Bright-eyed and energetic first-years, stuck in the same cohort and bonding over our shared home of Westchester and love of the writer Joan Didion, together we entered the Third Avenue North basement in the fall of 2022 with the fervor of timid lambs. It was terrifying. We digested the chaos of our first WSN Open House over lattes at Think Coffee, and a friendship was born. We were both writers during our first year, deputy arts editors during our sophomore year, co-arts editors during our junior year and finally, we are now editors-at-large. We have written 22 stories together, and combined, we are nearing 150 bylines. The time has come for us to say goodbye to WSN, but not without a personal essay titled after a Didion piece.
On searching for answers
In a 2003 interview with The Guardian, Didion recalled writing a story at 10 years old about a woman who died by walking into the ocean. She wanted to know what it felt like. Didion walked to a California beach with her notebook, and was rolled into the waves. When she eventually made her way back to the shore, she walked home and didn’t tell anyone what had happened — the adults were playing cards.
This is the story that I remember most vividly when I think about Didion. My first-year English professor saw a girl with ideas too big for a 75-minute class, and promptly handed me Didion’s 1979 book “The White Album.” My final paper was entitled “Tiny Woman, Big Sunglasses.”
Throughout my time at NYU and WSN, I read more and more of Didion’s work. I dove into Eve Babitz and Simone de Beauvoir, and subsequently fell back in love with reading and dance. I was searching for answers to the questions I spent my life thinking that living in Manhattan would solve. But the more I read Didion, the more I saw her searching for the same thing — for her, it wasn’t about finding an answer, but becoming more comfortable with the reality she already knew existed. You soon realize that she didn’t expect an answer to begin with, really. All Didion wanted to do was to understand the uncertainty of the world around her. And she gave it her best shot, but ultimately realized that you don’t have to understand. Uncertainty is comfortable because that’s all we’ve ever known. I feel the same way as I finish my degree.
Writing becomes the salve to her inner turmoil and external disorder, and it is because of this that I respect Didion so much. I struggle with what I’m supposed to do with my seemingly random presence on Earth. Entering adulthood is still scary, but this is more about sitting with that fear. The world is full of hatred and anger, and sometimes I feel as though I am contributing to it rather than combating it. Yet at the same time, complacency in violence is worse than having no feelings at all. I write to hopefully construct my thoughts into comprehensible facts for myself and the people around me. And maybe I’ll be able to change something if I really try, but there is also peace in knowing that the world has never been perfect, and never will be. That is enough. Writing and editing at WSN changed my life. It introduced me to some of my closest friends and made me laugh and cry, and I’m a better writer for it.
— Julia Diorio, Editor-at-Large
On finding my voice
During my senior year of high school, I worked at my local bookstore. I curiously pulled Didion’s most recent essay collection, “Let Me Tell You What I Mean,” off the shelf one day, and asked my boss if I could get an employee discount. She told me that it was her treat.
I was probably as melancholic as a young woman could be in high school, and Didion’s withdrawn prose made me feel seen. I moved into the then-air conditioner-less Rubin Hall a few months later with a pile of books and a small poster of Didion’s portrait, which I taped to my desk. I, like most 18-year-olds, had not a clue in the world of who I was, but as I did my homework throughout that year, my strong-willed female icon stared back at me.
I did know that I liked to write, read and learn about art, but I was not at all confident that I should actually pursue these things. Didion’s forceful gaze inspired me to take a chance on myself, so I went to WSN’s open house, and over three years later, I am still here.
While I am undoubtedly still growing and changing, I can credit much of my relatively newfound sense of self to this publication, mostly because I finally have the confidence to express my opinions. This has allowed me to drop my pervasive people-pleasing tendencies and taught me how to stand up for myself. By learning the value of my voice, I have gained a grip on who I am becoming and what I believe in.
Being involved at the Arts desk has also allowed me to become entangled in New York City’s visual arts scene, and I consider the expressive medium to be one of the great loves of my burgeoning adult life. I have found myself on a path of self-discovery as I analyze why I am drawn to certain artists and shows, and am dismayed by others. My senior thesis, an exploration of paintings that are deeply personal to me, is inspired by a review I wrote during my first year.
After all, bylines on the internet are forever, and I like to think my newspaper friends are too. My personal growth throughout college would not have been possible without the community cultivated at WSN — and as I continue to figure out who I am and what I am doing, I remain indebted to the experiences I have had in the Third North basement.
— Alexa Donovan, Editor-at-Large
Contact the Arts desk at [email protected].