Anyone with a Facebook or Twitter page in Canada was probably aware that the legendary pop superstar, Prince, recently toured through the country. The status updates were unavoidable.

People getting ready for Prince.

People lining up for Prince.

People being seated at Prince.

Prince was in the house and there was no way you could escape it, though I really, really wanted to.

When I was a teenager, Prince was my messiah. During those particularly imbalanced times, I genuinely wanted to have sex with him and had the opportunity presented itself to me, I absolutely would have. He filled my thoughts. Rather than cutting myself, or joining an after school sports team or whatever it is teenagers do with their time, I fully immersed myself in Prince and his music.  When I was in grade 11, he broke a long silence and released a new album, appropriately titled Emancipation: I cut school twice in one month to watch him promote it on Rosie and Oprah.

To show my undying and everlasting love to Prince, I even got a tattoo of his male/female symbol on my stomach, in purple, and displayed it proudly every chance I could. (I was also 16, so showing off your belly wasn’t that inappropriate of at the time.)

The only thing is, my love has been far from everlasting. In fact, in recent months, it’s faded drastically. (I’ve also since got the tattoo covered up.) I obviously never thought that would happen. And I’m surprised that it did.

For a huge chunk of my life, identifying as a Prince fan helped define me as a person. When I was a teenager, I identified with his music on a sexual level. He sang about things that intrigued and excited me, things I really wanted to explore, just as I was discovering a new part of myself. (Ew, that sounds so gross.)

In my 20s, identifying as a Prince fan helped define me as someone who had good taste in pop music and liked to dance. It was way cooler to say I was weaned on Prince, than say, New Kids on the Block.

Now, in my 30s, I feel like identifying as a Prince fan only helps define me as someone who’s attached to nostalgia. And I’m not a terribly nostalgic person. When I think about my past, I’m mostly embarrassed by it. Instead, I choose to pretend most if it never existed, hope nothing comes back to haunt me, look forward and evolve.

I haven’t bought a Prince album since I was a teenager. Since then, let’s face it, he’s made terrible music. And he’s gotten pretty weird. And not in the making-women’s-lingery-sexy-on-a-man-and-not-allowing-interviewers-to-take-any-kind-of-notes-intense-dramatic-other-planet kind of weird. Having been in the same room as him once, I can assure you that kind of weirdness is the stuff of legends.

Naw, his new weirdness is the kind where you’re kind of concerned about his already questionable mental well-being. It wouldn’t be surprising to find him on your doorstep, asking if you’d heard the good word. (Becoming a Jehovah Witness is known to do that to people. Oh, it’s also known to isolate and traumatize family members who want to leave the religion, suppress free speech and thought, and generally ruin lives.)

By all accounts, Prince still puts on a great show. He’s cut the naughty bits out, which is what I loved most about his music, but he apparently still knows how to excite a stadium. So much so that people couldn’t stop posting about it on Facebook. I’m not going to lie and say it didn’t make me jealous and sad that I missed what is being called the greatest show our country has ever seen. But I ended up having a pretty good night, regardless of not attending his concert.

I went to my friend Louise Burns’ show at the Horseshoe tavern. There, I watched a mini Canadian super-group perform a solid set. Louise, a veteran singer/songwriter who was once signed to Madonna’s label, was backed by a guy who plays in Sloan, and the former bass player from Hot Hot Heat, who was also my first serious, long-term boyfriend.

I hadn’t spoken or seen him perform in years, and it was a trip to watch him in such a different context. The three jammed away, happily, exchanging inside jokes and playing songs from one of my favourite albums of the year.  It was really fun to watch.

I could have been caught up in nostalgia that night, both at the Prince concert and at the Horseshoe, in front of my first true love. But I wasn’t. Instead, I reveled in being present, being there, because I knew it was exactly where I was meant to be.

Holy man of war, I am a scattered mess these days. Allow the following blog entry to prove this point clearly or not so clearly. This is my mind on messy cracked egg yolk.

To wit, my life recently:  One moment I’m freaking out about what may or may not be coming, whether that’s complete failure in my career and relationships or a gigantic, overdue earthquake and tsunami.  The next moment, I am back in the present, flatlining my brain in a peaceful and meditative state.  And when I’m not feeling either extreme anxiety or deep calm, I am completely numb. It’s my new way of coping, I guess, after a long succession of failures in the last year or so.

It’s a baffling place to be. Neither here, nor there nor anywhere. Like a Dr. Seuss story but not as one-dimensional as the pages it lives on. There’s a lot of crazy shit going on, and the story arch is far from predictable. It can be exciting but it can also be scary, like walking a plank, blindfolded into a pool of either milk or molasses.

