Lately, I too feel like Icelandic weather. I am constantly changing in ways I recognize but can't articulate, in ways that may not be apparent to an outsider. I don't know what's going on in my life. I understand what you're talking about: the decisions we're facing; the uncertainty; the reality that in less than a year, diploma in hand, we might still have no idea where our lives are headed.
I think a lot about what I want to do. In the terrifyingly grand sense, I mean with my life. In the lesser sense, I mean what do I want to do right now, - today or tomorrow, day to day.
As for today, I want to be creative. I feel stifled in this city, suffocated by its size and relative hostility. As for today, I want to be taken seriously. I want my ideas to be heard and I want to know how to say them. I returned home after a summer away with a notebook full of words and a head full of ideas. Now I feel drained and uninspired. I make lists for self-improvement I never follow through. I bite my nails until they bleed and worry about how bad they look. I wonder why I'm in University, why I live in this city, why I can't get myself together and why I feel like Seymour, who can't relate to 99% of humanity.
I don't think well long-term. I find myself obsessing over what I think I want, planning diligently, only to learn weeks later that I no longer want it. The word "career" is so ambiguous, so ominous. I can't imagine a career-type job I wouldn't get tired of. I've spent the last year or so claiming (with utter vagueness) to want to "get into publishing". I don't even know what that means (and what if I don't?), but it sounds like a career, which is something I'm told I want. In reality, I think it means many years of working my way up the corporate ladder, many years spent in an office in an industry that is not unlike Icelandic weather. The romanticized editor/author relationship exists rarely these days. Max Perkins and Ursula Nordstrom are relics of the past. In the interest of honesty, I'd rather be on the other side of the desk. In the interest of honesty, I'd rather be a writer. I know I am a writer, and I've known that for a long time. Only recently would I admit that to myself, only now will I admit that to others, only now will I recognize what a terrifying non-career I have ahead of me. I need to get myself on a path to writing more - more than the vignettes I save in multiple word documents, more than a journal, more than observations in the margins of notebooks and the occasional blog post. NaNoWriMo is coming up, that might be a good place to start. I feel so much pressure to "do something with my life". There are so many things I want to do with my life. The wonderful thing is we're really just beginning.
Life is scary. Decisions are nerve-wracking. You say you're terrified, Bets. Well, so am I. The smattering of sunshine might be knowing we're in this together.
Dev
No comments:
Post a Comment