About being a writer.

Being home, you are sure to run in to people from your past, and they're sure to ask you what you're doing these days. Similarly, you meet new people, maybe friends of your parents or acquaintances from the coffee shop you've curled up inside. These people will want to know what you do. When I tell these people I am a writer, they soon divide themselves into two categories. The first group is puzzled at such a vague and historically non-lucrative career choice and they look at me with a sense of pity in their eyes. "Oh, cool," they say. And I decide to leave it at that, because they aren't worth the trouble. The second group light up with enthusiasm and are excited to hear more. I like this group, clearly. But either way, both groups end up asking me the same follow-up question: What do you want to write about? And it's at this point that I fall apart and I say something like, "I don't know, a lot of things," or "Well right now I'm freelancing but I want to be a journalist." I feel cornered, because I don't know yet what I want to write about or what kind of a writer I am.

Last week two of my friends asked me that question and when I couldn't respond directly, they took it upon themselves to diagnose my writing style . I suppose they were accurate with their diagnosis, and I've been making a conscious effort to write every day, even when I don't want to, so I can better understand my own style and my own objectives. My friend Rick said that the way you write is the way you live your life, and the sooner you understand the way you write, the sooner both of those things will be easier to do. I do a lot of second guessing myself. I think something is a worth while thought and so I write it down and then I don't know where to go with it. Similarly, in life, I have a lot of lofty ideas and I pitch them to myself and others and then don't know where to go with them.

Maybe when I write something that makes me happy I'll know how to do things in life that make me happy. Maybe when I write something that takes me somewhere I'll go somewhere in life.

Just a thought.

Why It's Easy

When I look at my life from the outside, from the perspective of a spectator, watching through picture frames and such, I realize it’s quite charming. The kitchen table, where I sit and stare out the window onto the cornfields leading to the Wabash River, is so quaint in the sunlight, adorned with flowers in their contemporary vases and salt and pepper shakers sitting far enough away from one another for you to know my dad recently picked one of them up and dusted his single and hastily peeled hard boiled egg with it.

I sit there every day and look at the squirrels that, despite my father’s greatest efforts and most miraculous scare tactics, still climb into the bird feeder and steal all the feed. My fridge is covered with pictures that have not moved in years but have only been overlapped partially by new magnets and new family members. The wood paneling that supports the kitchen counter is covered in tape leftover from Sara’s and my accidental art projects.

It’s all so charming, and maybe that’s why I find it so easy to stay here. We are far enough away from the town that I feel cocooned and comforted, and Lafayette does not tempt me. Nothing here tempts me. I hunger for nothing. And whether I ask for it or not, this charming little house gives me everything I need to survive and find a little bit of beauty in my days.

However, it’s never enough and I have to be careful or I am stuck. Stuck at the table, mesmerized by the simplicity of the life my father made for himself and his wife. Sucked into the ease with which everything happens. Rounding another corner in a cycle that never ends, day and night, between episodes of Jeopardy and the nightly news hour. It’s all so easy and predictable. And that’s why it’s easy to be here. And that's why, when I have the money or the job, it will likely be hard to leave. But I’ve never really wanted things to be easy. I’ve always believed one must struggle to find beauty and fulfillment. There is no struggle here, so I feel I’m cheating. Then again, there is little fulfillment here, either, so the only thing I’m cheating is myself.

All the President's Men

This reminds me. I know who I am and what I want to do. It's always nice to be reminded.

"Woodward, Bernstein, you're both on the story. Now don't fuck it up."

Alone and content in a blizzard

I'm not sure how I'm so content here in Lafayette to stay home all day instead of venture into town. It's so different from who I used to be when I actually lived here in high school. I never wanted to be left alone. I was desperate to have a social life.

Now, in the blustery late winter that has settled over these two cities, I am fine to sit at home and watch the flakes fall all day long. My days are peppered with snacking and sleeping and the occasional flip through the channels, but mostly I just write. My complacency would make sense if the writing fulfilled me, but it doesn't.




It's bad writing. It's public relations, it's fluff; meaningless words meant to make someone look good who's really not. And yet, it's all the work I can get right now. Before I graduated, I had never written a press release or worked in public relations. I graduated with a degree in journalism and a relatively strong portfolio of news clips. I even have an award for one of my stories.

I've applied for hundreds of journalism jobs. I'd estimate I've sent resumes, cover letters and clips to more than 125 publications, both online and print. I've been called back for two interviews, which would make my success rate below 1%. But consider the fact that the only two jobs I've been interviewed for are in copy writing and PR, fields I have no interest and even less experience in. So if you feel like being a huge pessimist, you could say that my success rate in almost landing a writing or reporting job is at 0.

