Candidly Reading #2: Tell Me Lies, Carola Lovering

Candidly Reading #2: Tell Me Lies, Carola Lovering

There is nothing that will sell me on a guilty pleasure read quite like twin recommendations from Cosmopolitan and theSkimm. So when I came across the ombre cover for Carola Lovering’s Tell Me Lies (which, through the novel, you learn is named after Fleetwood Mac’s song “Little Lies”), I was quick to make it my next read.

The premise in essence is very simply collegiate girl-meets-older-boy. But very quickly, I became aware of how Tell Me Lies was going to serve as more than just a fun read. Heroine Lucy Albright is introduced as an aspiring journalist in a non-industry job trying to mentally prepare for seeing the guy who epically broke her heart at a wedding they are both attending. Her narration, altering between her college years and the hours of the wedding, is coupled by those of Stephen DeMarco’s college narration, the very boy who broke her heart. Their duality offers cutting insights into both sides of an addictive and spiraling love affair that derails not once, not twice, but thrice.

And more than once, I saw my relationship — my only relationship to date — unfold on page in glaring ink and typeface.

DISCLAIMER #1: This post contains spoilers. Sorry. Don’t come here if you don’t want the tea.

DISCLAIMER #2: If you are close to me and you don’t want to relive 2015-2016, for understandable reasons, then this post is not for you. You do not need to be supportive right now.


For eight tumultuous months, he was my favorite person.

But those months were brutal. They started with an argument about what the “rules” were for behavior at music festivals. It escalated from there to losing my best friend over their old flame (something I, admittedly, should have been more prepared for). There was the night that I screamed in my sleep in rage because he was fazing me out, my mother in bed next to me having driven two hours up from Annapolis to comfort me in ways she simply could not have done over the phone. There were the Christmas presents thrown at me from the doorway of his bedroom, and the (light) push backwards when I came too close during one of his rants that followed.

People always talk about realizing they’re in love during the happy moments, but I think you realize it in the bad ones. The ones that knock you off center, scaring you when they prove that no matter what kind of logic is in your head, it’s what’s in your heart that determines fucking everything.

Tell Me Lies, Lovering

And yet if you asked me during this time what I was doing with him, I would have said he was my best friend, my person, my soulmate. I loved him more than I loved anything in the whole world. When we were good, it felt like I was alive in another plane than I had ever experienced in my previous twenty-one years. So, yes, against all reason and all judgment, I kept returning every time that he would take me back. As long as I was given chances, as I viewed them (instead of me giving them to him), I was okay.

I was delirious and idiotic and naive and irresponsible and self-destructive, and I knew all of that. But none of it weighed anything against what I actually felt. Do you follow your head or your heart? which do you do? Your heart, always. Right? I didn’t think I would ever stop believing that.

Tell Me Lies, Lovering

When it actually did end, I descended into my darkest mental health to date. It was shocking to me how bleak my life seemed in his absence. For the six months to follow, I was a shell of the person I was prior to our relationship. It took moving to another country, completely detaching myself from the ghost not only of him but also of those who had separated themselves from me in the aftermath, in order to grant myself the clarity and chance to start fresh. I gave myself permission to go on dates again, although I didn’t kiss anyone for another year. When I finally did re-enter the physical arena of romance, I found myself avaricious, eager to gain some sort of confirmation that I was still desirable now that I was capable of optioning myself that way.

Three years passed and (just like Lucy in Tell Me Lies) I found myself in New York City, fully redeemed and confident again. And then he was nine miles away from my apartment.

Whoever I was then seemed like a long-lost version of myself, someone I didn’t know anymore, and I couldn’t figure out how I’d gotten to where I was. I’d been experiencing the same recurring thoughts since I’d moved back to New York: What was I doing? Why was I still chasing him? Did I even like him as a person? How could I ever bank on a future with someone I couldn’t trust? There was that one stubborn, annoyingly veracious part of me that knew wanting Stephen had to be wrong. If you ignored the gray and got really honest, if everything in the world was separated into black and white, into good and bad, Stephen would fall into bad.

Tell Me Lies, Lovering

I knew that I shouldn’t have gone to drinks with him. I kept it quiet, not telling anyone what I was doing beforehand and only a few after the fact. I knew it would hurt many who stood by me, alienate their loyalty, but I couldn’t stand strong, stand reformed, without having the chance to shove it in his face and say, “Look! Look what you did to me, and I’m still here!” And — if I’m being honest — there was still affection.

