If you've been reading the New Yorker for a while, chances
are that you may recall Meghan Daum's article, "My Misspent Youth," in
which she wrote about how she had gone broke pursuing the dream life of a
freelance writer living in New York City and was preparing herself to decamp
to Lincoln, Nebraska. It serves as the title piece for a sampling of her
magazine work for various publications throughout the '90s (and into the 21st
century). When asked how she selected the pieces for the collection, she
explains, "What I'm concerned with personally, and in my writing, is the way
we use accessories and trinkets to express identity, and the various ways that
plays out in our culture. The other thing that concerns me is fake
environments, plastic environments--airplanes, the Internet, that kind of
thing." Thus you'll find her writing about cyberdating for the New
Yorker, polyamorous collectives for Nerve, growing up as a music
geek for Harper's, or stewardess culture for Open City. But
whatever her subject, Daum's voice, her particular blend of storytelling mixed
with reflection, and a total willingness to tell tales on herself, is instantly
identifiable. "It's nice to have this book," she reflects over lunch on the Upper
East Side. "I feel like my twenties are sealed up, and I can go beyond them now
into my thirties."
RH: You're willing to use your own life to explore your cultural
premises, as well as reporting on other people.
MD: I do a lot of reporting for magazines, probably as much as I write
about myself, but the pieces that everyone remembers seem to be the personal
ones, and I get asked to do them a lot. And I'm an easy subject--I'm here, I'm
not going to sue myself, I don't have to fact check myself. But at this point in
my writing, writing about myself is a tool. People have called what I do
"confessional," which I think is reductive. It's not like I feel that I'm
personally that interesting. I never sit down to write about myself unless I'm
going to be able to get past my own story to talk about something larger. I
don't see the point in writing if you're not going to talk about something
beyond yourself.
RH: So, some people might look at "My Misspent Youth" and say
that you're confessing your "defeat," but you go past your
financial failure in New York to ask why you got caught up in
spending beyond your means in the first place.
MD: And I'm not the only one. The only reason I wrote the piece, the
only reason the New Yorker published it, is that there's millions of
people in that situation--not just in New York, but everywhere. Money and
New York were the most overt aspects of the piece, but they're in some ways
the least interesting. Why is it that we confuse the trappings with what's
going on? Why would you build your life around an Oriental rug? But it
happens.
RH: Have you found that the types of pieces you work on have
changed since you've moved to Nebraska?
MD: No...I get assigned a lot of "finding your spirit on the prairie"
pieces for magazines, which is funny, because my life is what it is, and that's
pretty unglamarous. Other than the natural environment, it's really not that
different than my old life in New York. I get up, I talk on the phone and email
the same people I always did, I do the same work. But I've been asked at least a
dozen times if I could write something about the beauty of the land and how
I'm in touch with my soul now, how cleansing the experience has been...and I
have done quite a bit of that, because, you know, it's a gig and I need the
money. But it's just really funny. Actually, I'd love to write about that; it's a
riot.
RH: Do you see yourself living in Nebraska for the long haul?
MD: I don't know. It's great to come back to New York, but I miss
Nebraska when I'm here. I've been back to New York a few times now, so it
feels totally normal. I can walk around now and totally forget I don't live here
anymore. But the first time I came back--and again, this is such an affectation,
although it's very unconscious--it was like coming back home after your first
few months at college, when all of a sudden, you can't get around your old
town anymore because you've "changed" so much by being away. Like I got
on the wrong subway the first time I came back, but I wouldn't do that now.
I'm the sort of person who wants to be everywhere and nowhere, so what
might really appeal to me is to have a place in Nebraska and also someplace I
could come to in New York that would let me come here more often than I do
now. That was actually the idea when I first moved to Nebraska, but I realized
quickly that it's the kind of thing that would take a long time to set up.
I do think it's beautiful there. It's a neutral place; it has no bag, no
affectations, other than the football thing, which I've stayed away from. That
is something that really appeals to me--it has no mountains, no oceans; there's
no sort of activity that dominates the place. It's a blank canvas in a way. Did
that really answer your question? I guess if you're asking today, I could stay
in Nebraska forever, but then I could change my mind. Last week I would have
said no.
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