Living on Dreams and SpaghettiOs

Hey, you.

I’m going to let you in on a secret. Well, it’s not really a secret, but I don’t talk about it much, and that makes it feel secretive.

I’m 29 years old, and I don’t know what I want to do with my life.

I know everyone feels this way from time to time. I can practically see you tilting your head and murmuring, “No one really knows what they want.” And to be honest, I’m not entirely sure why I’m writing this—or, more accurately, why I’m posting it on the Internet for the whole world to read, because even though I'm not a secretive person, I am a cautious one.

Therein, I suppose, lies my issue: I’m too careful. Risk-averse. Safe. I like knowing every possible outcome, every catastrophe looming on the horizon, how every dollar will be spent (or saved). I like knowing things, and yet I don’t seem to know what I want out of life. It’s a little ironic, don’t you think?

Maybe you feel the same way. Maybe that’s why you’re here, reading some stranger’s blog in between the daily distractions that keep you from asking the same questions—who am I, and what do I stand for? Maybe you just like knowing that someone else is in the same boat, on the same lake, and that you’re not alone, after all.

Now, here’s where it gets even more confusing: I know I want to be a writer. I’ve always wanted to be a writer. But in spite of this certainty, I can’t bring myself to look people in the eyes and say, “I’m a writer, what about you?” when they ask what I do for a living. So, I fumble for a less whimsical job description, something that won’t automatically make me feel like a kid acting out fairy tales. “I work in sales” is my go-to answer. “I’m a merchandiser” runs a close second, and by the time I’ve finished explaining what a merchandiser actually does, the conversation has already moved on.

But I’m a writer, plain and simple.

When I was much younger, I pin-balled from one career path to another. At first, I wanted to be a doctor. Then, for a while, I had my sights set on veterinary school. Then zoology. Then back to medicine, where I developed a fleeting interest in becoming a paramedic. Oh, and let’s not forget the time I wanted to be a forensic investigator (I call these my “CSI years”). There were more, of course, and I believe I could’ve succeeded in any of them. But instead, I played it safe: I studied media communications. Not because I wanted to report on the news or photograph babies or launch aggressive social media campaigns, but because I’d always been told that my writing needed a foundation, a purpose. In short, I couldn’t just tell stories. I had to be someone. Go where the money is. Make a difference. Save lives.

Just do something. Anything, not everything.

A few years ago, I had a job interview at a local magazine publisher. After so many years of working in retail, being hospitalized for stress-related illness, going hungry, and being threatened with eviction when my paltry wages didn’t cover the rent, I was convinced that this was IT. My big break. I was so optimistic, I cried. My fiancé kissed me and told me how proud he was. Now, when people asked “So, what do you do?” I could smile and say “I publish magazines.” Bingo. Jackpot. A fancy job title to make me sound like a real adult who has her shit together.

I bombed the interview. My résumé was too lean, the hiring manager said. So, I showed him my portfolio, the one that included copies of my published books and the newsletter I’d created while working for a small press for four years. It wasn’t enough. I was devastated.

He said something I still think about to this day: “You want this. I can tell you’re hungry, but your skills lag behind your experience. Take some online classes. I need a shark, not a chipmunk.”

I drove home in tears. Although I couldn’t see it at the time, that conversation changed everything for me. It made me realize I had no faith in myself. I was a half-written résumé and a collection of old ideas. I hated myself, and all it took was one person to put the fight back in this dog.

So, this is me wanting it. I am a writer. I want to be a writer. And I don’t care how long it takes, because now I believe that I have the power to save lives with my words—the first one being my own.

If you’re still reading this—and still searching—I should probably tell you that it gets better. At least, I hope it does. Maybe this blog post was a mistake. Maybe talking about what you want out of life is like telling your guests what you wished for after blowing out the candles on your birthday cake. Or maybe it’s the first step to actually getting it, like moving the rock in front of the mountain. I don’t know, but I’m trying to figure it out, one word at a time.

Here’s to being lost together.