Passion

This is not a life. It's a form of survival. It's counterfeit, and it's killing me.

Sitting in this frigid little office at this desk, I realized that one major reason I'm so unhappy is that I'm trying to fit into a form of life that I don't understand. And, ultimately, I'm ignoring what makes me happy so I have enough energy to be someone I'm not so I can have a life that others tell me is fulfilling.

I don't belong in a business office behind a desk. I'd rather be in front of a classroom, but I don't have the health to do that anymore. There's only so much I can do, and if I'm going to spend hours a day sitting in front of a computer, I'd rather do so knowing that it's going to make my life better in a fundamental way, not because I might get paid for it. And when you work commission, there's a chance you won't get paid.

I've thought for years that my job defined me. And when I was a teacher, it did. I identified as a teacher, my whole being leaned in that direction. But since I've been out of the classroom, I've lost that identity. I'm not a teacher anymore. But I'm not a resume writer. I'm just...here. Filling a space until I figure out what I want to be when I grow up. And I spend a lot of energy doing that and trying to keep up with the housework. No wonder I can't write my stories. I've spent everything I had just getting to the point when I have the time to write.

But I should be writing. Not writing resumes, writing stories. I have novels in the works, stories I've started and abandoned because I'm afraid of that kind of life. Afraid of being the starving artist. But it's getting to the point that I'm more afraid of surviving another year.

Something very frightening happened to me a few months ago. I don't want to go into details, but I realized that I didn't have anything personal to look forward to. Things seemed meaningless. Life like that becomes a constant drudgery, but I couldn't see a way out of it. Going back to work didn't help matters - I was just reminded quite painfully of my limitations.

So today I thought about that situation months ago - and found a possible solution. Stop surviving. If this is surviving, what is living? If I could be doing whatever I wanted to find fulfillment, what would that life be like? Traveling and writing. I can't do much traveling at the moment, but I can write. I can stop allocating the dredges of my time to my writing and make writing my priority.

Not an simple task, though. People tend to look at writing like a pleasant little hobby that one can pick up or set aside at a moment's notice. And all that time spent at home could (should?) be better spent on housework. Except writing is a talent like any other that requires practice and dedication and discipline to make it good. A schedule, a deadline, and a fear of missing that deadline worse than the fear of failure. A driving need to get this story out of your head before it consumes you.

This is what I need to live. A passion.