20. Driftmania

Reactions to the lit mag of the moment

Thanks for sticking with me for 20 essays! If you’re enjoying these posts, feel free to tell a friend—every share makes a difference. But for now, slide on into the booth and grab a beer (if you like).

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A few weeks ago The New York Times published an article spotlighting “the lit magazine of the moment”: The Drift. Founded in 2020 by two Harvard College grads, Kiara Barrow and Rebecca Panovka, both just a few years my senior, The Drift primarily publishes cultural commentary and “introduces new work and new ideas by young writers who haven’t yet been absorbed into the media hivemind and don’t feel hemmed in by the boundaries of the existing discourse.” (Bit of a mouthful, but sounds good.)

In my little Twitter world, #Driftmania has exploded in the last few weeks, and the Times piece poured a precious gallon of $7 gasoline on the fan-fueled fire. 

And for good reason. The writing that appears in The Drift is excellent. I started with Sophie Haigney’s piece on children’s books and the inane, inaccurate morals about recent history that fill the pages written by politicians, while these politicians fill their pockets. Then I read Oscar Schwartz’s piece on Ted Talks and the emptiness of the “inspiresting” ideas that are supposed to save the world. I devoured Kim Hew-Low’s essay on (the completely fictional) Lil Miquela and the racial aesthetics of Instagram. 

As I read more of The Drift’s recent issues, I experienced a cascade of emotions: excitement, fear, inadequacy, intimidation, curiosity—anxiousness, the undercurrent of them all. 

The content of the writing is what initially provoked a searing self-consciousness. My internal dialogue intensified as I read through The Drift.

“My ideas aren’t that developed. I can’t commit to any thesis that strongly. I never could have thought of that.”

Every piece I read stepped outside of the “media hivemind” and bucked the “boundaries of the existing discourse.” And I genuinely believed myself unable to do that. 

Then, it was the high-powered connections that got to me. As I read the Times piece, I learned that the magazine’s founders had ascended from Dalton to Harvard to the Brooklyn literary scene. Two of my Yale classmates are involved in the mag, one as a writer, one sits on the editorial board (her brilliant red hair is caught on camera in a photo of the ed staff squeezed into a New York City bar booth). These were people I’d passed on campus, sat next to in the dining hall, and they were involved in the hottest lit mag on the scene! They were being mentioned by the editor of Harper’s and being compared to the lit mag heyday of the Partisan Review. David Remnick cared what they had to say, and was forking over money to hear them say it. I’d devoted much of my time as an undergraduate to competitive running—I missed whatever boat my classmates had caught years ago. 

And then, as I was having these thoughts, I felt increasingly turned off by the posturing and pretentiousness surrounding this hot little lit mag. It all seemed cocky and contrived and clout-thirsty. I read in the Times article that The Drift editorial board convened for a party in a Park Slope apartment to play Tableau Vivant and debate the literary genius of Edith Wharton versus Henry James. Ugh. I hope that was fun for them—I really do. But at my parties, we eat nachos and play raunchy rounds of Game of Things. Then we dance. There is no time for, nor interest in, a debate. 

Maybe that’s just what I tell myself to alleviate one of my biggest insecurities: a fear of being left behind before I’ve even gotten in the game. The fact that the founders of The Drift were my age when they started the magazine gives me the feeling that I’ll never catch up. Of course, they had years of preparation: primed and coached for this future at Dalton, immersed in the literary scene at Harvard, steeped in an exclusive, heady culture in New York before they began their very own publication that would draw the eyes of that same erudite network. And that’s okay; we’re all just writing from where we are. That’s what I’m trying to do here, after all. But even as I’m typing this, I’m worried the world is already moving on to the next thing. Glancing past the pandemic newsletter blogs like this one and sinking their teeth into the astute cultural criticism of The Drift. 

Alex Vadukul, author of the Times piece in question, writes that,

“The magazine’s rise is notable partly because it has occurred in a chaotic media-sphere that favors the quick-hit pundits of social media and writers who crank out caffeinated musings for loyal subscribers on the digital newsletter platform Substack. And as a journal of ideas founded and run by women, The Drift stands apart from its predecessors.”

