Brain is fried.

I didn’t think it was possible to get sick of writing — or at least, writing about my favorite subject, myself — but it most certainly is. Hours upon hours on my current piece and I am still 1,000 words from done. It’s like climbing the stairs to my fifth-floor walkup; there’s no end in sight.

Back in January, I started writing this piece about Kyle. I never got around to finishing, but I revisited it throughout the semester. Now I’m finally sitting down and trying to fill in blanks. It’s harder than I thought it’d be. It’s also much, much lengthier than planned. Delving into our origin invariably means addressing what happened with Aidan. To adequately explain why I was so hurt from that, I have to talk about the fallout from the blog, the start of therapy, and the resentment I felt toward my friends. Kyle was both symptomatic of greater problems and ironically therapeutic.

I think that’s why I found him such an intriguing subject. In the midst of the insanity I was going through, here was this person who was just as unsure about what he was doing when it came to his future, his relationships, his everything. Beyond sex, I was just craving understanding. Empathy from everyone else rang hallow but for some reason, I actually took what Kyle said seriously. He was the least judgmental person in my life at that point.

Part of the problem I’m facing with finishing this piece is that there is no real conclusion to the story. Eight months later, things are more or less the same as they were when we met: he has a girlfriend, I am wary of all men, and neither of us is embarking on a particularly well-paying career. A happy ending this does not make. There’s not even a moral, except maybe “Don’t date Kyle/Lena attracts attached men”. I was so frustrated about the lack of a satisfying conclusion that on a couple occasions, I suggested to him that we hang out just so I could come up with something to write about. Obviously, life is organic, not fueled by my need for material.

I want to do this story justice and at 2,200 words, I’m still not satisfied. It is looking very likely that this will be my sample chapter.

Reconstructing the past on paper (or computer screen) is ridiculously difficult to do and my tendency to repress unpleasant memories certainly does not help. College has been rife with unpleasant memories, so there are plenty of blanks I need to fill in.

For the most part, I try to keep this blog optimistic. I know that might seem like a shocker, but yes, this is actually the very censored, happy version of my life. For the uncensored version, you can check out these comments for an example of a romantic endeavor gone … well, insane.

But I digress. My point is that I have no written record of the past year’s mistakes and trials and I fear that my recollections are becoming hazier and less accurate with each day that passes. Had I updated my private blog more regularly, I might have a bit to work with. Unfortunately, I didn’t.

There are moments, though. Small moments I remember only because I applied a mental post-it at the time that they occurred, reminding myself that I’d need to write about this epiphany or emotion in the future.

For example, there was the moment outside the train station on 50th and Broadway last February when Sam kissed me goodbye and I felt a surge of love and security I’d forgotten was possible. There was the slow, creeping, sickening realization over spring break in Philadelphia that this was not the man I thought he was. There was my back to Peter as he sat on my bed last January and spelled out his commitmentphobia along with our likely fate. There was the time I couldn’t stop in the hallway to face Aidan. There was Summer Guy on the phone, again and again and again. There was hating the way my blockmates seemed in front of a camera. There was realizing, with a handful of nights, what Adia really meant. There was seeing in a darkened dinner that CK wasn’t perfect.

There were a lot of post-its and I could tell a story about each person in my life if I wanted to. But I am terrified that I don’t remember too much from the events gone unwitnessed by my friends. I am scared there are only two parties to the most significant moments of the past year and that one of them is already trying to forget as quickly as she can.

The Boston Globe just published a very timely column I wrote about the similarities between my mother and my friends when it comes to evaluating the guys I date. The title? “Meet the Roommates”, naturally. My blockmates think I characterize them as harsher than reality. But these girls (and JB) are just as, if not more, intimidating as my actual parents. Anyhow, give it a read.

Also, if you’re checking your RSS feed instead of calling your mother, I suggest you get on it before Mother’s Day is over.

For all those interested, here’s a link to Boston University’s article about me in The Daily Free Press, their student paper.

