start journaling, no one can judge what you write but you, and even you shouldn’t judge the contents of your journal. It’s a safe space for you and only you, if that is what you wish. 

Now that I’m 24 years old and in graduate school, my intention for journaling changes day by day. Sometimes I journal for emotional processing and release, other times I journal just to have something to look back on. No matter your reason for journaling, and no matter what platform you use, it can serve as a tremendous tool—it is always there whenever you need it. There’s no right or wrong reason to journal; if you have a reason at all, that’s enough to get you started. 

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Brenna Sheets is a graduate student in Emerson College’s Writing and Publishing M.A. program. She is currently a teacher, specializing in middle school history. Her hobbies include going on long walks, watching bad television, reading, and writing.

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Chapter 1: Where Do I Go Next?

Monday, September 18th, 2023

The date is October 4th, 2019. Just a few months before we’re forced to remain inside our homes and the only way we would talk to our friends would be through a screen.

I was a senior in high school and freaking out every day about where the hell I should go to college, what I would major in, or if I should even go to college because the idea of not living in the same vicinity as my dog was terrifying (note to self: after four years it is still very difficult not being with my dog everyday).


Me and my dog Coco graduating high school! (We have a co-dependent relationship)

I knew that the best decision would be to go to school because if I stayed back home while all my friends moved on, my already not great mental health would get even worse. So, with that in mind, I spent almost all of my free time researching different colleges, debating how far I should go, and deciding if I should actually listen to my mother when she said I would prefer a smaller campus compared to a big one. I was 17 so naturally that teenage angst told me that my mom didn’t know what she was talking about. Now at 21, I realize she knew exactly what she was talking about. Further proof that mother’s always know best, but that’s not the topic right now.

By the time application season rolled around, I had applied to about five or six schools with two schools on the top of my list. One was a school in Massachusetts that I visited once and thought was cute and despite being far from home, was still close to one of my brothers who lives in Massachusetts. The other school was Pace University, only thirty minutes from home with an alternate city campus if I wanted to go further.

On October 4th, 2019 I went on a tour that I didn’t know then, but would ultimately be the tour that made my decision to go to this school.

It started off as a regular tour with the generic tour guide claiming this is the best school ever while walking backwards and constantly reassuring the parents that this is the safest campus in New York and your child will be taken care of. Needless to say, I was bored out of my mind waiting for the tour to end so the actual fun part would begin.

I had a family friend who always felt like a sibling to me at this school who would give me the actual realistic tour and let me hang out in their dorm while my mom went to watch the baseball game (coincidentally my stepbrother’s school was playing against Pace that day). Together my friend and I walked around campus, sat in the dining hall (I took a bite of the french fries, they weren’t great but there’s a McDonald’s down the street), hung out with some of their friends, and then went back to their dorm to watch stupid YouTube videos. You know, the routine of almost every college student.

On December 10th, 2019, I got the acceptance letter to Pace University. By January 2020 I had heard back from all the schools I applied to and got into both of my top picks. I had no idea how I was going to make this decision because I struggle just deciding what I’m going to eat for lunch, so figuring out the next four years felt impossible. But, thankfully, my mom told me we could visit both schools again just to get a feel for each. I was hoping I could get a more personal tour of my second school so I could compare it to the one I got from Pace. However, before I got a chance to do so, we were locked into our homes.

Being a class of 2020 student affected me more than I thought it would. If it wasn’t for COVID, I honestly couldn’t say I’d be in the same position I’m in currently. When decision day came in I reflected on both schools and knew that Pace was the place for me. I already had a distinguished relationship with someone I trusted and knew that would help me find the courage to break out of my shell in school.


Me and my friend Cayleigh this past summer in 2023

With this friend close by, I could contact them for any questions I had, felt encouraged to actually go out, and just genuinely have someone there for me when needed. I’m forever so grateful to this friend for all they have done for me and I hope one day I can return the big favor they’ve done for me. (Hey Cayleigh, if you’re reading this, let’s go get some drinks with our moms and I’ll tell you how much I love you again).