My fear, when it boils all the way down, is not standing out. 

I have long been preoccupied with achievement. In high school, I was hungry to distinguish myself, but only in dimensions where I would succeed and be noticed. I excelled in academics, set school records in track and field, was selected for first clarinet in the All-state band, earned my black belt in Tae Kwon Do. I manicured a façade of the perfect student, muting and disguising aspects of myself that I feared might lead other people to see me in a less positive light.

By the time I matriculated to college, I’d learned to underplay my Midwesternness, pass as straight, and evade a diagnosis that would upend my tidy narrative of achievement. My life was easier that way; as long as I avoided what I perceived as wrong with me, I could also avert my attention from what was wrong with the world. I lived in this blissful delusion for years. 

It was only when I was forced to channel dimensions of myself that I feared distinguished me as less than—uncultured, queer, and sick—that my perspective shifted so as to make me a better person, writer, and advocate. 

Indeed, that’s part of what The Drift aims to do: break down our old, tired ways of seeing the world and force us to the edge of our own thinking. Good writing happens at The Drift—but—and—it also happens outside of it. Good writing will be found in publications that don’t exist yet and it will be found on pages that are never published. I believe good writing can come from anywhere.

Much as I think The Drift is changing the literary world in a positive way (at the very least, broadening discourse in a media landscape that, at times, highlights only a select few voices and displays the very worst of human nature), it should not represent the ultimate objective. In fact, The Drift is made possible by the predominantly white, Ivy-educated, blue blood network that it claims to break away from. I love that it’s founded by women, and the writing genuinely makes me think differently; it’s a step in the right direction, but let’s not pretend we’ve arrived.

I talked to my mom on the phone about all my Drift-elicited feelings, and the next day she said,

“All day I’ve had this knife-in-my-heart thought that my daughter—my brave, smart, intrepid daughter—is intimidated by the same people I was intimidated by.”

I am intimidated by them. But I’m also encouraged.

Recently Maggie Haberman and Taylor Lorenz had a very public Twitter feud about whether or not journalists have a “brand.” Normally I find Twitter spats irrelevant and gross, but I think this one says something really important about the industry. Whether or not you find the word brand distasteful, the fact is that in order to survive, writers are forced to market themselves. 

In response to the the Haberman/Lorenz debate, Rosie Spinks tweeted this discouraging comment: 

Rosie Spinks @rojospinks

There are essentially two career paths left in journalism: Become a dedicated lifer at one of about 3 legacy institutions (see: all the age 40+ journos who have "NYT" *in their twitter handle*) OR become your own brand and do some mixture of freelance / change jobs every 18 mos.

All of that is to say, it often feels that there aren’t that many options. So, I hope the journalism world is changing. I hope there are more paths for those of us just entering the industry. And while I can be intimidated (by The Drift, by Haberman and Lorenz, by so many others), I’m also inspired. To develop my thoughts and commit to a thesis. To be wrong and let my thinking evolve. To carve my own path. 

Fortnightly Faves

1. This Haley Blais song. Idk, the lyrics just really hit me and the title is as good as it gets.

2. These two short Times Opinion pieces, one of which reminded me of all the expansive possibilities before me, and the second of which reminded me to wax a little less nostalgic about the Before Times and all the many paths I did not take.

3. I sometimes forget to listen to Dear Hank and John while I’m listening to “more serious” podcasts, but the banter of the Green brothers always restores something in me. I just listened to (and loved) their most recent episode, but this one will always be one of my all time faves. Even the first five minutes makes me laugh uproariously while I listen to Hank try to come up with 20 good dog names.

4. Jason Kehe’s piece “Of Course We’re Living in a Simulation” made me think a little differently about the time my then boyfriend lost his earring in my apartment and it appeared weeks later in HIS apartment after I’d mentioned it minutes before. But really. This is just fascinating writing.

5. Apropos of brands (and Harper’s), excellent long read by Barrett Swanson on TikTok and influencer culture.