If you’re here, it’s because you’ve made the mistake of subscribing to yet another recent college graduate’s Substack. There is also a chance that you’re here on purpose (hi mom, dad, family, friends, etc). Either way, welcome to the page, welcome to my brain.
For us recent college grads, creating a Substack is irresistible for many reasons, which I shall enumerate for you below:
Many of us are career academics. We wrote eight-page papers for breakfast. Finals week was our Olympics. And what happens to those poor souls with fingertips itching to write a research paper when they become graduates? They convince themselves that they should make a Substack.
Many of us are unemployed. Or employed doing things we’d rather not be doing, and a Substack is something to live for.
We are living at home. With our parents. Falling asleep in our childhood bedrooms. Looking around wondering when we lost contact with the younger self who haunts the photos on the walls. Who was she? Would she like who I’ve become? And why the hell did she think that haircut looked good?
Also, we’re bored, okay? And by bored I mean lonely. It’s a tough transition to go from living in the same room as your best friend in the same house as your other best friends and eating three meals a day with even more best friends. Personally, I am an extrovert, and I need my daily dosage of best friend interaction because otherwise I will go crazy.1
Some of us (me) used to have a college radio show established in 2021 pre-COVID vaccine during a dark era for many. My radio show was the one thing that I could consistently look forward to week after week, and I swore to my fans (family, friends, etc.) that I would figure out a way to contine Finding the Pony after graduation. This newsletter is it. Consider the text everything I would have said on air and the playlist attached to the end a highlight reel of songs I would have played. Only this time, I can legally swear.
The name Finding the Pony comes from a parable my dad told me when I was home on winter break my sophomore year of college. I was on the mend from being miserable, but still feeling pretty miserable nonetheless. The parable was supposed to inspire me to decide to be less miserable. It goes like this: There is a family with two sons. Twins. One brother is perpetually optimistic, the other is perpetually pessimistic. For their birthday, their parents decide to play a prank on them. They gift the pessimist a bike, and all he can think about is how he’ll probably fall off and break his leg or his nose. They give the optimist a pile of horse shit. But, instead of getting upset, the optimist looks at his parents, laughs, and says, “Where’s the pony?” Moral of the story: When life hands you a pile of horse shit, find the pony. Essentially, it’s a stranger, more elaborate version of “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”
I wanted to name my radio show something like “Sad Tunes with Maddie” and play exclusively Phoebe Bridgers’ saddest cuts and Carrie and Lowell by Sufjan Stevens. But then, my friends were like what if you called the show “Finding the Pony” like that story your dad told you, and I was like huh, yeah, maybe. So I did. And I committed to finding the pony week after week.
Not a single person I know had a good time spring semester of their sophomore year at Kenyon College aside from myself. I was living alone in the room across from the room I lived in my freshman year. I’d turned it into a sort of loft with a sleeping area, a livingroom area, a kitchen area, a desk area, a sitting area. I had two closets all to myself and a massive window that looked out onto the freshman quad. I woke up every morning and listened to “No Drugs” by Pinegrove. One night, I ate a whole jar of Tostito’s spinach dip. I drank a lot of passionfruit Trulys. I received both of my COVID vaccines. I decided to declare my Spanish major. I wrote some of the best essays of my life. And I read How to Write an Autobiographical Novel by Alexander Chee–the book that convinced me to commit to becoming a writer. It was a magical and special room of one’s own. Solitary and inspiring enough to make Virginia Woolf jealous. I’m often surprised to find myself feeling homesick for that room, that space, and ironically, that period of life. Who would’ve thought? Definitely not the Maddie Vonk of 2021.
I wonder what she would think of me now. She would be happy. Relieved to find out that all her hard work paid off. She would be surprised to hear that I’ve won a Fulbright to teach in Spain. That we’re leaving in the fall. She would be happy, but she would be surprised. Because Spanish was never a part of the dream. The dream was going to college. It was studying abroad, which I did in Bath, England. The dream did not look past May 20th 2023. When I arrived on campus for the first semester of my senior year, I genuinely told my housemates that I didn’t want a job. LOL. Similar to how I told them that I didn’t know “people still used boats” in reference to boat that got stuck in the Suez Canal, I was wrong. I have a job. A prestigious job. And I get to travel because of it. What more could a girl who doesn’t want to work ask for?
I am very grateful. I am also haunted by the question of “What comes next?” After Spain, who will I be? I’m excited to meet her, and I’m a little nervous for her, but I’m hoping she’s got some new dreams.
Last fall, when I was thinking about what came after Kenyon, (aside from nothing) the only thing I could think of was Spain. When I think of what comes after Spain, the only thing I can think of is writing. This summer, I’m training for a new olympics, a new dream, which is becoming a real published writer. I’ve sworn to write everyday this summer, and everyday, writing is the absolute LAST thing I want to do, but I do it anyway because it’s the only thing I actually want to do.
Go figure.
Here are my songs of the week:
Beware the new Julia Jacklin single is painfully tragic. Listen at your own risk (aka in the shower or in an empty parking lot alone in your car).
I’m moderately ashamed to admit that this addition is inspired by a Tiktok trend called the “Pinegrove Shuffle,” but Pinegrove was originally formed at Kenyon, and the Pinegrove shuffle makes me think of my Kenyon friends, who I miss so much that I can’t even think about it because I’m scared of what will happen to me if I do.
If the Lost Boys’ hit single “I Won’t Grow Up” had a baby with Florence and the Machine, you’d get “Crop Circles” by Odie Leigh. This song never gets old.
I’m on a Beatles kick, and this song started it. Like, imagine having a boyfriend who loved you like this song…
When my little cousin was a baby, she only napped if we played “Flightless Bird” from the Twilight soundtrack on repeat. “Baby Blue Sedan” is my “Flightless Bird.” This is the only song that makes me want to write. I have to put it on repeat or else I can’t do it. I don’t make the rules. Unfortunately.
Find the pony,
Maddie
I can't figure out how to embed the Apple Music version lol
I was a member of my college improv team (The Fools on the Hill). Improv practice is to me as going on a walk is to your dog. A necessary way to dispense pent-up energy. Without it, I am nothing. I am a lowly substack writer, scribbling into the void… making one-sided jokes with the squishmallow my mom bought me because his tag said that he was a standup comedian… his name is Devin. He is blue.