If my life had a soundtrack, it would consist of two tracks: Oh What a Beautiful Morning and I Just Don’t Know What to do with Myself. And this song.

So in other words, nothing that new, really. Things just seem a little sped up.

Since I’m working on a pilot segment for CBC Radio 3 called “Three Good Points with Elianna Lev,” I’m going to start practicing the format here. Here are Three Good Points I’m focusing on while I try to achieve some semblance of balance during this surreal and hard to grasp time in my world. And the world.

1. Delude yourself to the point of success

As much as I work on building my selfesteem, worth, love etc during a point in my career where I seriously can’t afford to be doing anything otherwise, I’m still not buying it.  So, I’ve decided to look to Kanye West as my saviour. I spend enough time on Wikipedia researching mood and personality disorders to confidently know Mr. West is a textbook case narcissist, and that’s all right by me. Look at everything he’s accomplished. There’s no doubting he got where he’s at by being completely delusional.

So I’ll take a whopping dose of what he has and run with it. Maybe it’ll finally take me where I long to be.

2. Accept the darkness

This site brings me a lot of love, but I won’t feel like I’m doing my job right until I start getting hate mail. It will come I’m sure and I’ll be ready for it.

In the meantime, the closest thing I have to hate mail right now is my bad-energy neighbour. He lives just around the corner, looks identical to a male version of the woman from the Twits, always sits on his porch, and horks up phlegm every time I walk by. I assume he’s an alcoholic, as he has about four Paps in front of him by 8:30 a.m. I’ve become very self-conscious when I walk by his house, and I’ve become very aware of this fact.

When I first moved in the neighbourhood and noticed this man’s weird energy, I used to grin widely and furiously wave, in an attempt to appear defiant and obnoxious. When he stared back at me without looking away first, I got scared and gave up.

Next, I tried horking loudly after I walked by, but only after he’d horked first. This was a decent plan until I got a nasty look by another dogwalker, whose pooch ran over to lap my phlegm on the pavement.

These days when I walk by his house, I notice the shift energy, keep walking and pretend to act as normal as I can. I try to revel in the fact that this frightening man at least keeps things interesting.

3. Let the silt settle

My good friend Louise Burns (whose album is dropping on April 5th) is an expert when it comes to dolling out Taoist quotes in times of sheer clusterfuckerydom. Here’s one that is permanently ingrained in my brain: If you let the silt settle, the water will be clear. Malcolm Gladwell said successful entrepreneurs all have one thing in common: It isn’t their appetite for risk. It’s their ability to see a sure thing. Nothing seems sure to me right now. NOTHING. Which means that nothing is going to be clear until there is clarity. Who knows what it’ll take to get there. I suppose that’s all part of this on-going, never-ending process.

Hi reader. Just thought I’d say hi. Leave me a message below or email me at write@eliannalev.com because I love you so very much.

During the thick of the recession, a writer, who I have looked up to since I was a child, emailed me, asking for help. She’s a “name” writer, someone whose work is synonymous with her name. I have known her for many years through friends of the family.

Knowing that I had experience in journalism, she asked me if I could put the word out to my contacts to pitch them her column.

I truly wanted to help her but had no idea how. I didn’t have the contacts she assumed I had, and didn’t feel comfortable cold calling, since I’m terrible at pitching myself (and still am), much less someone else. The whole scenario made me incredibly uncomfortable. I didn’t want to believe that this writer – a hero in my eyes – was so hard up she had to resort to asking me – lowly ol’ me, of all people – for help.

When I wrote back telling her this, she responded in complete defeat, saying she’d probably have to look for a job in customer service, seemingly every (antisocial, reclusive) writer’s worst nightmare.

I felt terrible, but I also felt defeated. I thought this woman, who I admired with my whole heart, was invincible. She had proved to me that she wasn’t.

I’ve been thinking about this incident recently because I’ve had several people tell me that they look up to me. While I assume my natural reaction should be to be flattered, it instinctually makes me anxious.

I am quicker to list my shortcomings than I am my accomplishments. I wonder what these people who look up to me would think if my career started slumping, or if I stopped being a writer (my nightmare). While it’s an amazing feeling to be admired for my work, the pressure of maintaining whatever it is they see in me is all too exhausting.

I met up with my very special friend Louise, to gain some insight. Despite being six years younger than me, she’s one of the wisest people I know. When she was 15, her band Lillix was signed on the spot to Maverick, Madonna’s label at the time.  Unlike many musicians, she got to live the pay off of her hard work. By the time she was 16, she was fully living the dream – touring the world, being profiled in magazines, flying first class, playing to thousands of people.

