I was one of those kids who always knew what I wanted to be when I grow up. If you’d asked me at age five, I’d have given a no-nonsense answer. And throughout the years, even though I added secondary professions (ie: a chef, an actress, a farmer), I didn’t waiver from my plan to be a doctor until my junior year of college. I was nineteen years old at the time, and “managed healthcare” was becoming a household term. I volunteered at a local hospital, I read up on the medical business, and I decided to put med school on hold until being a doctor reverted back to a Normal Rockwell-esque ideal. That was over a decade ago. And here I am now, starting over again, and not quite sure what will become of me.
If I can claim to have one natural talent, it’s writing (god knows it isn’t musical instruments or sports), yet, I never actually seriously considered writing as a career path. I don’t know why. I think there’s a part of me that feels like creative professions are for the luxury class – that real people choose pragmatic jobs that inolve a steady paycheck and health insurance. And I guess a small part of me is willing to admit that I’m a little protective of me as a writer, because if that ends up letting me down, then I no longer have this dream to look forward to. Besides, I’m not trying to write the next Great American Novel – I’m just trying to have a voice; to express myself in this medium that makes so much sense to me. I’m not taking it (or myself) too-too seriously (where’s the fun in that?).
Speaking of not too seriously, I’m reading this book, Holidays on Ice, and it gave me a chuckle that if David Sedaris, at age thirty-three, was a Christmas elf at Macy’s, then there is hope for me yet!