We are no longer in contact, and I don’t anticipate that will change anytime soon. Like Lucy at the end of the book, when Stephen comes up and tries to flirt with her at the wedding with his fiancée just feet away, she knows that there is no reason to pursue something that to him is just a game. Much like the end of the book, Lucy is able to go and pursue her writing and Stephen is stuck in a dead-end finance job (just like my ex).

Tell Me Lies was exactly the cathartic read that I needed. At the end, I feel as strong and empowered as Lucy. The world is capable of so much more than the multitudes of cookie cutter Stephen DeMarcos. I know this because I see it in my parents, in my friends’ relationships, in my relatives. I feel it in the love they show me.

One day, writing this won’t even cross my mind. It will be, as my ex said when he broke up with me, “a blip on [my/your] radar.” Because, one day, there will be real love in the picture. That all-encompassing, past-relationship-amnesia-causing love that comes into your life in the most common ways. As CJ, Lucy’s mom, tells her in one of their last scenes:

Love — real love — isn’t something you construct or hope or imagine or plan for the future. Love is something you live and feel in real time, in every single moment, big or small. It’s reciprocal and often unglamorous. But we bank on it because it’s what gives life meaning.

Candidly Concerting #4: When Astrid S. Stole The Show

Despite my charming habit of getting to concerts early enough to stand three rows back from center stage — meaning I stand in line for an hour prior — I usually hate the opening acts. Vehemently, aggressively hate. At best I tolerate them. When there are two opening acts, I become irritable and antsy. And while, yes, I occasionally walk away with a new song to listen to by an artist I would never have found on my own, I rarely become a converted fan.

When I bought tickets to see Zara Larsson feat. Astrid S., however, I knew it was going to be different.

While a decently solid fan of Larsson, I have been pushing Astrid S. onto unsuspecting friends for two years now. The Lauv remix of “Breathe” was a staple in my Summer 2017 playlist (a time when I was also avidly consuming Larsson’s So Good album), and her new music constantly makes the rotation for whatever I’m currently listening to. So, yes, I may have been a bit biased when I was approaching the concert. But there was no way to anticipate the difference in authenticity of the two artists who performed that night.

Astrid S. performed a small selection of her work, as openers usually do, but her energy levels were high and authentic (video above). The crowd fed into it with an increasing pulse and hunger. When she wasn’t singing or dancing around the stage, Astrid S. was enthusiastically screaming, “NEW YORK!!!” with pure glee at a sold out Irving Plaza. While she might not have been headlining, she might as well have been.

With a heavily warmed up crowd, Zara Larsson took the stage for a perfectly polished and highly orchestrated set, with back-up dancers and projections of wildlife scenery. In the end, after a genuine and entertaining set from Astrid S., Larsson’s vocals — while her runs were more impressive — could not overpower the fact that the rest of her production felt forced. There was nothing ad-libbed or personal about the performance, because that’s exactly what it was — performative.

I don’t like giving bad reviews, and it wasn’t that it was bad, it was just that one star shone brighter in the setting and the atmosphere of Irving Plaza. Larsson belonged in an arena with thousands of adoring fans, but in the smaller venue she felt out of place. Astrid S. fit the setting and the vibe like a glove. That being said, both are incredibly talented and I’m excited to see what the future holds for both of their careers, even if I hope that it takes them in two separate tour directions.

Candidly Concerting #3: lovelytheband

“Hey, Ma, I think this year the band made it.” Those were the last words that the frontman of lovelytheband, Mitchy Collins, managed to say before he turned his back on a cheering audience with a reddening face to wipe his eyes. His bandmates, Jordan Greenwald and Sam Price, both stepped away from their instruments and went to celebrate and comfort him. After all, they had just shared with the crowd that the sold out Irving Plaza in New York City in three days, a stage the members themselves had been to see Billboard greats like FallOut Boy, Ed Sheeran, and Macklemore. Now it was their turn.

