What am I doing?

My birthday is in a few weeks. I'll be turning 25. I was thinking about this as I was driving to Provo the other day for a birthday party for a dear friend. The more I thought about it, the more I began to experience something like a quarter life crisis. 

I'm turning 25. In another five years, I'll be 30. 30 seems like such an epic age. What do I want my life to be like in five years? Do I want to still be working at the Herald Journal? Do I want to be working at a bigger newspaper? Do I want to live somewhere bigger? Do I want to own a house or a really nice condo? Do I want to be married or in a serious relationship? Do I want kids? What do I want out of my life? Needless to say, I began to panic and freak out a bit. 

The truth is I don't know I'm doing or what I'll want to be doing in five years. I've been so focused on the most recent aspects of my life (graduating from college and getting a job) that I haven't given much thought to the next few years. 

The other day a friend of mine asked me how long I plan on staying at the Herald Journal before moving on to a bigger paper and then end up at the New York Times. I kind of laughed the idea off. I mean, I've dreamed about working at something like the New York Times but I've never really seriously considered it. I told this to another friend of mine and he said that if anyone is going to end up there, it would be me, that I was tenacious and plucky enough to do it. 

Now, granted, he could have just been being nice. He is a nice fellow despite what folks may say. But this only increased my quarter life crisis thought process. What if I do want to end up at the New York Times? The kind of journalism I enjoy the most and get the most satisfaction out of is investigative type stuff, exposing corruption or wrong doing and bringing attention to causes or plights that deserve attention. And as much as I love my job right now, it doesn't offer many opportunities for that type of work. And while I love my job and love getting up in the morning to do it, is it something that I want to be doing in five years? 

I'm coming slowly to the conclusion that I don't think I'll ever really know what I'm doing with my life. I'll perpetually be in a state of ricocheting in this thing we call existence, trying to force it to make sense and squeeze happiness out of it. And I'm not saying it's necessarily a bad thing. It's just semi-frustrating for a person like me who generally likes to have a plan. 

Trouble is life tends to be far more complicated and unpredictable to have solid plans or even tentative plans. It's all just wibbly-wobbly. 

So I don't know where I'm going to be in five years or 10 years or 50 years.  And I'm not sure how I should feel about that quite yet. I'll keep you posted though. 

Love you.

Mean it. 

Old bedroom

Right now, I'm laying in my old room at my parents' place. I'm not even laying on a proper bed, just a sleeping pad they've thrown on my old daybed frame. There is no other furniture in the room & nothing on the walls. It's really strange being in here once again. This was my room for over 12 years. It was the only place in the whole house that was truly mine. I wrote some of my first creative works in room. I talked & texted numerous boyfriends & crushes. I prayed fervently to a god I'd later realize doesn't exist. I cried myself to sleep more nights than I'd like to remember. I hurt myself, cut myself in this room in an attempt to make all the pain & depression go away. I read countless books in here, falling in love with each one. I cuddled with pets that have since passed away & have felt the loneliness when they are gone. I live my life in this room. It was mine & it experienced the best and worst of my life.

But it's no longer my room, not really anyway. My folks plan on turning it into a guest bedroom for when us kids come to visit. They're going to repaint over the baby blue I begged them to let me paint the walls. After that, it really won't be my room. It will only be memories, good & bad.

Love you.
Mean it.

Beauty won't pay my bills.

Don't get me wrong. I love my job. 

If I were the type of person who went out and made friends or just chatted with people as we sat at the bar and sipped beer, I'd brag about my job. They'd ask me what I did for a living and I'd tell them I was a reporter. If I was two beers in, I'd tell them I write. When they asked me what I write, I'd say, "Words, mostly."

I can't think of a better way to make a living. I write words and people give me money. It's brilliant. It's so perfect for me, I'm not sure how I got so lucky.

(of course, Chris would say that luck has nothing to do with it. In his zen Buddhist way, he'd say "You didn't come as far as you have from luck. In talent and passion and will, we are not all created equal.")

(Though I think my idea of luck comes from a combination of Chris's idea and Harvey Dent's "You make your own luck." In that sense, I've worked my ass off to be as lucky as I am.)

In any case, I'm one lucky girl to be paid to write words. 

But there is one draw back. 

I write words. Lots of words. SO MANY WORDS. 

By the time I get home, the last thing I want to do is write more words. As such, my other forms of writer have suffered as a result. I don't post on here nearly as often as I used to. The last poem I wrote was back in July. And my journal keeping has become non-existant. 

I write words for money. I no longer write them for the beauty of their existence. 

I usually don't mind this too much. It's more like a dull ache inside of me that could one day resemble regret. 

But on nights like tonight when I check in on some of my favorite artists/writers (See: Andy & Bodily), I feel like I'm not creating enough art, enough beauty. (Not to mention, both of those gentlemen are so bloody talented, I don't know whether to hug them or punch them in the neck.)

I guess that's a drawback to making words your living. 

Love you.

Mean it.