The immaturity of my tone always surprises me when I reread old snippets of my scattered thoughts captured on paper. In this case it's an old "draft" saved in the depths of my hotmail account planted there over a year ago so that I would find it today. This semester. The semester I began to verbalize, that yes, yes I do in fact want to write. For a living. For the glory of God. Whatever the heck that means. Though at the this moment, I don't care that I don't have a clue (okay, maybe a little bit, who doesn't??), I don't care for the skepticism I meet in dinner conversation, the question marks plastered everywhere, the writer's block, the pretentious air of a college English classroom. I won't stop. I won't.
Which is why I laughed today. In between a french novel translation and procrastination I found it. An old word document I used with dramatic exclamation points and hints of sarcasm. I wrote it in the middle of my shift as a web writer for a local Albuquerque news station (sounds cooler than it was-trust me). Though I was clearly bored and pondering my future (what else would a college student do on a Tuesday afternoon?) So I thought it worthy of a post today.
I’m just gonna throw it out there though, that I know exactly what I want to do, or that I want to be good at…I want to be a writer. I don’t want some day job, underneath it all, writing is the only thing I want to do. The only thing I feel right doing, but who doesn’t? Who doesn’t feel like their mind is intelligent enough to share a few stories and weave it together with a well-versed vocabulary? I know so many people who are “aspiring writers” and I know that the only way to be a writer is to get another job as well. Everyone wants to be published. Everyone wants to be JK Rowling. Everyone wants their books to be adapted into a film and have A-List actors star in it because let’s face it, that’s the new thing. So where does this leave me? Where does this leave the college student 19 year old who watches everyone walk around her with a purpose, a point to their majors, and a specific goal accompanied by a significant other and a dream house picked out in “Home and Garden.” I want to throw up at the thought. Even though I’m unsure…I’m sure I don’t want that. I don’t want a plan, but I want reassurance that I can do this. That the characters in my head can come to life and people will like it. I don’t want a college-boyfriend-soon-to-be-fiancé-with-kids-before-25 life! I can’t stand the thought. I would love a boyfriend, sure I would, but when I allow myself to go past the obvious pros for a boyfriend (long hugs, someone to rant to, a date on holidays), and keep going on what it means to really have to be attached to someone so young…it makes me see what I really truly want. I want to be a writer. I want to travel, so I can write about it. We can only write about what we know, given that we also have an imagination to twist it, but how can I write about what I know when I haven’t lived enough to know anything?? If I allow time for my experiences to grow and to meet unexpected people and have crappy jobs so my characters can grow, meet unexpected people, and have crappy jobs. I want to be a writer, and I think I could be good. Hallelujah to the fact that my writing skills HAVE NOT peaked. I hope they are crap now so that I can get better and better and finally have something worthwhile to say and not just say something so that I can fulfill my ambitions to write. This rant is jumbled and doesn’t make sense; I don’t even have to read it back to know that. Yikes. But this is my mind, and these are the thoughts running through it. Let’s just leave it at this: I want to be a writer, I’m well aware of the number of people who aspire to write the great American novel, but I don’t care. I’m going to write no matter what, even if I’m stuck in a suffocating office, but deep down I know my life cannot be satisfied unless I’m writing fiction novels. I’m trusting God with this one, He already knows where I’m headed and where I’m going to end up, so the rest is up to Him.
So overdramatic, my goodness. When I wrote this, I had NO idea I was going to Europe with my sister the following summer. This is it. These are the threads in my story that weave together that shout MY GOD HEARS ME. He hears me. He answers me. Once I submit to Him, He is faithful. Though really, He is faithful without me being "good."
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