The Musings of a Boho Girl

bōˈhēmēən (noun) 1. a free spirit ; 2. a writer; 3. an explorer of the Avant-Garde.

Category: Writing

September: What I Love

Once in a while I fall hard for an item, a show, and a book. This month I couldn’t resist sharing my newfound love for a London boutique, my enduring love for an American photographer, and one Whitney retrospective that is a must see during National Hispanic Heritage Month.

Read the rest of this entry »

The Act of Remembering

‘Time Remembered is Grief Forgotten’
– Algernon Charles Swinburne

I have faint memories of the 1980s. I remember my clumsy attempts at roller skating and can vaguely recall seeing Ronald Reagan on television; perhaps the latter is an invented memory. The 1980s marked the beginning of uncertainty. I wasn’t part of the fear, loss, and tragedy that occurred; in fact I remained largely unaware of its cause. There was a silence around death, no one wanted to say how they died and some doctors chose to list underlining symptoms rather than the actual cause of death. I spent six months writing an elegy to the 1980s, the years that I was blissfully unaware and too young to understand. There were protests. People were fighting for their lives. I want to remember the protests but I can’t; those faces are ghosts now. Victims to a disease that the government refused to acknowledge. All of the documentaries never prepared me for the profound loss that began in the early 1980s, for the first time I couldn’t fill the blank pages with words, traces of death lingered in my notebook, and then there were my fragmented memories…memories that defined my story. There was only one question to answer.

Read the rest of this entry »

Missed Connections

Embed from Getty Images

 ‘I love my rejection slips. They show me I try.’ – Sylvia Plath

Rejection is a painful reality but why not have a little fun with it, so I decided to rewrite rejection letters as vignettes. Please enjoy my missed connections with literary agents.

Read the rest of this entry »

On Rejection and Self Doubt

Last weekend I found myself binge watching House of Cards Season 3 and nursing the pain of a fresh rejection slip. Don’t worry, I’m not going to spoil House of Cards for all of you. If you haven’t watched yet, enjoy.

So I don’t handle rejection well, it leaves me questioning everything about myself and then asking the question, am I good enough? As I attempted to answer that question, I spoke with several friends in multiple countries about our ‘happy place’. So here we go. Read the rest of this entry »

When Things Fall Apart

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

– Dylan Thomas

Ophelia 1851-2 by Sir John Everett Millais, Bt 1829-1896

I told myself that I was not Ophelia. Admittedly those are strange words to tell one’s self, but society makes me question whether I am her. Do I lack autonomy? We really only have so much freedom, it is, after all, reduced due to financial circumstances and employment. Those two factors are often linked. Without means how much autonomy really exists? Feminist critics often state that Ophelia lost her identity, but I don’t believe she ever had one. Her sole purpose was to marry well and elevate her family in society. While modern society has changed so much about our identity hasn’t, titles and connections are still important. They make the difference between getting a job or having your interview cancelled days before you’re scheduled to leave for New York City. Read the rest of this entry »

52*

“I believe that there are people who think as I do, who have thought as I do, who will think as I do.”

— Sylvia Plath

I first read those words as a teenager eager to gain insight into this mysterious figure. There were stories, so many stories of her marriage to Hughes, her mental illness and her suicide. Critics argued Plath’s work was inextricably linked to her life, I always disagreed with my professors and classmates in an easy-going manner. I accepted the incredulous looks and groans with amusement, after all, I knew better. As my professor patiently defined confessional poetry, I devised a counterargument: it was simply that there was more to Plath’s poetry than her tumultuous life. Read the rest of this entry »