Truth

I was recently asked by a group of younglings if I planned on doing my current job forever. Instantaneously, I replied with a resounding NO. They kind of laughed, and then, naturally, asked why. My response, though I was tempted to edit it, was because I couldn't imagine myself doing this forever. When they pressed me, asking why I had chosen my current career path, I again answered honestly with "I love to write." And those precocious little monsters pressed some more, and asked why I didn't write for a living. I paused, and thought for a minute. Why don't I write for a living? It's a question I've posed myself many times. I know it's what I want to be doing. I know that my calling could be accomplished through it, and that I could be happy and fulfilled and those things. I know that I could maintain my current lifestyle with some effort. I know my mother would be proud of her writer daughter, and I know that I would love my life; I would love doing all the things I do now, even my job, that much more if I just spent time writing. And so I answered honestly: it's too scary to write for a living. And I told them the truth. For me, writing is like bleeding, and it worries me that I would bleed myself to death if I were to write for a living. That I would put everything there is inside of me on paper, and that there would be nothing left. And even as I say that, I know it's not entirely true. Blood recreates itself. When you lose some, you make some more. And when you write your life, you create some more. And so there it is. A dream that for now stays undreamed even, because dreams sometimes happen in states of wakefulness.