I Like the Sound of That
I have decided that I am going to be myself with this blog. I won't be overly snarky. I won't be airheaded. I will be me. People have liked my writing in the past, and people have hated it. Either way, they read it. And this blog should be no different. Especially because it's anonymous.
That segues nicely into what I've been worried about lately. I'm worried that I've made decisions in my life based on what it sounds like rather than whether I'd really enjoy it, whether it would really be me. My publishing career. My city. My relationships. The way I spend my free time. For example, I was talking with my friend from out of town about the (minimal) free schwag I've scored at my job.
Me: "I liked the Pretty Girls Make Graves CD I got two weeks ago. I haven't listened to it, but..."
Him: (Mocking me.) "But you like the thought of it. 'I like the idea of it.' "
How many things do we do every day because they look good, because they sound good, not because we really like them. I wonder all the time why I'm in this industry doing what I do (not writing) when all I really want to do is write. That's all I've ever wanted to do. That's what I did at nine years old. Those stupid career tip stories always ask you what the one thing is you do that you can lose yourself in -- that when you look up, three hours have gone by and it's only seemed like 15 minutes. Writing is the only thing I've ever taken pride in. It's the only thing I've broken out to show my grandparents: My byline in my college newspaper. Then regular newspapers. Then magazines. But I'm stagnant now. I've pushed it away. I want it back. Badly.
I want a book. I want more bylines. I just wish it didn't seem like the time for that was dwindling so quickly, in favor of 401(k)s and talk of marriage and homesickness and job security and health insurance and gym-going and time that always has to be split. I am going to try harder.
That segues nicely into what I've been worried about lately. I'm worried that I've made decisions in my life based on what it sounds like rather than whether I'd really enjoy it, whether it would really be me. My publishing career. My city. My relationships. The way I spend my free time. For example, I was talking with my friend from out of town about the (minimal) free schwag I've scored at my job.
Me: "I liked the Pretty Girls Make Graves CD I got two weeks ago. I haven't listened to it, but..."
Him: (Mocking me.) "But you like the thought of it. 'I like the idea of it.' "
How many things do we do every day because they look good, because they sound good, not because we really like them. I wonder all the time why I'm in this industry doing what I do (not writing) when all I really want to do is write. That's all I've ever wanted to do. That's what I did at nine years old. Those stupid career tip stories always ask you what the one thing is you do that you can lose yourself in -- that when you look up, three hours have gone by and it's only seemed like 15 minutes. Writing is the only thing I've ever taken pride in. It's the only thing I've broken out to show my grandparents: My byline in my college newspaper. Then regular newspapers. Then magazines. But I'm stagnant now. I've pushed it away. I want it back. Badly.
I want a book. I want more bylines. I just wish it didn't seem like the time for that was dwindling so quickly, in favor of 401(k)s and talk of marriage and homesickness and job security and health insurance and gym-going and time that always has to be split. I am going to try harder.
posted by Jane at 10:37 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home