“I did it, happy now?” -me to Ivy who has asked me repeatedly when I’m restarting this blog
So, it’s been a grip since I’ve seen you all (my 26 followers). I’d love to say my absence has been due to the extravagant lifestyle I fell into shortly after beginning this blog. However, the truth is rather anticlimactic (read: disappointing): I just wasn’t feeling it.
I began this blog as a hobby. Something to be enjoyed, and not to stress over. Then I began to stress over it. Not terribly, just kind of dragging my feet. So, like the many other hobbies I’ve begun over the years, I dropped it. This time into the endless rabbit hole that is the internet.
Maybe I am funny and interesting to people other than myself
Then, earlier this week my long-time friend Ivy (ourfriendshipcanvoteanddieforitscountry) asked me when I was going to start writing again. Apparently, she sincerely likes my writing and isn’t paying lip service, because she’s asks me this at least three times each time we hang out. This leads me to believe that maybe what I have to say is worth saying to people other than the ones who already love me.
Regardless, here’s an update: I made friends! Even more of an update: I made friends with minimal awkwardivity (that’s a word, spellcheck, I’ve added it to your dictionary, accept it).
Cool, cool, that’s the next post (sorry?).
Back on track
One of those new friends I mentioned above, Virginia, and I were talking about wtf we’re doing with our futures (spoiler alert: I still don’t really know). I asked Virginia if she could be anything when she grew up what would she want to be (well, in more adult words than that, but essentially that). When she threw the question back at me, I had an answer: a writer.
In fact, I’ve wanted to be a novelist since I was 9. I wrote it in black and white underneath the writing prompt that every child in the United States of ‘Muricuh is given “what do you want to be when you grow up?” (okay in red crayon on pink construction paper (probably, I don’t really know, I more remember the answer than the material it was written on, does it really matter anyways? (No.))). For most people, the answer changes (you know, from superhero to something slightly more attainable like employed), for me, not so much. It went through variations (novelist, journalist, poetist, grant writerist, etc.), but has never really changed.
Okay, so I have an answer to the persistent question of what I want to do after I graduate. Yay?
What do words taste like?
Sure, yay. But there’s a voice in my head (that may or may not be my mother’s, but really is just my fears of failure parading as a dire warning said years ago in a half-hearted attempt for me to change my major to something more useful than English (I settled on Psychology)) saying: words won’t put food on the table. Virginia kindly pointed out that this was bullshit (in nicer words than that, maybe? I don’t remember, it was late), and that I was just scared. And I was, and am.
It’s terrifying to do what you love with the distinct possibility that you will fail and/or grow to hate it. I don’t want that to happen. But there are a lot of things I don’t want to happen. And there are even more things that I didn’t want to happen that happened anyways. But I somehow always enjoyed (aspects of) the ride, and I wouldn’t go back to change a thing despite the sometimes not so great consequences.
So, I guess I’ve added part of an answer to my overall question: what am I going to do when I grow up? Write. Novels specifically. Maybe a novella or two. Maybe some poems, if I learn how not to suck at writing them (or at least how to get past the first stanza (by the way that isn’t self-deprecation, I suck at poetry and I embrace it as character development)). At the same time, I won’t quit my day job (that’s over-used, how about I’ll hedge my bets, nope, that’s no less cliché, do you come here often? (that doesn’t even make sense, Joh)).
The thing I always end with
Q&A time (yes, that’s going to continue being a thing). What’s something you wish you’d figured out sooner? My left from my right (actually, I still don’t know (ask the yoga instructor who kindly ignores the fact that I do every third pose backwards)).