These days, Louise still makes a living with her music, though not on the same level as before. And while haters might be quick to assume she’s resentful or unhappy, they are totally wrong. She’s more content now than she ever has been, thanks to her unique experience and the perspective it’s brought to her life. And that is why I look up to her.

I told her about my discomfort with being looked up to and she assured me that I was being a dumb-dumb head.

“No one successful has gotten to where they are without going through the downs,” she said. “And it never ends. You have to be okay with that.”

The writer who contacted me during the recession ended up selling her column to several newspapers across the continent. Since then, work has never slowed down for her. Although she obviously felt a moment of desperation when she emailed me for help, overall, she never really had to feel that way. I had secretly known that all along. It just made me unsettled that she hadn’t.

Before I left my pow wow session with Louise, she told me that in her eyes I would always be a successful, established writer. And for once, I didn’t instinctually feel anxious. Instead, I felt good.

This one is dedicated to Ms. Jill Borra and Mr. Kevin Siu of the Globe and Mail. I’ll be contacting you soon.

I was talking to my friend in New York last week about her husband whose career is on the verge of exploding. He’s the most driven, confident, and self-assured person I’ve ever met in my life. Ever. Ever. Ever.

Lately, he’s been working harder than almost anyone I know and apparently, it’s getting to him.

“It’s like he wants a gold star on his forehead,” his wife told me. “I think I should do that. I think I should go out and buy a roll of gold stars from Sandylion and stick them on his face, one by one until he looks like David Bowie.”

In short, this guy needs confirmation about everything.  Everything. Everything. Everything.

I totally get it.

Recently, a few of my girly girls and I have started playing a very healthy game where we’ll sit around on a bed and say at least one nice thing about each other before the end of our hang out session. (Reminiscent of this.)

You want to know why? Because most of the time, we’re all in our heads, telling ourselves we’re not good enough, our work isn’t good enough and everything we do isn’t good enough.

So it’s nice to have friends who can play along with this game where you not so gently stroke each other’s egos. You don’t even know how good it feels until you try it.

It’s a feeling you can get used to it.

This week I used Facebook to ask my followers to help me describe I’m a Good Story, partially for work reasons, but mostly for ego-stroking reasons. Here’s a few things people said:

“Elianna Lev doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but she does, usually by writing about the things that make her uncomfortable, of which there are very, very many.” – Sarah Steinberg, my editor at enRoute and my former editor at Vice

“Honest, heart-felt and at times poignant, I’m a Good Story tells of the journey to find truth, inspiration and personal insight amidst the beauty and schlock of post-postmodern life and relationships.” – Hilary Henegar, my editor at Granville magazine

“Personal, without sentiment, honest without being precious, always leaving the reader with a lesson or piece of useful insight” – Louise Burns, professional musician, formerly of the band Lillix

That felt great until my ex-boyfriend, professional improviser and certified jerkface Taz Van Rassel chimed in:

“Remember that girl in high school who told you every detail of her life regardless of whether you asked or not? That’s what I’m a Good Story is like, but less gothy.”

I’m in an interesting place in my career where I’m about to start taking more chances. I have to or else I won’t get where I want to be. It’s terrifying and thrilling and, really, all I can think about. I’m one of those driven types who won’t settle until they achieve what they want.  And what I want are big, big things.

I met with five of my mentors this week to ask for guidance as I enter this critical point in my life. Here’s the wise words I took away from each of them.

1)   You’re doing the right thing.
2)   Don’t think. Do.
3)   The world needs people who do what you do.
4)   You are good at what you do.
5)   When you write a story, write more than one side to it.

It helped a lot.

There are a lot of people like me. And many of us seem to be in the same place right now, all waiting for our big moment and working our asses off until it happens.

If I had one word to describe this weird place we’re in, I wouldn’t use the word “fulfilling.” Instead, I’d use ‘stressful.’ I’d even use all caps: ‘STRESSFUL.’

(As I’m writing this, I’m toggling between five different files and my web browser, working on two different contracts, one huge pitch and on the phone ordering some overpriced iPhone text plan for the US, as I’m taking a trip to LA with my writing partner later this week. STRESSFUL.)

We driven types work hard and often we’re rewarded. But equally as often, the reward doesn’t feel quite as good as we’d expect it to feel, considering the amount of energy (STRESSFUL energy) that was put in.

But whose fault is that?

I’ll think about that when I have a moment. But for now, I have way too much work to do.

——

My mentors, listed in order of how their advice appeared:

1. Terri Theodore, reporter and broadcaster extraordinaire for the Canadian Press

2. Marsha Lederman, Western arts correspondent for the Globe and Mail

3. Catherine Winckler, partner and creative director of Switch United

4. Steve Pratt, director of CBC Radio 3

5. My dad.