Reporters typically ask me the same ten or so questions (How did you get started? What does your family think? How does this affect your love life? What’s it like being famous?) My professional aspirations, in the rare instances they’re discussed, have never made it into print. The last paragraphs of this article constitute a first:

[Harvard junior April Yee] said she encouraged Chen to submit a piece to the Boston Globe Magazine’s Coupling section, the magazine’s relationship-oriented segment, after learning it was looking for college-age writers.

“She’s funny, and she’s smart and she’s hard-working. She was a really good voice for the Coupling section,” said Globe Magazine assistant editor Anne Nelson about Chen.

Despite her popularity, Chen said she does not aspire toward a career in writing about sex. In recent posts, she has moved away from the controversial topic.

“It’s really hard to keep the separation between my online life and my real life,” she said. “It’s good to have a certain distance. I don’t want what I start writing about to start impacting my personal life.”

I find myself conflicted. On one hand, I’m really glad someone’s finally addressed the fact that my writing ambitions aren’t a by-product of Sex and the Ivy, but have rather been years in the making. On the other hand, I want my professional pursuits to have little to do with this website because if I actually make it in the ultra-competitive literary world, I’d like it to be a result of talent, not accidental fame or Harvard’s marketability.

I don’t like discussing on-going freelance assignments because even contracts don’t guarantee publication (and quite frankly, I’m freakishly insecure about my writing), but I’ll be a bit candid for the purpose of explanation. In the past few weeks, I’ve signed on to several new projects, most of them a result of solicitations from editors who have heard about my blog. As a young writer, I am in the extremely enviable position of getting paid to do what others would gladly do for free, and there is no doubt that it is due to Sex and the Ivy’s popularity. I wouldn’t trade my position for the world.

Simultaneously, however, I am very uncomfortable with the idea that I really have no barometer with which to measure my actual merit as a writer. Sex and the Ivy is so powerful as a brand, as a revolutionary symbol, as a small-scale phenomenon that it overshadows its producer. I sometimes question whether it makes a difference how well or how poorly I write or if editors would be equally eager to work with another individual were someone else responsible for this website.

I hope I don’t come off sounding like an ungrateful brat, because I am very happy to be in these shoes (black patent leather pumps, in case you were wondering), but I am fully aware that no one would give half a shit if I weren’t blogging on a controversial topic at a highly visible institution. For example, it’s no secret I’m working on a book proposal (and by “book proposal”, I mean ten-page Word document I’ve ignored since intercession). When people ask me how I expect to sell it, I explain, “It doesn’t matter if I’m a good writer or not. Put the words ‘Harvard’ and ’sex’ together and the book will sell even if I have the IQ of a third-grader.” And it’s true. If I land some lucrative book deal, it is less a testament to my abilities than it is to my marketability.

So although I’m really flattered by what my editor at the Globe said about me in the above article, I almost wish she didn’t find out about my blog. There is something extremely rewarding about knowing that I pitched, wrote, and revised a column for them, all without the Sex and the Ivy name as support. Futile as it may be (especially knowing Google’s permanence), I sometimes wish that the line between casual blogging and professional writing could avoid the fate of blurring as intensely as the line between my virtual and actual life. But as this website nears its eighth month of existence, that divide is becoming harder and harder to preserve.

I’m a newbie to Skype and have little phone etiquette as it is, so don’t expect much if you’re a pal trying to call me up. Pretty much the only person I’ve managed to make this baby work with is Sam and our oh-so-romantic 5 a.m. call last night was interrupted by someone dialing in from Saudi Arabia. For those out of the real-life loop, I now have a following in Rhiyad and Dubai. Your guess is as good as mine for how that one came about.

Anyway, if you’re a friend, please Skype me (just look up my email). If you’re not, I think I’ll pass on the webcamming. Chatting with the occasional reader via IM is awkward enough.

Exciting milestone. I’ve made it into the world of print. Check out my column in The Boston Globe Magazine in today’s Sunday edition. To hear me reading it, download the podcast or click here to listen.

* Podcast is up on iTunes and the website link.