Plunging

You know how some kids just know what they want to be when they grow up? They determine at age five they're going to be a doctor and twenty years later are graduating medical school. Or they spend their childhood mimicking the news anchor and then land a broadcasting job after college (after interning in the field all four years). Or they run for class president in second grade and end up a career politician. Well, that wasn't me. Not exactly at least.

There was one thing I've always wanted to be--a writer--but I haven't always been true to that tract.

Through grade school, I remained primarily dedicated to my goal. I excitedly scribbled a Young Authors story and proudly accepted a medal for my writing nearly every year. I worked on the student newspaper. In my eighth grade autobiography, I wrote that I intended to study writing and become a novelist.

But in high school, I lost focus. Though I'd never considered a career in science up to that point, in fact hadn't cared for the subject one bit, I was suddenly finding myself being encouraged to pursue that field. Apparently, I was good at it. The knowledge came easily to me, and my teachers were eager to discuss the possibilities. They didn't mean any harm. They didn't know that I really wanted to be a writer. They were just showing me all the doors that were open to me, doors that led to good jobs with good pay. Come the summer after my junior year, I was studying astronomy at Governor's Scholars rather than creative writing at the Governor's School for the Arts. At senior day for the soccer team, it was announced that I wanted to pursue a degree in engineering. My world had flip-flopped, but that just seemed a part of growing up. Most of us, after all, don't grow up to be the firefighters or astronauts or baseball players we imagine we'll be when we're children.

In college, the conflict came to the fore. As I trudged through biology, chemistry, math, and physics classes, I looked forward only to the lone English or German class on my schedule. Late at night from the floor of my dorm room closet, I'd call home crying about how much I hated physics. When I officially submitted my declaration of major form, changing from bioengineering to English and German, it felt like a failure, but I also felt free.

In the end, owning a piece of paper that declared me to be the holder of degrees in English and German didn't make it any easier to be a writer, or to even dedicate myself to that path. You see, I am a rational person, and being a writer did not seem like a responsible decision. Writing is a path fraught by uncertainty. It is a career that does not come with a guaranteed paycheck. It is a lifestyle marked by failure more than success. And so I meandered. I hemmed and hawed. I tried teaching. I tried research. I tried non-profit work. I tried editing. And while some of those jobs were more palatable than others, it was often again like college. While I made my way through the day, I dreamed about the creative writing class I was taking that evening or worked on the story I planned to present to my writing group. I entered a contest here or there. I won prizes for a few essays and a short story. But writing remained always on the sideline.

Until this year. When faced with a new city and no job, I decided to jump into the cold, murky waters, bottom depth unknown, of writing. Yet still, a few months into this new career, I still don't think I'm where I want to be, doing what I want to do. I still feel like I'm treading water, pondering the descent to where it is I want to be, sticking my mask into the water to see the amazing life that's right there waiting below the surface for me, but holding on to just the slightest little bit of air in my BCD. But you know, I think I'm ready. It's time to orient myself, do one last final check, signal that I'm A-okay, and plunge in.

(To Be Continued...)