I have not written on Substack for…4-5 years? It is quite daunting to return to this growing, monetized platform. I think in 2020-2021, it was fairly nascent? TinyLetter shut down and folks rushed to a new place to release their thoughts. I might be wrong about Substack being the new, shiny thing then. I believe it was? My memories of those two years are wiped out or perhaps repressed or maybe re-imagined.

I decided to return to this Internet space because some friends were interested in me documenting my time in Iowa, a new challenge and experience after twelve years in Philadelphia (with the exception of a one-year stint in Washington Heights, working as a publicity assistant, and reckoning with two very different bosses, one getting divorced from a litigator! She was very unhappy and wore baggy dresses and I liked her and I started wearing baggy dresses which she would compliment. She was evil. One time she made fun of a fellow coworker in the publicity department because he developed stress shingles and it was concentrated on his face for many months. “Look how fucking stupid you look.” He tried to laugh along but seemed hurt. I was 22 and in my head, I was like, “Yup, I’m just 22.”

She mingled with other rich mothers and literary characters in Brooklyn Heights. She told me Molly Ringwald was a cunt and a terrible writer. I admired and was deeply scared of her, but she was always kind to me. Partly because we would gossip and read the same The Cut articles. I wasted money at the Zara on the first floor of my work building. Zara’s New York office was on a lower floor. Sometimes you would be in an elevator with folks speaking Italian. Once I witnessed the former freshman president at Penn whose name I don’t remember anymore–he was working at Zara HQ. He was Russian with a British accent. Sure!

I did not like the actual work and was deeply miserable. My saving grace was Savannah. She always will be. I wrote in her Form for Good Moral Character she needed for the New York bar that “I love her like she was my own blood sister.” They did not need to know that, but I stand by it!)

I am also returning to this newsletter because my brain is atrophied thanks to TikTok, Instagram, Youtube and forced AI output from my Corporate Job. I do not know how to write anymore and I have lost critical thinking skills. I am hoping this reintroduction to the newsletter world can help me open my brain and do what I most love–oversharing.

I rebranded. Previously, this newsletter was an outlet for my mania. It was a tough period and after a twelve-day stint in the nicest psych ward I’ve ever been to (and the only one) and a several-month stint in rehabilitation centers, I emerged sorta new. I have since archived all the posts from that era. Some of the writing was pretty good, most were ehhhh. I do not want reminders of that time or even people to look back and perceive me from that time, despite many years having passed.

So this is “Maya in Months.” I am aiming to do a reflection each month or so, documenting my time in Iowa. I have been here for eight days. The ride from Philadelphia lasted two days and 15 hours. My dad did all the driving and for a 60-something-year-old man that is crazy. He was adamant. I packed poorly despite booking a U-box the week prior to leaving to move items beforehand. Yet, we shoved and pushed boxes and bags in the trunk, playing Tetris with random items I thought I would need for the last two weeks in Philadelphia. I did not need that shit!

Somehow my dad, my mom, Rupert (my cat) and I stuffed ourselves inside. My dad could not see out the back. It was packed with shit. I have a lot of shit. I am ashamed of my shit. I own five things of floss. Movers sweated carrying heavy boxes of books when I finally got my keys on Monday. I live in an attic, Emily Dickinson style and three flights of stairs can truly wipe you out.

Driving to Iowa otherwise was smooth. There was an incident of almost running out of gas and a nice man in a pick-up truck led us to a Casey’s (a gas station in the region. Another gas company sprinkled around Iowa City is called Kum & Go!) The town had a sundown feel. My mom remarked about the KKK. My dad profusely apologized, genuinely thinking we could get gas at a rest stop which only contained bathrooms and vending machines–not like the massive rest stops on the East Coast. We were in rural Illinois, babes.

We arrived safe and sound though. My parents left for Colorado on Wednesday to visit my aunt. The past few days I have finally been on my own, slowly unpacking my shit. I bought another dresser because I have so much shit. I am finally meeting people. Some I find annoying, but they might not be annoying. Everyone has jitters. I have jitters. I schmoozed at the welcome BBQ, socially awkward and nervous. Some folks I met in April when I visited recognized me and wanted to hang! I exchanged numbers. Other people looked at me weird. Maybe in my head, but like okay bitches!

There was an after-party too and I arrived a little early, but met fiction and poetry alike. Even nonfiction folks rolled through. My crush (lol) who I had been DM’ing over the summer called poets an endangered species, saying he never saw us (he’s a fiction first-year). I do not think we are ever invited to fiction shit! He was right though, not many poets attended. We are hermits.

I am not really a hermit. In Philly, I loved to overwhelm and do too much. Making new friends and new experiences is vital to me. I believe it is an only child issue. I am making up for lost time and a lonely childhood (it was not that lonely most likely, but my memory is bad.) I hope to burrow into reading and writing. I spent my time doing other things the last few years. Like watching Real Housewives and going to movies and parties and solo dates with friends and fun outings like Six Flags). Why read!

I have not finished a book in a year. I start and then I think…Real Housewives?

And did I mention friendship?! I am eternally blessed by the friends who came to my going away/birthday party. I got really drunk, but people said I was totally fine, just really funny and now I am not really drinking because I do not want to be that person at the Workshop in the beginning. (I do see why people drink heavily here. It’s boring! But all I have been doing is driving to Walmart so that boring energy will most likely change with more activities and understanding the landscape.) I am eternally blessed by the hangs I had the last week I was in Philly. I am worried about friends abandoning me. You better stay my friends!!!

Writing is not a thing I do anymore. I have not written in years. It is super funny I am here. All of it is really funny! I waffled around about going. I remained ambivalent the whole summer leading up to the move, more so stressed by logistics and driving and getting rid of shit (I should have sold more shit!). Tracie Morris kicked me out of her class in weird fashion when I visited several months ago. I talked with Mark Levine, another faculty member, like, three times as he tried to convince me to come. He talks too much and each call wound up being over an hour long. Friends warned me that not going could be a huge regret. For whatever reason in my heart, I accepted, and they gave me a fellowship, which essentially means I do not teach the first year. I am an Iowa Arts Fellow. Okay!

Now I am here in Iowa! I will be attending a small reception at another faculty member’s house. I offered to give folks a ride to her house because it is rather far from where people live. No one signed up for me! I am unpopular! Okay, actually, someone did sign up for me and now I am being weird because I let her know I might leave early if I get overstimulated and she keeps responding with the shocked emoji and I am like, “Am I being insane?” I probably will change my tune, I just do not want to be tied by other people’s timeline! What if I want to leave now!

The cohort is big and cliques are already forming. We shall see how it goes. I think I am excited now. I am taking two letterpress classes to meet other people. I have a meeting about assisting ESL courses. I have several coffee dates with folks (fiction and nonfiction people funnily enough). My friend Rodney from Penn is here who is ushering me to the intricacies and drama and goodness of the program. I feel too old for drama (29 is old, 30 is young), but I want to know about any drama. That’s the character I want to adopt. Open enough to hear the tea, but I ain’t instigating. I signed up for Tracie Morris’ seminar to retraumatize myself in the hopes that it will be okay and she ends up liking me.

God, what a weird time. Classes start tomorrow. More to come.