Positive relationships are so beneficial not just for your mental health, but physical health as well. Better Health Channel’s website has a blog about how relationships help lower one’s anxiety and depression, which was something I was worried would worsen when going to college. I had already struggled with my mental health for years beforehand and going into an unknown school not knowing anyone would definitely affect my anxiety. Thanks to this existing relationship, my overall mood was significantly better as was my confidence in getting to know people.


Me the day I moved into my dorm in August 2020

In August of 2020 I finally moved into my first dorm at Pace University after several facetimes and conversations with my roommate. By then I had two established relationships that ultimately made my first week at my new school exciting rather than terrifying.Having a connection with someone can make new challenges in your life more enjoyable which it ultimately did for me.

Summary:

  • I had been struggling for a while about what college I should go to but thanks to my friendship with a student at Pace it made my decision easier.
  • I was a senior in high school during 2020, so I was in lockdown when trying to figure out which college I should commit to
  • This friendship made my confidence about entering a new stage in my life much better and lead me to not being afraid to reach out to new people (Including my roommate I mentioned at the end)

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By Mia Ilie

Mia Ilie is a student at Pace University, graduating in May 2024 with a degree in Writing and Rhetoric and a focus on publishing. She grew up in Rockland, New York and is currently living in Westchester, New York where she attends school and works at a local bookstore. You can always find her with her nose in a book or screaming to Taylor Swift with her friends.


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Songwriting and Publishing: Burning Bridges

Sunday, July 24th, 2022

Burning Bridges

Any fan of Taylor Swift can reassure you that there is no better feeling than screaming one of her bridges at the top of your lungs. You might even lose your voice from it. There’s something in the way that she writes this pivotal part of her songs; they make you feel like you’re releasing the emotions you’ve tried so hard to gather. The bridge of any song, but hers, in particular, progresses the story, allowing the audience to fluidly follow. For example, the bridge of Taylor’s song “Cruel Summer” gets me every time. The catchiness of the shift in melody and the impact of such well-written lyrics make it impossible to not scream along. It evokes the feeling of falling in love with the windows down in your car going a million miles an hour. Listening to it makes you feel like you’ve just popped a bottle of champagne and there’s an overflow of bubbles you cannot contain. This is what makes a good bridge; not only does the song provoke such emotion, but it is the shift in emotion that makes it so valuable. It is the showing and not telling part of the song that allows people to feel such an overwhelmingness of emotion that you, plain and simple, have to scream. 

With such high expectations to live up to, writing a bridge is very difficult for me, especially the part where you change tones in the melody. Usually, in all the songs I listen to, the bridge is a variation or alteration of the original chord progression found in the verses and the chorus. This automatically sets the tone for the bridge. Will it be uplifting or will it be absolutely gut-wrenching? If it’s uplifting, major chords will suffice, but if it’s a sadder vibe you are willing to achieve, minor chords are your best friend. Sometimes, or in my case, I chose to make the bridge in my song take a more despairing turn melodically, but have the lyrics be on the happier side to create a push and pull effect. I think that this adds more dimension to what I’m trying to achieve. Yes, a love song is supposed to be happy and make you feel, well, in love, but love itself is a very complicated emotion. It is not a linear line to get from point A to B, but more like a tornado of different emotions combined into one. Cruel Summer is a perfect example of this. It makes you feel happy during the verses and chorus, but once that bridge hits, I’m three sheets to the wind and angered, wanting to scream the words that Taylor wrote so beautifully. 

There is no such thing as a perfect bridge, let alone, any part of a song. What I think makes an effective bridge is a distinctive contrast in point of view. Lyrically the words shouldn’t be ones that simply push or continue the already stated narrative but create a new outlook. I usually draw inspiration from events in my life to solidify what I’m trying to convey. In any circumstance, this is the most natural way for me to gather inspiration. For example, Taylor Swift’s song “Betty” is told from a whole different point of view that isn’t Betty’s, but from a teenage boy who is experiencing losing his first love after making a huge mistake. This throws the audience off, but when you listen to it, the more intense it grows, all from a perspective that isn’t her own. The bridge in this song is a sense of realization in his apology, saying “I was walking home on broken cobblestones/ Just thinking of you/ When she pulled up like/ A figment of my worst intentions/ She said “James, get in, let’s drive”/ Those days turned into nights/ Slept next to her, but/ I dreamt of you all summer long”. This bridge not only leads us listeners right into the sweet spot of the song but unpacks more of the story as to why things happened the way they did. 

