Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Sometimes I Wonder.

I wonder about people.  I wonder about myself too, actually.

Why am I on the road to being a writer?  It's an imposing question, and one that I've tried to answer on multiple occasions.  I think I may finally know the reason.

I have to write.

I go crazy when I don't.  It is such a fundamental part of me that I don't think I could live without it.  And I'm happy doing it.  Truly I am.  Even though I'm unpublished and unknown, I love what I do.  I am always coming up with new ideas and new phrases and new characters.  I love that.  It's like I have my own little world.  It's totally private and however I want it to be; then, when the time is right, I can share it with those around me.


It's not easy.  Being a writer, I mean.  It can be terribly lonely at times.  Because you're always looking at things not just for what they seem to be but for also what they could become, people give you strange looks.  Even my best friends don't understand me at times.  It's almost like a solitary road; you're surrounded by people but it's hard to understand, so they just kind of give you space.

And it's a rough road too, covered with pot holes.  Writer's block, stories with only partial plots at a time, characters who are constantly changing from what you think they should be into what they want to be.  Granted, I love that last one; I love when my characters create a life of their own, even if it means it's more difficult for me to write them. 

The biggest problem is time. 

You have to make a living.  You have to do things with your life.  I have so many ideas and concepts and threads, but I don't have enough time.  Even on break I haven't been able to get them all down even though I write every day.  Sometimes it feels like there aren't enough hours in an already intimidatingly long day.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm not meant for anything else.  I love to write, but I still can't help but wonder nonetheless.  It's part of that human instinct, I think.

I play the violin and I'm so greatful I've started up again.  But I don't have the dedication or drive to become a professional, not on any level.  And Biology was my passion for so long; but I go bored in the lecture halls and felt like ripping my hair out in lab.  Math was actually something I briefly thought about - solving Trig problems has an almost comforting rhythm - but I shot it down because it's not something I want to do every day.  Chemistry got shot down for much of the same reason; it's fun but not something I think I'd be dedicated to.

Acting?  I can do decent improv but I don't want to go to school for it.  Singing? Nope, my voice is unpredictable and sounds scratchy to my own ears.  Teacher?  I thought about it long and hard, I really did.  I have the patience, I'm good with kids.  But I'm already looking at three years of school for an Associates of Arts degree.  I don't want to spend any more than that.

And so everything has come back to writing.  To this thing where there's no guarentee that I'll make a living at it, where there's little to no recognition, where there's isolation and melancholy moods that come and go as the wind.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

What I'm going to do when I graduate school is still a mystery to me.  I will find a job somewhere and work until I can move out; my sister and I are talking of getting an apartment together, but plans can change and I'm prepared should it happen. 

Will I be happy in a job?  Will I get married down the road and have a family?  Will I live alone in the middle of nowhere and watch time pass?

I don't know. 

But of one thing I am completely certain: whatever happens, I will write.  I will always write.

And that makes me happy.

Until we meet again, dear readers.


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