Moreover, I applied for fewer than 10 copy writing jobs and maybe five public relations jobs. That means my success rate at landing interviews in careers I have no experience in is 13% higher than in the field I studied and excelled at.

How's that for a picture of the economy? It doesn't help that my field is slowly losing momentum.

Maybe my complacency stems from knowing my unemployment is not for lack of trying. Maybe it's because I've given up. But I don't think so.

At night, I eat dinner and I sit and watch Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune with my dad and his wife, Lori. Maybe I've just slipped in to an easy routine that has been handed to me on a silver platter, one that requires little effort. The company is good. The wine is cheap. The room is free and the house is warm. And responsibility evades me, whether I like it or not. Maybe I'm just trying to enjoy my free time.

But I miss my friends and adventure and challenge. I feel like I'm retired, or something.

Just waiting for the next step. But I'm starting to wonder how long I'll wait.

Movement

So, I've moved back home to my dad's house, and this is the room I'm sleeping in. It used to be my sister's room, and it's since been turned into a guest room. So, I'm a guest. But I've added my own touches, like the hanging lamp and the dozens of pillows that tend to follow me into whatever bed I'm on.

It's strange being here; coming back to the place you spent most of your childhood can make you feel like you are that child again. I spend a lot of time at the house, which is okay for now, because I don't yet have a job. If I go out, I wind up spending money I shouldn't spend, and so I'm better off here. I'm doing a lot of writing. It's much less artistic than it sounds. I'm doing freelance work for AuthorHouse out of Bloomington. So, I read the books they're publishing and write press releases to accompany them. It pays well, and it makes me feel productive. For my first assignment they gave me three weeks to finish three press releases. I've already finished two in five days, so I'll probably have a new assignment by next week. I make $75.00 a release, which, after taking out taxes (since they don't, I have to), it amounts to roughly $50.00 a release.

I'm actually not doing much personal writing, but I'm trying to fix that. I think it's really hard, once you've been away from a pen and paper for long enough, to pen things out again. It's like working out; once you stop, it's hard to get yourself back into the routine of lifting and running (which I'm also trying to do).

I have an interview at a local restaurant on Monday. I hadn't wanted to work in the food industry again, but I will if I have to. I've also applied at a bead/music/book store on campus, and it would be nice to have two jobs for a bit.

So, I'm making progress. Despite all my doubts and worries about coming home, I am starting to think it's the right place to be at this time. Since being here I've gotten two writing opportunities (the other is with HELEN Magazine here in Lafayette). Let me repeat that: I've been home less than a week, and I've gotten more writing "jobs" in that week than I've had in the last year. I don't know if this is because of my not being in Bloomington or, more cosmically, my decision leave Bloomington, where I was emotionally and creatively (and monetarily) stifled. I'll keep you posted.

My hope is I'll be out of here by the summer and on to my next adventure elsewhere.

One cop out after the next

It's so easy.
It's so easy to lose hope when you have been trying so hard to reach just one of your goals.
And keeping faith is so hard.
I've compromised so much lately just to ensure a better chance for myself.
Or maybe I've compromised because I'm scared of making a decision for myself instead of having it made for me.
If I had been offered a job somewhere, anywhere, I'd go there.
But I haven't, and so it's hard to go anywhere.
And so I've come home.
And it's not that I don't like it here.
But this is not where I want to be.
Of all my choices, I've chosen the one that is the safest and the least fulfilling.

This is not who I wanted to be.
I want to be brave, fearless, adventuresome.
No more of this playing it safe.

If I don't have a job by the summertime, I'm doing one or more of the following things (I'm telling you now because I have to write it down somewhere or it will never be real, it will never happen. It will be as though I never thought it, at all):
1. Making a huge road trip to the west
2. Moving to New York City
3. Moving to Chicago
4. Making plans to go back to school

So, in the mean time, my plan is to make as much money as possible. I'm stuck here until I save money, anyway. But while I'm here I need to make a point to do things that make me feel happy. Coming back home has a way of making me dull, smothering me. It's like I'm 15 again, looking for myself and completely unaware of my wants, likes, abilities, passions.
I don't want to just survive. I don't want to stay afloat. I don't want any of that barely living but still living bullshit. I want to live so hard that I could die tomorrow.

So, I'm welcoming change in to my life. And tomorrow I'm going looking for an adventure. My mother would ask me, "What is it that scares you the most? Find it and do it." I'll have to think on that one.

I hope I wake up before noon tomorrow.

Do we ever really become who we want(ed) to be?