It’s important to note that not all songs need bridges and sometimes it doesn’t even feel necessary to clump one in. A bridge should act as an emotional response to the rest of the verses and chorus. Think of it as a tool to lyrically shift the perspective in your writing, but it is not always imperative to include one, some songs do just fine without them. What I love the most about bridges and writing them is that they take a situation and look at it from a completely different angle which can be so therapeutic, especially if the song is based on true life experiences. It gives not only the audience clarity for the sake of the progression of the story, but it allows you as a writer to step back from your work and look at your inspirations from a completely fresh point of view. 

Use this coupon at Al’s Cafe to get a $10 student deal to grab a sub in between songwriting!


By Megan Grosfeld

Megan Grosfeld is a Junior at Emerson College majoring in Writing, Literature, and Publishing with a concentration in Publishing. Her dream is to be like the modern Carrie Bradshaw of the Publishing world, but with more writing, sex, and infinite pairs of Manolo Blahniks.


For over 20 years, the Campus Clipper has been offering awesome student discounts in NYC, from the East Side to Greenwich Village. Along with inspiration, the company offers students a special coupon booklet and the Official Student Guide, which encourages them to discover new places in the city and save money on food, clothing, and services. At the Campus Clipper, not only do we help our interns learn new skills, make money, and create wonderful e-books, we give them a platform to teach others. Check our website for more student savings and watch our YouTube video showing off some of New York City’s finest students during the Welcome Week of 2015.

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Health, Beauty, and Body Image

Wednesday, July 6th, 2022

When I was at dance a few weeks ago, I was looking at myself in the mirror and made a passing comment about how I wished my stomach was thinner. This immediately got a reaction from all of my friends around me. 

“No, you’re so pretty though!”

“At least you have nice arms.”

“Same, I look so ugly.”

 Everything they hated about their bodies were things that I hated about mine at one point; everything they said to tell me how pretty I was were things that I have said countless times to countless people. Despite our best efforts and our growing knowledge on the subject, we still attached body image, health, and beauty as one big package as if we couldn’t have one without the others. Even comments meant to build others up are, in one way or another, tied to this idea that we have to be skinny and fit to be beautiful.

I have always been a very healthy person and have enjoyed being active throughout my life. My lifestyle often reflected itself in my weight. I used to tie how healthy and beautiful I was to the number on the scale. This mentality was also held by the people around me, with my mother especially always encouraging us to be fit. This became a problem when COVID-19 hit and I had to quarantine in my home. I lost my healthy lifestyle and have struggled to gain it back since. This has resulted in a lot of weight gain and, with the weight, came the anxiety around how I looked. 

It’s hard to fight the thoughts telling you that you’re ugly and pathetic when everything around you seems to be agreeing with them. 

This became even more difficult when I came back to dance and realized that almost every other person was skinnier than me. I felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb and this did not help my feelings of inadequacy and ugliness. I was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the weight I had gained and, even if no one else noticed, it frequently sent me into spirals of negative self talk about my body. 

Ideal Beauty Standards for women over the past 100 years

The beauty standards of today are impossibly warped. We have been conditioned to believe that one specific body type is the best and everyone without it is ugly. This especially affects women, who feel pressured to conform to society’s beauty standards because that is sometimes the only thing that is valued. However, with the ever-changing standards, many women feel like nothing is good enough – they are constantly being asked to change themselves for everyone else. According to an article published by Bradley University, “the “perfect” woman was described as 5’5”, 128 pounds, with a 26-inch waist” which is nearly impossible to achieve. Beauty standards do not only affect women. Oftentimes, men are also facing unrealistic standards pushed by the fitness and fashion industry. All of this results in a mix up of what is healthy and what is beautiful and people seem to think that they go hand in hand. 