I remember the first time I heard lovelytheband’s hit “broken” on the segment “Ear Poppin’ New Music” on SiriusXM’s Hits 1. I was driving to Ocean City, New Jersey with my mom, freshly returned from my first year in grad school in London and finding myself surprisingly at a loss with what to listen to on American radio while, as I like to call it, “driving with Wendy” thanks to my increasingly eclectic Spotify tastes. But if there’s one thing I can never resist, it’s the opportunity to hear new music. I did not, however, expect for my tastes to shift into high gear. I don’t even think the song ended before “broken” was added to my Spotify summer playlist. And when the album was released, it was added to my saved catalog.

It’s now been a year since that highway listen. The band has received decent notoriety, and well-deserved. Their sound is widely appealing, with an audience on Monday night’s concert ranging from families with musically woke middle schoolers to late thirties groups of music enthusiasts. Personally, I went alone, wanting to fully dance and geek out when they played “pity party” (I did) and nearly cry at the end of “maybe I’m afraid” (there were witnesses). And while the opening acts were decent (Jagwar Twin and Flora Cash), if at times muddy, there was no chance of anyone stealing lovelytheband’s thunder that weekday night at Irving Plaza. They owned that stage and fully earned the Live Nation backing that they’re receiving for their finding it hard to smile tour.

I am a certified, cemented, rock-solid fan.

Living Candidly #2: Is Mainstream Media Whitewashing the Black-Lesbian Love Story?

Living Candidly #2: Is Mainstream Media Whitewashing the Black-Lesbian Love Story?

DISCLAIMER: I am, in complete honesty, a heterosexual white woman. I did, however, complete my undergraduate thesis in the oppression of the black female body in Afro-American diasporic literature and I received top marks. I am not an authority, but I am a passionate ally. Let’s begin.


Last night, after binging the new Zac Efron/Ted Bundy Bio-Pic, two friends and I turned on Netflix’s new — for lack of a better word — chick-flick Someone Great starring Gina Rodriguez, Brittany Snow, and DeWanda Wise. On the surface, the core cast was diverse and riveting. Rodriguez played a broken-hearted Latina who had recently landed her dream job at Rolling Stone in San Francisco, ultimately driving her away from New York and her boyfriend of the past nine years. Snow was the uptight WASP who learns to let loose through the course of the film, finding out that not everything has to go according to plan. And finally, Wise is the Black-Lesbian.

I leave that sentence at seven words because there is so much more to unpack there than to sum up in one singular sentence. Through the course of the film, her character Erin has to learn that it’s okay to fall in capital-L Love, even if that means opening herself up to vulnerability of rejection. In a poignant moment with her lover, she reveals that she was in one semi-relationship in college only to be left for a man, leaving her to feel like “an experiment.” But prior to this reveal, Erin is cold romantically, withdrawn when it comes to her romantic partner’s pushes for more intimacy. When pressed by Snow’s character Blair for why she won’t just date someone, Erin tells her to keep her “heteronormative labels in a motherf**king box to the motherf**king left.”

And while it was a laughable line in the way that Wise delivered it, was she right in the fact that Blair was whitewashing the situation? Or was the situation already whitewashed in its very essence?

I couldn’t help but reflect upon the character of Kat Edison on The Bold Type, played by Aisha Dee. While the show actually chronicles her coming out story, it also features her own reluctance to commit to a relationship of any formulation even when heavy romantic feelings are involved. In one altercation between Kat and her love interest Adena, Kat says that she doesn’t “do” relationships — an exact sentiment that could have fallen from the lips of Wise’s character in Someone Great.

And while both romantic scenarios resolve in the happily-ever-after plot, I can’t help but wonder if there’s something incredibly whitewashed and gentrified about the black-lesbian experience in this film and televison show? Are we sterilizing it to make it safe for general audiences? Are we generalizing it to a point that it covers all the bases in order to make it so larger than life that it is no longer gritty and real? What are we supposed to be gaining from these portrayals? One is relatable, and two is celebratory, but if the trend continues in the cookie-cutter format, what cost will it have for our open-heartedness when we face their real-life counterparts, particularly those who don’t fit the mold?

Candidly Reading #1: Recommitting Myself to My Inner Bookworm

Candidly Reading #1: Recommitting Myself to My Inner Bookworm

One must always be careful of books and what is inside them, for words have the power to change us.

Cassandra Clare

To acquire the habit of reading is the construct for yourself a refuge from almost all the miseries of life.

W. Somerset Maugham

I am the daughter of two generous and inspiring bibliophiles.

