Hello From the Other You

On the utility of contemplating your alternate selves.

It began like this — 

In first grade, we read a book about a woman who fell so in love with reading that she filled her house with books. In time, she could no longer make it to the front door. This story was supposed to be a cautionary tale about loneliness, but I remember thinking: What a beautiful life to live.

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Or maybe like this — 

Later, in third grade, maybe, my mom kept a closet full of gifts at the ready for friends’ birthday parties. At some point, she made a deal with me: Every book I finished, I could pick out a present for myself. I would read quickly, sometimes finishing several books per week. But when I finally earned those closet prizes, I never wanted to play with them. I wanted only to open another book. Begin again.

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Or maybe it was —

The fact that I had trouble making friends but could bring characters to life right beside me. When we went on road trips, I would listen to the Percy Jackson books and picture the demigods running through the forest. Me, there, running too.

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Or was it —

The fact that my mom worked at a magazine and my godmother, Nikki (hi, Nikki!), wrote the most beautiful mini-essays on the cover. There, I learned the patterns of writing, the way it can sound like rain, or like snow, or like sunshine depending on how you strung the words together. I learned that words could play together, trip over each other, tear one another apart. Sing.

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Or perhaps it was —

The way I always want to describe movies in words. I remember watching the final scene of Lady and the Tramp (of all things! So random!) and thinking, how would you write that? 

Let me know how you’d describe this cozy little animated scene.

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Or could it have been —

That I’ve always been able to remember lyrics, the silliest and the most profound. My brain is flypaper for words, and I’m constantly collecting them. In my junior year of high school, I memorized the last few paragraphs of The Great Gatsby—just because I always wanted them to live in my head. They still live up here, rent-free, today.

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(There were more definite moments later on —)

The many teachers who told me to keep writing paired with the author who, in college, told me I should give a career in fiction “a real shot.”

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To cope with the last few months of novel querying stress, I’ve been playing the “alternate life” game. There’s only one rule: Imagine who you would be if you quit writing. Find all those moments that wove you into a writer. Now, undo each thread. It’s a game I can play anywhere, in the car or while I’m trying to write or best of all, at 2 a.m. when I can’t sleep and am drowning in existential dread. 

Let me introduce you to non-writer Kells — 

My alter-ego, shot in Mill Valley earlier this year.

• She’s 28 and works as a journalist, probably in-house somewhere, because she wants to become an editor and eventually take on a more senior role. 

• She works from 9 until 6:30. In the mornings, she reads and doesn’t think about writing.

• After work, she grabs drinks with her boyfriend, watches movies, runs, or catches a yoga class.

• She doesn’t have constant crippling doubt that she’ll ever become a good journalist because she’s on the path and knows that if she works hard, she will get where she needs to be. 

• Oh, and did I mention that she also has really shiny hair? Health insurance funded by her job? And (oh, the glamour!) 401K… with matching!

Over the last week, I’ve been thinking a lot about this other Kells, this parallel life, or what Cheryl Strayed called my “sister life.” In the moments when pursuing fiction feels the most daunting, I peek into my imagined multiverses and visit this non-writer. I think what if?

The answer is almost always: Well, it’s inconceivable. I can name vague facts about this alter-ego, but she’s the flattest of flat characters. Pretty boring. At a certain point, your ambitions feel just as much a part of you as anything else: your laugh or the shape of your fingers, or your nervous ticks. There’s no removing them.

Still, I’ve found it’s worth visiting this other me occasionally — just to remind myself of what I have. To remember why I’m breaking my own heart every day to fight for the person who wanted a house filled with books — some with her name on the cover.

I’m curious: What other life do you visit every once in a while? And why?

• The Wild Robot, directed by Chris Sanders ~ For me, watching children’s movies provides an emotional reset, a “back to the basics” of this art called being human. I loved The Wild Robot. I cried three times.

• Outline, Rachel Cusk ~ This book has been sitting on my shelf for over three years, and I finally finished it last night. This novel is many things: a trip to Greece, a contemplation on how we self-mythologize, a relentless inquisition about what it means to listen, and a masterclass on how to write a sentence. I loved it.

• “The Greats: Florence Welch,” Lauren Groff ~ If I could invite any two people to dinner, it would be Florence Welch and Lauren Groff, so you’ll understand my disappointment in learning that they’ve already hung out in London… without me. I loved this profile, which delved into the folklore surrounding one of the most phenomenal songwriters of our time, as written by one of my favorite novelists.

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