I soon came to realize that it wasn’t just my weight or my body type that was bothering me, but my ability to move. Oftentimes, when I said “I’m so fat,” what I actually meant was “I don’t feel like I can move the way I used to.” I found it harder to perform certain dance moves the way I used to. I found it more difficult to stretch or reach or even leap the way I was used to. During one of my first rehearsals after quarantine, I was doing a stretch and found it extremely difficult to do. Because I had more weight around my waist, I wasn’t able to bend the way I used to without it getting in the way. This revelation coupled with a surge of anxiety almost had me crying in the middle of practice. I felt like I was losing my ability to do what I wanted to do and, with it, any chance I had of being beautiful. 

I know I’m not the only one who thinks like this. The amount of times I’ve made a comment about feeling fat only to have the rebuttal be “but you’re beautiful” is too numerous to count. According to a blog post on Beauty Schools Directory, children as young as four can develop weight bias and see it as a negative thing to be heavier. It’s ingrained in our society and impacts how we think about both health and beauty. The fitness industry doubles down on this ingrained mindset by selling us the idea that health equals skinny and that’s what makes you attractive. It’s very easy to get caught up in the cycle of thinking that all of these things are tied together. 

It’s taken me a long time to separate my weight from my health and my health from my confidence in my looks. I’m still working on it every day. However, I’ve slowly begun to accept that health and beauty are two separate things. One does not dictate the other. You are not ugly just because you picked a burger over a salad, and you are not healthy just because you fit society’s idea of beauty. This realization has helped me reframe how I think about myself and my goals. Now, instead of thinking about how I wish my stomach was thinner, I can say that I wish I had more core strength to be able to do more dance moves. This gives me a clear goal to work towards while separating how I look and how I feel. I am slowly learning to make lifestyle changes for my own health and goals rather than what I think will make me beautiful. I already am beautiful.

Takeaway: Health and beauty are separate and one does not dictate the other.


No matter how you feel about yourself, you deserve to be pampered. Use this coupon to treat yourself to a fun spa day!

By: Callie Hedtke

Callie is going to be a senior at DePaul University studying Graphic Design. She loves dancing and can usually be found at her school’s gym rehearsing for her next dance show. If she’s not there, she can be found at her computer playing video games with her friends or out hiking with her family.


For over 20 years, the Campus Clipper has been offering awesome student discounts in NYC,  from the East Side to Greenwich Village. Along with inspiration, the company offers students a special coupon booklet and the Official Student Guide, which encourages them to discover new places in the city and save money on food, clothing, and services.  At the Campus Clipper, not only do we help our interns learn new skills, make money, and create wonderful e-books, we give them a platform to teach others. Check our website for more student savings and watch our YouTube video showing off some of New York City’s finest students during the Welcome Week of 2015.

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How I Got Evicted from a Farm

Tuesday, June 14th, 2022

Part One: Toledo

The minivan, blue and cloudless as the sky, rolled slow through the streets of East Toledo. Its tattered seats were damp with the sweat of my back, the fabric refusing to dry in humid air. Its open windows, every so often, sent notes of sulfur and cement up my nose, riding through on the respite of a faint breeze. On the street below, the occasional loose cobblestone made for uneven terrain—each lurch of the car gnawed at the curd of motion sickness in my stomach, born nine hours and three state lines ago. 

In the driver’s seat, Layla peered ahead through the heat in a tired search for the night’s site of temporary lodging. A bead of sweat slipped under the rim of her glasses, leaving shiny footprints to highlight the curvature of her face. Her curls had unraveled themselves over the course of the day, and with every turn of the wheel they grew further apart, resisting containment. Pausing at a stop sign, she ventured her elbow out to lean against the window, but the hot metal door prompted a quick recoil. A few more blocks to go before our first rest. 

The streets were quiet and empty of people. Up on the right, in front of each vacant house, rose a tall wire fence decorated with a dozen ‘beware dog’ signs, one every few feet, shouting through their sharp corners and neon hue. The signs were outnumbered only by the dogs themselves, which populated the yards behind the wire with consistent abundance. Groups of them gathered beside each porch, following the slow creak of the van with low growls and curious eyes, passing us off to the stares of the next pack as we left their yard behind. Some were large and hunched over, with heads that skated above the ground, held still by thick, rippling necks that curved upwards to stab the sky before reassuming connection with their spines. Others were small, with stumpy legs that grew blurry as they chased one another, carving a maze through the longer, slower limbs that rose like tree trunks around them. Many were old and withered and sick, with fur that clumped at the sides of their faces and buzzed with other creatures of the yard. One, Layla pointed out, was not a dog at all but a goat, hooved and horned and staring dejectedly into space. We silently wondered where in the world we were. 