My father frequently recounts opening the door to my bedroom an hour after my mother would usher my four year old self into the coverlet only to discover she was still sitting on the seams of the mattress, picture book in hand, a pile of previous reads at her feet, an enraptured child perched at her side. There was certainly no sleep, and no foreseeable end.

But my father got his own turn at bestowing the magic when it came to chapter books, which we would alternate reading pages out of when it came to my grade school years. And, when it came time for me to read on my own, we would “parallel” read, choosing the same texts and conversing about our progresses.

My mother, meanwhile, continued to stoke the fire of my voraciousness. From an early age, I would go to the library with a small rolling suitcase and be encouraged to take all I could fit. By middle school, my mother was facilitating the Scholastic catalog distribution to not only my grade but my brother’s and occasionally those of our teachers she felt a certain bond with even after our matriculation from their classrooms. This filled my home once a month with the inventory of a small bookstore. Speaking of, to this day, if I even remotely suggest a Barnes & Noble road trip, I can rely on little reluctance when I show up at the cashier counter with not one but two (or three) novels.

I started academically pursuing literature fervently in high school. My electives were commonly literary — notably, my seven-person class of Shakespeare in Senior year which earned me the Distinction in English award at graduation — and I even willingly and enthusiastically attended an academic camp where, yes, again I studied Shakespeare.

This all considered, I was reluctant to pursue my Bachelor’s in English. I know — contradictory! But I felt it was the easy choice, the given, the expected. I realized, however, that as soon as I took my first English elective — “Medieval Romances: Knights, Ladies, Etc” — there was no course of action other than to give into where my heart belonged. And in my heart, I have always been a true and chronic reader.  

And while professionally I do plan on returning to the Publishing world, this time in a recruitment capacity to best shape the futures of those hopefuls that I was once a member, until an hour ago I was jaded. I could hardly pick up a book without thinking of the ones I would binge in preparation for publisher interviews so I would be informed about a certain genre or house catalog.

But in the meantime, I need to pick up a damn book.

I’m thrilled to say I made the first commitment to myself today by subscribing to Book of the Month club and ordering not one but two of their offerings. I’ll be checking back in with reviews when I complete the reads, a book club of one, just to say hello and give thoughts, and undoubtedly a quote.

I am ready to be the bookworm daughter again who was read countless picture books, who read alternate pages, who sat and shared progress over breakfast, who packaged classmates’ books with care. I am ready to be me.  

Living Candidly #1: Pinned and Pressured to Change

Living Candidly #1: Pinned and Pressured to Change

I understand the various exceptions made regarding personal space on public transportation during rush hour in major metropolitan areas. But today I found myself pressed against the railing on the edge of the seats of the 2 train, my chest against the bars and a fully grown man’s front knowingly pinning me in place while he was afforded plenty of room. This was not a crowded train; this was a case of one man being too entitled in his actions where he knew he could get away with a little overstepping when it came to touching my body. When I moved further into the corner, crossing my limbs uncomfortably to make myself smaller, he moved in closer — a telltale sign of intent.

I am not a girl who gets catcalled in the street. I don’t get looked at twice at a bar. I’m more likely to get the additional free drink purchased for my friends by the bartender. So while I’ve heard of harassment and its permeability into the lives of women, I rarely experience it on such a physical and unavoidable level. And now, in the wake of that 50 block subway ride, I can assure you: that shit fucking sucks.

When I got to work, I talked with my coworkers (read: friends) about the experience to only hear their own stories about subway harassment. I was informed I was lucky that I didn’t feel an erection the entire time I was subjected to the touch of the stranger, a reality I was honestly only afforded because I was too nervous and subsequently incredibly squirmy the duration of the interaction. But it was a relatable reality for all of them.

At this point, I’ve probably got some readers up in arms with the #NotAllMen. And that’s fine, because I agree. Just last night I was watching The Bold Type (two references in two days, what is this?). Alex, a male journalist on the show, is confronted with the fact that he may have not been as pro-consent in his past as he has always believed himself to be, and this reality shakes him to question what it means when a woman comes forward with an implication that a man has sexually harassed or, worse, assaulted her. And this is what was said:

I talk about this stuff all the time with my guy friends, over dinner, over text, but never in public. And that needs to change because that’s how the behavior changes. However, I’m freaking out. I mean, these are weird times. People are losing their jobs over tweets, not even new ones. And I’ve grown from this, truly, but I’m scared that people are going to come after me for something that I’ve done in my past.

