Picture this: Winter. An apartment in Brooklyn with all the amenities (or lack there of) that Hollywood has taught us to expect. Horns. Sirens. A punk bar downstairs. A lively cacophony of street life. And zero insulation. A large painting blocks the draft from a faulty window. We open on our heroine in three pairs of pants wrapped in something resembling a Depression Era blanket; there may or may not be soup — Dostoyevsky, eat your heart out.
Charlie Pang and I are huddled around my laptop for warmth looking for greener pastures. Here comes Windsong. Sun rays burst forth from dark skies and the world as we know it changes forever. There is a beautiful randomness in life. I try to appreciate it on a daily basis. My broken window and Windsong’s need for an editor is one of those beautiful moments of confluence.
From the moment I met Sara and Byron, by way of Skype, on Anthony’s laptop, in a cramped office in Manhattan, I knew that I was looking at something big, life changing — geographically-speaking for sure, but also something more meaningful. Here was a company fighting the good fight, making things that can only be made with love and intention. I felt like this was a place worth pilgrimage. To join the ranks of the driven, creative humans putting their hearts and souls into their work. They also have a strange obsession with Mexican mineral water, which, I won’t lie, gives me pause, but is odd enough to beg further investigation.
Second interview to meet the fam: rescheduled. Bumped by a coyote with a tight schedule. Raised eyebrow, I’ll allow it.
Wit has suffered as brevity was thrown in the ditch at sentence one. Let’s skip to the end: 6 months in!
I find myself wildly impressed by the varied talents of the people around me. Sara and Byron are kind and benevolent dictators and my coworkers are fantastically unique in their quirks and drives. I have found the space to breathe. To push myself to be better. To tell stories with conviction and certitude born of the confidence instilled in me by my fellow creatives.
Agency. That is the word that has been eluding me. I have been given agency and support. This has brought forth a sense of belonging that a career freelancer and an alley cat from Queens could only dream of in colder, grayer worlds. It’s worth all the garbage fires and exposed brick the East Coast could ever promise. So, at 6 months, here’s to many more, you beautiful bastards.