My present meander through Toledo, destined for the west coast, had been a fairly spontaneous undertaking. Though, I suppose, equally unexpected was the onset of the pandemic, not to mention the sudden eviction from campus three quarters into freshman year and the ensuing six months I spent confined to my 80 square foot New York City bedroom. The year had already been an uphill battle, tossed back and forth between New York and Providence like the plaything of two depraved orcas. College life, in all its excitement, quickly became a fever dream upon my return to the city, where the fullness of the life I’d left behind struck me hard atop the head. When my stay in New York suddenly stretched endlessly into the future, and the world outside went vacant, I was left to stew in the mildew of this old life, the milky decades of memory that stained the walls and floors and city streets. Space itself became a yellowing palimpsest, writhing with the specters of the past, some lovely, fond, and warm, others indelibly painful, but all of them dead. To bring the walls alive was to feel it all, all at once, so I did—and my present began to rot alongside my past. 

So, Layla and I decided to leave. Rather than return to school and experience a loose translation of the life we wanted, we faced the death of our expectations head on and elected to drive west to spend a few months working and living on an orchard in California. We found the place online, called the owner—who seemed nice enough, for a stranger—and hopped in the minivan to begin the sixty hour drive that would, eventually, herald our chosen life among the trees. 

But before the trees came Toledo, Ohio. And before our rest came that endless row of houses, houses that the blue minivan rolled past careful and slow, houses guarded by dogs.

* * *

The houses stood short and sprawlingly wide, hidden behind the high fence and maximalist ornamentation of their front yards. Pink slats fell haphazardly off their sides, as if knocked down by the heavy weight of the sun. Windchimes spun and sprinkled themselves into the breeze. Thick weeds corroded the corners of stacked pots; wooden welcome boards and cheap statues overcrowded nearly every lawn. 

One house in particular had a yard piled high with life size plaster replicas of the dogs that stood cautiously behind them. The copies seemed frozen in time, as though some moment of the past, in its intensity, caught hold of the animals and refused to let them pass wholly into their future. Yet there they stood beside the plaster, alive and in steady movement, treading seamlessly across the debris. They followed our procession magnetically, without any interruption in their line of sight—not even for a moment. 

The car rolled to a halt at a pleasant little house, just past a road that sectioned off our street from the caravan of pack animals on the other side. Digging the key out from under the front mat, we unlocked the door and step into the cool air inside. Immediately, I let out a long sigh of relief, and Layla looked at me, grinned sheepishly, and delivered a long and contented yeahhh of agreement. But it wasn’t just the air for me—it was these walls, big and beautifully unfamiliar. These walls to whom I was a stranger. Walls with memories to which I did not subscribe.

A goat standing in the front yard of a Toledo home, staring dejectedly into space.

The Toledo neighborhood goat.

As we looked around, we realized the place was far too big for just two people, so we came to occupy the back corner of the house, dark green and dimly lit by the candle lights that protruded out from the wall. A few minutes after collapsing in the bedrooms, we received an alert that the house a few doors down the street had been the site of a murder merely three days earlier. It was hard to imagine that the lavender shutters of the home, in their softness and levity, could bear witness to such a crime. Layla wondered aloud what the dogs must have thought was going on, whether in them the noise might have sparked fear or excitement. I thought intently of the walls. After a silent moment, we descended to double lock the front door before retiring upstairs. 

For all the strangeness of the day, Toledo afforded me a heavy, uninterrupted night of sleep. As we rose with the sun the next morning and continued our journey west, the shouts of dogs and occasional bleat echoed through the empty streets. Despite the noise, I neglect to turn around and look.



Zachary Federman is a student at Brown University studying literary translation and Middle East Studies. Zachary is fond of art, detests logical positivism, and is excited for the future.