The Bold Type, Freeform

So this is what I propose. An equal playing field to both call those people who overstep personal boundaries like the man who wildly invaded my personal space on the train this morning while still offering absolution to those minor infractions from the past to those men who make intentional strides to prove that there really is some truth to the #NotAllMen trend.
Maybe if the discussion was more normalized, I would have been able to speak up about the discomfort this man was giving me in the moment of the interaction. But instead, I was kept quiet by the fact that I was afraid of offending him and causing an “unreasonable scene.” If you ask me, living in a cycle of accusation and outrage, and outrage and accusation, only means there can be absolutely no progress.

That reality sounds far worse than one that we live in now. At least now we have potential to open the door to progress. 

Candidly Concerting #1: LÉON feat. Morgan Saint at Irving Plaza

Candidly Concerting #1: LÉON feat. Morgan Saint at Irving Plaza

Last night, I attended Ones to Watch Presents: LÉON at Irving Plaza. I’ve been onto LÉON’s music since hearing “Surround Me” on The Bold Type in 2017 (yeah, I joined that band wagon), so I was quick on the Ticketmaster trigger when I found out she was doing a tour stop in New York City. I dragged my dear and yet non-fan friend Rebecca along with me to the Union Square venue, paid way too much for those requisite vodka soda, and pushed our way to three standing rows back from the barriers blockading the stage.

I was completely and unabashedly way to excited for this concert. LÉON’s sultry vocals and ballads that, in my opinion, can rival Adele any damn day of the week had been teasing me since I purchased the tickets on February 4th.

I was not, however, equally enthused in anticipation for seeing the opening act. Don’t get me wrong, I typically experience excitement with opening acts — the possibility of witnessing a star on the rise. But I had done my research and been put off by the striking appearance of Morgan Saint’s alt-pop rock (?) album covers and and the synth heavy sound.

I was wildly underestimating the power of a true performer.

While it was clear that Morgan Saint was the real deal from the first step on stage — undeniable from the GaGa command of the space and the swagger of a true musician (think Lorde) — it was the introduction and performance of the song “Glass Houses” that sold me. Morgan Saint started by asking the audience to raise their hands if they had ever had their heart broken. Then Morgan Saint said to keep our hands raised if we had ever broken our own heart. My right hand remained over my head until the first chord rang out.

If I told you I was broken, would you love me still?
Shattered hearts, crossed stars, never saw myself…

Won’t you love me now? F*cking love me now
It’s all broken, unspoken
Just breathe me in, taste me on your lips
You can let me go, if you need to let me go

“Glass Houses,” Morgan Saint
Take a listen to this stripped down version.

There’s something incredibly powerful when a performer strips their experience bare and connects with an audience on a level of raw emotion. I don’t think Rebecca noticed but “Glass Houses” drove me to be misty-eyed. It permeated my skin and made my blood hot with memory of my darkest times. I related to the lyrics on a level I would never have expected, because I had a realization I could never have grasped before. In efforts to move forward from the darkness that was my first six months of 2016, I had made every effort to absolve all of those who had removed themselves from my life under the pressure of the events. But I had not forgiven myself for being the force that opened that door, for being the driving force asking for unreasonable salvation from individuals who could not offer me that rescue. And that is now a mission that I have given myself to work on. In the aftermath of Morgan Saint’s performance, her entire discography has been added to my arsenal of songs to listen to.

Luckily, although a true balladeer, LÉON’s set was filled with infectious upbeats and crowd engagement. LÉON focused on providing grounded, relatable anecdotes about the hardships in love that drove her to these songs of romantic woes — see: “Body” or “Pink.” Her carefree dancing on stage only encouraged the audience to dance more daringly and sing more loudly, even to the point where LÉON could stop singing and the melody would carry throughout the packed venue. While it might seem like I am shortchanging LÉON as the main event by giving her less text space than her opener, there really are no words to convey the contagious joy that spread throughout Irving Plaza as soon as the lamps lit up the stage. It was a shame to watch her go, but to close it out with “Surround Me” and enjoy the moment of communion not only with her as an artist but with the whole crowd as a gathering was the icing on the cake to someone who found her with that very song.

The track that LÉON and her band performed during the feature photo.

LÉON, keep shining bright. Morgan Saint, I’m grateful.