In my last blog I described my list of three and how the third thing continues to elude me. That third thing is “a career that supports me and my family, and energizes me.”
This begs the questions: What do you want to do? And why don’t you just do it?
This entire post is dedicated to helping my dear readers understand what that third thing means to me.
So let me address the first question. What do I want to do?
Since I can remember, I always gleefully answered this question by saying I wanted to be a writer. But that glee changed to despair in the 6th grade when we had a “career expert” visit our class.
This expert talked about what jobs made the most money; how much demand there was for our dream careers; and how much education was required to get there.
He was funny and charismatic. We six-graders were enraptured. He gave us the entertaining, and unadulterated, truth about our futures. Astronauts made lots of money and required lots of education, but the demand was low and the competition fierce. Doctors and lawyers, teachers and bus drivers, marine biologists and ballet dancers, and any other future children dream for themselves. I kept waiting for him to mention writers, but he never did.
I finally raised my hand and asked what about writers, expecting him to outline the curriculum he did with every other job: X years of college + X demand = X money per year as a writer.
Instead, he stared at me. He seemed confused. Had I stumped this lightning bolt of knowledge and wit? What had I said? I ran over my question in my head. It followed the formula of every other question asked by my peers, only I had said writer instead of aerobics instructor.
Finally he said, “What kind of writer?”
What a stupid question. Books of course. I wanted to write books. What other kind of writers were there?
He avoided eye contact as he stuttered, “It’s really hard to become a writer. Everyone is working on a book, and then you have to get an agent, which is where most people fail, but if you happen to get an agent, that still doesn’t guarantee you’ll get published. And of the few who do get published, only a tiny percentage make enough to live on. Nobody sets out and says, ‘I’m going to be a professional novel writer.’ They have other jobs and write in their spare time. It’s more of a hobby really. Good question though.” And he moved on.
At ten-years-old I had just been slapped with a raw slab of meat. I had raised my hand with full confidence that this charismatic gentleman would outline my path to future success, and instead he told me I had no future.
I had to find another profession. Why couldn’t I be like Mikey, sitting across from me, eating his boogers all day? He wanted to be a pediatrician. Mikey would go to eight years of school and then earn $100,000 a year. His path was outlined. I admired that. Maybe I should start eating my boogers.
Maybe I could be a lawyer, or an astronaut, or a mad scientist. What about an English teacher? That was kind of like writing. But all trains led back to writing. I only wanted to write, and according to the charming expert, I would fail.
Now, a million years later, my feelings haven’t changed. I might even feel a little more lost. I no longer have my future ahead of me. I’m in the middle of my future and everyone in the world is wondering what’s wrong with me. I should be living like a responsible adult by now, but I’m still looking for my Home.
I still want to be a writer, but I don’t know what kind of writer I want to be. There are so many kinds of writers. I did successfully publish a novel three years ago, but after struggling unsuccessfully to write another one, I understand I’m not particularly fond of the novel.
Novels are all about writing a compelling story line (Twilight, Hunger Games, Divergent, everything by James Patterson) and not much else. I am the opposite kind of writer. I like writing clear, descriptive scenes to illustrate a point, rather than driving a narrative. I like writing in small segments (like blogs) rather than enormous novels. Not that I’m against novels, but I don’t believe they are my Home.
Journalism wasn’t my Home either. The whole lifestyle of calling people, interviews, and driving all over the place, was not the joyful writing life for this introvert.
Editing didn’t feel right. Isn’t editing the opposite of writing?
Copywriting wasn’t writing at all, but advertising.
I could be a professional blogger. I would be super funny and interesting all the time, and get billions of comments and jillions of followers. But that drained my energy just thinking about it.
I started writing screenplays…and the list goes on…
I have run the gamut, working jobs that haven’t worked for me, exploring career options and advanced schooling options. Every time I get a job I think, maybe this will be my Home. Now, barely paying my bills on a crossing guard’s salary, I am no further than I was that fateful day in the sixth grade.
So here we are, full circle, back to the sixth grade, looking helplessly past Mikey, smugly eating his boogers, pondering his secure future, to the career expert who just crushed all of my childhood dreams in one stuttered paragraph. What do I do now?
UPDATE:
I have made a tiny step toward my Home. Last week when I refocused my blog to finding Home and finished that first post, something felt different. Something made sense that hadn’t made sense since I was little. I was a writer. I didn’t have to try writing, or work at writing. Writing comes out of me like carbon dioxide. That was why I wanted to be a writer in the first place, it is an essential part of my life.
I have always written for myself. After my personal writing sessions, I would strain to write something for the public. This blog is the first time in my life I’m writing publically what I’ve always written privately, and it makes perfect sense.