For over 20 years, the Campus Clipper has been offering awesome student discounts in NYC,  from the East Side to Greenwich Village. Along with inspiration, the company offers students a special coupon booklet and the Official Student Guide, which encourages them to discover new places in the city and save money on food, clothing, and services.  At the Campus Clipper, not only do we help our interns learn new skills, make money, and create wonderful e-books, we give them a platform to teach others. Check our website for more student savings and watch our YouTube video showing off some of New York City’s finest students during the Welcome Week of 2015.

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Defining the Next Step

Friday, April 22nd, 2022

I am officially in my last month of college. As the weather warms and Union Square fills up with people who yearn for sunlight, I’ve come to reflect on the last four years of my life. While I have spent many hours thinking about my college experience this semester, the frequency of these thoughts has multiplied tenfold. At 23 years old, it feels as though something in my life is coming to an end. 

I’m trying to think of it less as something concrete and harsh and instead as something fresh and challenging… A new chapter, so to say. But that doesn’t feel quite accurate. We spend a large amount of our lives in academia; from when we first step out of our parent’s arms and onto the playground to when we walk across a grand stage to receive our diploma, we are in a state of learning. What comes after, if you don’t pursue grad school, is a different kind of life. I feel, to some unnerving degree, overwhelmed by the concept of a “career”… I am scared by the idea of taking my first few steps into an industry I’ve dreamt about since I was a child. 

Steps in the snow that caught my eye!

In past chapters, I’ve written about how intimidating it is to have a passion. This applies to having dreams as well. When you grow up dreaming of something, of working towards it, it can feel as though the moment you can start working in that dream will never come. Suddenly though, as you’re filling out graduation forms and job applications, it hits you. You realise that you’re done building your tools… Now, you have to use them. A lifetime of mounting pressure becomes real and you understand that you’re standing at the starting line of a career you’ve always wanted to pursue. 

This has, unfortunately, various detrimental effects on the psyche. It roots up points of uncertainty and self-doubt, preying on questions that grind at your mentality. It begins to make you wonder if this is what you want to do– if you’ve dedicated the last four years of your life to the right thing. 

What helps with this kind of wobbly footing? I’ve found myself searching through my own archives for solutions, for as often as these questions crop up, so do reminders of my love for literature. What I’ve come to realise is that I am not beholden to one single path. Just as I’ve explored and expanded my interests in school, I can do this again with my work. I’ve realised that this starting line isn’t for any kind of linear race; rather, it is simply a point of departure for a new adventure. It opens up my world to new opportunities, experiences, questions, ideas, and interests. Whatever I choose to do next is not something I am stuck with; instead, it is something I can learn from as I move through the world. 

Something else I’ve accepted is that this is not the end of my academic life– at least, not if I actively fight against it. I want to keep learning. Four years is not enough for me to feel adequately fulfilled by academia… But I realise that I don’t necessarily have to pursue grad school right away to continue my education. We are all humans who can choose to continue learning every day. We have an endless universe of knowledge right at our fingertips, not just via the internet but by the conversations we can cultivate in our lives. We can read novels, articles, and blogs. We can attend talks and plays and social events. We can meet people at book clubs or sign up for a class in something we’ve never tried before. The possibilities are endless… And so are our connections with other people. 

As we move through the world, pages of our individual stories get turned. What feels like the end is the start of something else. By expanding our view and access to the world, we expand our knowledge. Each step we take is a step toward a new experience… And perhaps new passions and dreams as well! 


By: Ehani Schneiderman

Ehani Schneiderman is a senior studying literature and anthropology at The New School. She hopes to connect with others through writing, poetry, and cultural exchange. When she isn’t nose deep in a book or word document, you can find her paddle boarding in a bay or scuba diving out at sea.


For over 20 years, the Campus Clipper has been offering awesome student discounts in NYC,  from the East Side to Greenwich Village. Along with inspiration, the company offers students a special coupon booklet and the Official Student Guide, which encourages them to discover new places in the city and save money on food, clothing, and services.  At the Campus Clipper, not only do we help our interns learn new skills, make money, and create wonderful e-books, we give them a platform to teach others. Check our website for more student savings and watch our YouTube video showing off some of New York City’s finest students during the Welcome Week of 2015

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