Chances are, if you’ve made it to this page, you already have your own ideas about me.
I don’t expect to change those, since I long ago realized that I am just the type of person who, for whatever reason, seems to inspire (or provoke) concrete, nonmalleable, preconceived notions.
In other words, you probably started judging me when I requested we listen to your dad’s Springsteen albums at the sleepover in fifth grade…
Or when I refused to straighten my unruly, Italian-Jewish hair in eighth grade and was the only girl with IDGAF mop-head…
Or even when you saw me bring my service dog to the house party senior year of undergrad.
Maybe your assumptions started when you landed at my header image, in which case… I hope you enjoyed that little sneak peak into my neuroses and insecurities– only some of which are contrived from my years of being a misfit. I take full responsibility for the ones I conjure up all on my own.
I was a misfit growing up in Connecticut, at my beloved undergrad in Boston, and especially during my 7 months in LA. Throughout all of that time, I wrote. It buoyed my GPA in a high school that I only cared for during soccer season, and spurred me on through 4 years of a Writing, Literature, and Publishing BFA. As blogging became everyone’s new favorite pastime and trendy, cathartic release alongside yoga and pressed juices, I steadfastly refused to take part. I cast aside any well-meaning insistences of “It’ll help you get a job!” or “You’ll appreciate it looking back when you’re older!” I care deeply about honing my craft and want nothing more than to pay my rent with the written word, but honestly I was afraid.
I’ve heard what people have said about me when I do my best to stay out of the spotlight. I somehow command the wrong kind of attention even when I’m desperately avoiding it. I knew, and know, full well that any self-published blog posts would be instant fodder for my Facebook ‘friends.’ And yet, something has recently clicked where I decided to do it anyways.
I recently moved to Brooklyn and switched into the music industry after several months of ghostwriting. I had to lose money, friends, and more-than-friends to get here, but I appreciate where I am every day– even when the F train decides to take a spontaneous vacation during my morning commute. I am still not Miss Popularity, even in a city where I feel I belong. At the sage old age of 23, I realize I never will be. So why not write? Why not make a blog under my actual name instead of blogging for others?
I couldn’t come up with a good answer to that, so here we are.
Now that I’ve gotten that off of my chest, here’s the bio you were probably expecting from the next uppity 20-something blogger who felt she had something to say:
Riana is a 23-year old who has fallen hard for Bushwick over the last few months. She is “the girl with the dog in a bag” on the L train… and that dog is her service papillon named Duck. And yes, he likes his doggy pouch. Riana has written professionally for the past year, but not under her own name, and quite frankly she is sick of not receiving any credit (or submittable clips). She currently works in the music industry for a fabulous group of people, but has a background in film & television production. She wants to one day be brave enough to write openly about her experiences and stop being afraid of what her conservative Connecticut family will think.