Miranda G. Triay

Upland, CA was a city without opportunity. At least for a recent college graduate with a philosophy and cultural anthropology BA.

(Minors in English, History, and Medieval Studies, too. I know, I know, hold the applause).

But I had no one else to turn to but my parents, nowhere else to go but my childhood home in the heart of SoCal suburbia. Emotionally burned out and 20k in debt, I applied to meager, dead-end jobs that would do little to bolster my career or any supposed talents I had. I could have written my own stories, jump-started a self-published writing career. Instead, I spent time in chat rooms excitedly blathering about the latest Studio Ghibli film or writing fanfiction about obscure Pokémon characters.

It wasn’t until I was fired from one of these dead-end jobs, where I became unemployed and dependent on the people I had once hoped could depend on me, that I understood the gravity of my situation. 

I was a loser, and I didn’t have a plan.

So, I made one.

My knack for writing has saved my ass time and time again. While my college papers were never effortless, I didn’t have to push myself with all-nighters or extensive research at the library like my other classmates. I knew what I wanted to write; I wrote it and an A or, rarely, a B would be my reward.

I remembered this talent when I applied to San Francisco State University’s MA in philosophy. I had little love for San Francisco then (I was a SoCal kid through and through), but it was the only well-ranked philosophy program in the state that didn’t require the GRE. And while I was a talented writer, I was also 1) broke, 2) kind of lazy, and 3) on a time crunch, as the deadline was a mere few weeks away. I wrote a compelling statement, spruced up and compiled a collection of my best-written essays, contacted a few professors for recommendations, and sent my packet in the mail.

Less than a month later, I was accepted. My eyes glossed over as I read the letter, my second chance ticket out of suburbia validating me, a soft, fragile hope ballooning across my chest.

While my time at San Francisco State was much more tumultuous than expected, it reinstalled my sense of purpose. I went to college to learn how to write well—well enough to be confident in my abilities, to where I could write a novel or a memoir without the gut-wrenching twist of imposter syndrome. After, with no finished manuscripts, book ideas, or job offers, I floundered and nearly drowned in my ineptitude, in a place I had sworn I would outgrow.

With my acceptance, I discovered I had learned. I wasn’t an impostor.

And for a sci-fi writer with unfulfilled ambition and a bit of an edge, that gift led me to San Francisco—a city of opportunity.

The city I now proudly call my own.

The city I’ll write about, flaws and all.