I was cleaning out my favorites list when I came across the link to my Jeff Rupert feature. I don't think I actually shared it with many people, which is truly a shame because I should have been really proud of it, but instead I remember being sorely insecure. That’s not surprising though, considering self-deprecation was the running theme of my life that last semester of college. Even tonight as I re-read it, the lone, remaining “said” in a sea of “says” bothers me more than I’d like to admit .
I did become a little sad as I thought about college, though, and particularly the comments from my feature writing professor. I remember at the end of the semester his parting advice to me was that as long as I was writing, no matter if it was fiction or journalism, I’d go far. It seriously makes me teary-eyed thinking about it, and not because of how happy and encouraging his words were, but because of how much I feel like I’ve disappointed everyone.
After I graduated, I felt this overwhelming anxiety about what I was suppose to do next. I had my degree--my ticket--but I just wasn’t sure which train to board and what type of professional itinerary I needed to follow. It was like everyone around me had these neat, little portfolios all bundled and ready to lead them to success while mine had been dropped during a wind storm and all I could see was pieces of paper swirling in mid air.
I wanted to write--this had been the unadulterated constant in the social experiment that is my life--but how I was suppose to support myself on whims of creativity and inconsistent blog entries was uncertain. I thought I could be a journalist, but I didn’t have enough passion for the field in order to overcome the fear that swelled inside me when I was forced to report stories I didn’t want to report or interview people I didn’t feel comfortable even making eye contact with. So, I accepted the only position I applied for post-college to at least pay off bills.
I hate to be the whiny, emotionally self-indulgent brat who has nothing to complain about but her own constraining insecurities, but here I am. The poor girl who complains about her steady job. When I write my complaints out and stare at them, I feel a sinking guilt because I am selfish and unappreciative. But it’s so difficult to quiet the yelling desire inside you for something more. It’s even more frustrating when you’re not even sure what “more” looks like, you just know it isn’t where you’re at. And the further away from college I get, the more I find myself drowning in a tide of monotony and cynicism and paranoia that my creativity is dulling.
So I keep a journal and I keep this blog and I keep hoping I’ll get it together eventually; that some epiphanous stroke of motivation will happen one night when I open a word document and my life will be forever changed.
It’s either that or I start updating my Twitter account in hopes that Judd Apatow and Diablo Cody notice my witty hilarity and it inspires them to mentor me while I write the next indie classic.
It could happen, guys. Winding dialogue and quirky soundtracks are kind of my thing.