The Diary of Lora Ricci
May 14, 2017
Dear Diary,
Dear Journal,
Dear,
Hi
Tomorrow is my first day at ELLE.
ELLE.
Iāve been dreaming of this day for so many years and I canāt believe itās finally happening.
For as long as I can remember, Iāve had one major goal in life: become the editor in chief of a fashion magazine. I wanted to be Anna Wintour or Miranda Priestly (the real hero of The Devil Wears Prada), and was determined to get any job I could at any fashion magazine, and then work my ass off and rise through the ranks until I was the obvious choice to lead the publication. I could picture myself walking into a glass-walled conference room in a Manhattan skyscraper, wearing a dress right off the runway, and deciding which articles would go into the next issue, which celebrity would be the next cover star. Over the years, the specific dress (and shoes) in my fantasy changed a hundred times, but everything else stayed the same.
For years this was my only dream. And then I discovered contemporary fiction.
In school, we only read the classics. I liked them, donāt get me wrong, but I didnāt love them. They didnāt make me feel anything. They didnāt speak to me. But then I started reading contemporary novels and short stories written by women. Every time I read one, Iād think to myself, Now this is what a book is supposed to be. Soon I was obsessed, constantly searching for something that would make me feel that way again. Iād stay up late at night after finishing my homework, searching the internet for new (old) books to read, then order them through the library the next day. I was addicted. I couldnāt stop. Donna Tartt. Margaret Atwood. Zadie Smith. Lorrie Moore. Helen DeWitt. Jenny Offill. Joan Didion. I loved them all.
There was this ache deep in my heart that only these books could fill, and their pages held secrets that only these women could tell me. Tell me about myself, Iād pray to each book before I opened it. Tell me what my life can be. Tell me what itās like to be a woman in the world. Eventually, I started to ask myself which secrets I knew that I could tell, which stories of mine would inspire stories in others.
And so a new dream came together: I would work at a fashion magazine and be a novelist and be a short-story writer. I was going to be all of these things, just like my goddess hero Zadie Smith, if Zadie was Zadie but also ran Vogue or ELLE.
I want to be all of these things. Hell, I am going to be all of these things, because here I am, about to actually work at ELLE. Iām still not even sure I believe it. This is going to change everything for me. Yeah, I know I wonāt be picking out covers or writing features or anything like that right off the bat, but so what? The only thing that matters is that Iām in. I have my foot in the door. I have the opportunity to work my ass off, learn everything I can, get hired for a full-time position, rise through the ranks, and prove to myself and to the whole world that I can do this.
Iām going to take everything I learn at the magazine and use it to become a better writer. And Iām going to spend all my extra time and energy writing my short stories and trying to figure out how to write a novel. Iām not going to waste a single moment.
Thatās why Iām starting this diary. First, itās another way for me to practice my writing. After all, if I canāt write coherently about my own life, what good will I be at writing about fictional lives? Second, I want to hold myself accountable. Iām going to document what Iām learning and what Iām writing, and keep checking in with myself as often as I can to make sure Iām on track to realize my dreams. (And letās be real: after last yearās grades, this might be my only chance.)
I still havenāt told Mom and Dad about any of it. Not about the grades, the scholarship, the I canāt register for classes because I have no money to pay for themānone of it. I wanted to tell them when they were here, but I couldnāt. Theyāre so excited for me. They never had the chance to go to college, and theyāre so impressed by everything I do. āYou have no idea how proud you make me and your father,ā Mom told me before they left. āYouāre in the big leagues now, kiddo,ā Dad said.
They drove all the way up to the city to help me move out of my dorm and into my new apartment, and I was sick to my stomach with guilt the whole time. I kept wanting to tell them that they didnāt understand, that they wouldnāt be proud of me if they knew the truth. Every little brain cell in my head was screaming, Youāve never kept a secret from them, you tell them everything, how can you possibly lie to them now? And still, I lied: āOh yeah, Mom, Iām totally going to register for classes, I just havenāt had time, you know how busy I am.ā
Daughter of the year right here. Ugh.
On a happier note, I really love my new apartment. Iāve always wanted to live in Brooklyn, so this is basically another dream come true. It wasnāt easy to find something I could afford this close to Prospect Park. I almost didnāt find anything at all. But then, at the last minute, I joined a summer housing email list and found three other NYU students who had just signed a lease on a one-bedroom in a big Park Slope brownstone and needed a fourth roommate. Theyād managed to cram two twin-size bunk beds into the bedroom (Iām stuck in one of the bottom bunks, lol).
The apartment has a lot of ācharacter.ā Thereās only one bathroom and it has this weird avocado-green toilet, bathtub, and sink. And Iām pretty sure that the kitchen used to be a coat closet or something like that: thereās a fridge, stove, sink, and tiny dishwasher, all squeezed next to one another in a line, but thereās only like a foot of space between the appliances and the wall they face. Mom brought me a bunch of groceries from home, and when I tried to put them away, I found out that the fridge door only opens like six inches before it hits the wall.
Honestly, though? Itās perfect. I love it.
But I canāt let myself get carried away. I have to work my ass off and make a good impression so that I have a fighting chance of someday becoming an editor or writer. This may be the last opportunity I get.
Internship Goals:
- Work your ass off.
- Do high-quality work.
- No slacking. Donāt procrastinate.
- Learn as much as you can.
- Network. Get to know people, make sure they know YOU.
- Try to impact things that go into the magazine.
- Write at least one article.
- In your free time, write a novel or short stories.
Tomorrow is your first day at ELLE.
Donāt screw it up, Lora.
Do. Not. Screw. This. Up.