This begs the questions: What do you want to do? And why don’t you just do it?
This entire post is dedicated to helping my dear readers understand what that third thing means to me.
So let me address the first question. What do I want to do?
Since I can remember, I always gleefully answered this question by saying I wanted to be a writer. But that glee changed to despair in the 6th grade when we had a “career expert” visit our class.
This expert talked about what jobs made the most money; how much demand there was for our dream careers; and how much education was required to get there.
He was funny and charismatic. We six-graders were enraptured. He gave us the entertaining, and unadulterated, truth about our futures. Astronauts made lots of money and required lots of education, but the demand was low and the competition fierce. Doctors and lawyers, teachers and bus drivers, marine biologists and ballet dancers, and any other future children dream for themselves. I kept waiting for him to mention writers, but he never did.
I finally raised my hand and asked what about writers, expecting him to outline the curriculum he did with every other job: X years of college + X demand = X money per year as a writer.
Instead, he stared at me. He seemed confused. Had I stumped this lightning bolt of knowledge and wit? What had I said? I ran over my question in my head. It followed the formula of every other question asked by my peers, only I had said writer instead of aerobics instructor.
Finally he said, “What kind of writer?”
What a stupid question. Books of course. I wanted to write books. What other kind of writers were there?
He avoided eye contact as he stuttered, “It’s really hard to become a writer. Everyone is working on a book, and then you have to get an agent, which is where most people fail, but if you happen to get an agent, that still doesn’t guarantee you’ll get published. And of the few who do get published, only a tiny percentage make enough to live on. Nobody sets out and says, ‘I’m going to be a professional novel writer.’ They have other jobs and write in their spare time. It’s more of a hobby really. Good question though.” And he moved on.
At ten-years-old I had just been slapped with a raw slab of meat. I had raised my hand with full confidence that this charismatic gentleman would outline my path to future success, and instead he told me I had no future.
I had to find another profession. Why couldn’t I be like Mikey, sitting across from me, eating his boogers all day? He wanted to be a pediatrician. Mikey would go to eight years of school and then earn $100,000 a year. His path was outlined. I admired that. Maybe I should start eating my boogers.
Maybe I could be a lawyer, or an astronaut, or a mad scientist. What about an English teacher? That was kind of like writing. But all trains led back to writing. I only wanted to write, and according to the charming expert, I would fail.
Now, a million years later, my feelings haven’t changed. I might even feel a little more lost. I no longer have my future ahead of me. I’m in the middle of my future and everyone in the world is wondering what’s wrong with me. I should be living like a responsible adult by now, but I’m still looking for my Home.
I still want to be a writer, but I don’t know what kind of writer I want to be. There are so many kinds of writers. I did successfully publish a novel three years ago, but after struggling unsuccessfully to write another one, I understand I’m not particularly fond of the novel.
Novels are all about writing a compelling story line (Twilight, Hunger Games, Divergent, everything by James Patterson) and not much else. I am the opposite kind of writer. I like writing clear, descriptive scenes to illustrate a point, rather than driving a narrative. I like writing in small segments (like blogs) rather than enormous novels. Not that I’m against novels, but I don’t believe they are my Home.
Journalism wasn’t my Home either. The whole lifestyle of calling people, interviews, and driving all over the place, was not the joyful writing life for this introvert.
Editing didn’t feel right. Isn’t editing the opposite of writing?
Copywriting wasn’t writing at all, but advertising.
I could be a professional blogger. I would be super funny and interesting all the time, and get billions of comments and jillions of followers. But that drained my energy just thinking about it.
I started writing screenplays…and the list goes on…
I have run the gamut, working jobs that haven’t worked for me, exploring career options and advanced schooling options. Every time I get a job I think, maybe this will be my Home. Now, barely paying my bills on a crossing guard’s salary, I am no further than I was that fateful day in the sixth grade.
So here we are, full circle, back to the sixth grade, looking helplessly past Mikey, smugly eating his boogers, pondering his secure future, to the career expert who just crushed all of my childhood dreams in one stuttered paragraph. What do I do now?
UPDATE:
I have made a tiny step toward my Home. Last week when I refocused my blog to finding Home and finished that first post, something felt different. Something made sense that hadn’t made sense since I was little. I was a writer. I didn’t have to try writing, or work at writing. Writing comes out of me like carbon dioxide. That was why I wanted to be a writer in the first place, it is an essential part of my life.
I have always written for myself. After my personal writing sessions, I would strain to write something for the public. This blog is the first time in my life I’m writing publically what I’ve always written privately, and it makes perfect sense.