It appears I haven’t blogged in months; I’ve funneled all of my writing into a huge paper for my MFA. But since I’m feeling all sorts of weird today, I decided it was a good time to get back into it. Apologies now for what will, most likely, be a very disjointed, total bummer of a post.
I feel restless today: a feeling that’s become commonplace since starting my MFA. Before, I was content with my job. It paid the bills and let me exercise my French. Hell, it got me out of bed five times a week while I slogged through the grief of losing my father. I’m grateful for that. But now that I’ve rediscovered my vocation in life, the waiting is wearing me down.
There’s nowhere to go and nothing to do in this moment. I need this job for the vacation time, or I can’t finish my degree. Even if I could leave, what would I do? I think I’ve been a starving artist in all of my past lives; it seems carved in my bones that I should only be drawn to endeavors that make me zero or negative dollars. Why can’t I have a passion for screwing people out of their money? Or cutting people open and sewing them back up? Why is my fire lit by solitary work that has no value in this culture unless it’s bastardized into Hollywood drivel?
I have no good answer. I guess no writer does. Maybe that’s why so many of us stick our heads in ovens or wade into a river with stones in our pockets. I don’t think what I want is difficult or complicated; I just want to live, doing what I love. I guess a lot of people live their whole lives without being that lucky. Here’s hoping I’m not one of them.