When I started approaching the age where I might, realistically, start being considered a “grown-up,” I found that no magical answer had really come to me to tell me what I was going to be when I grew up. I had an affinity for computers and technology, and I worked IT jobs while attending a liberal arts college. I studied art because I enjoyed it without really thinking about the long-term prospects and worked on a computer science minor (though I loathed programming with a desperate intensity) because it seemed practical. I wound up graduating with a BA in Art History with a minor in Studio Art and almost-but-not-quite enough hours for a minors in Computer Science and Spanish.
You could say I’m indecisive, but I’m willing to bet a lot of people are at that age.
I stuck with Art History, in the end, because it combined making art (which I enjoyed, though never felt I was terribly good at) and studying history (always my favorite subject). I found it fascinating to look at a piece of art as a distillation of the place and time in which it was created: how color and brushwork were not random markings, but specific choices influenced by location, philosophy, politics, and current events. You could look at a piece of art and read into it so many things about the time and place it was created. Learning this has made me view the entire world a bit differently. Nothing really stands on its own — everything is a distinct product of the time and place in which it was created. If you look carefully, you can read multitudes of information in a single line.
However, it must be said that the history of art, while fascinating, has limited application in the so-called “real world.” So when I did graduate, I continued on in IT, working help desk and the like. It wasn’t exactly my dream job, but I was fascinated by technology, good with computers, and a quick study where such things were concerned. It paid the bills, but it wasn’t really what I wanted to do when I grew up. (And, really, you could argue that I was already grown up by then… so perhaps the fact I was doing it meant that it was what I wanted to do when I grew up.)
I fell into blogging quite accidentally from that point. WoW Insider (back when it was just a tiny, nearly unknown website) was looking for writers. I applied and was accepted on the strength of writing samples alone. I eventually took the plunge and left my stable-but-dull desk job for the prospects of blogging about video games on a full-time basis. It was financially problematic for a while, but with some patience, a lot of hard work, and a lot of dipping into my savings account to pay the bills, it’s all worked out rather well in the end. This is what I want to be when I grow up… or at least I think it is. The grass is always greener on the other side, though, and now that I’m here I see the down-sides of my chosen field. But if you aren’t doing something you love, you’re wasting your life away, and despite all my frustrations, I love what I do. Sometimes, though, I need to remind myself of that.
(I must note, tangentially, at this point in my “writing” career I do much less writing and much more planning and managing. On some days I love it. It is incredibly gratifying to see writers you showed the ropes be brilliant once you’ve let them go. It is great to see large-scale plans come together and work out. But on some days, I miss how simple it was just to write, when all I had to worry about was fact checks and word counts.)
But even so, I’ve put some very serious thought lately towards the question of, “What do you really want to do when you grow up?”
The answer I came back with, after a lot of soul-searching, wasn’t a suprise. I wanted to write. Words come easy to me and I delight in toying with them to fit the occasion. But journalism (a term which I will use to codify the news-based writing I work with) I could really take or leave. I enjoy it because I am passionate about my subject-matter (gaming), but it’s not an ends in and of itself. The more I considered the matter, the more I realized that my real passion was for fiction. For as long as I’ve been able to read, I’ve devoured books, and tucking away a good novel on a lazy Sunday afternoon was not uncommon. (Hooray for library cards is all I’ve got to say.) I’d never written much of my own, though… probably because I never felt I could do it quite as well as any of my favorite authors. But, of course, you never get very far without trying, and that, as much as anything, is why I’m not a novelist.
And perhaps the grass is greener over there, as well, but telling stories is something I’m passionate about, and for life to be worth living, you should to do what you’re passionate about. You should dive in and lose yourself in it and have as much fun as possible… and figure out a way to do the mundane things like paying the rent along the way.
So lately I’ve (in my copious free time) been working my way through the how of really becoming a novelist. Oddly enough, it involves a lot of writing. I have a notebook that I carry around with me and scribble down bits and pieces of things into. Some of them are words that seem to fit nicely together. Some are quotes from other things that I like and want to remember. Some are vague ideas or directions. Some are full-blown stories (the longest measuring in at twenty pages of my scratchy handwriting and still searching for an ending). Since I’ve started carrying around this notebook and writing things down, I’ve surprised myself a great deal. Most of what’s written on those pages I didn’t realize was in my head until after I wrote it down. I’m writing, but I’m also reading, seeing what happens as I go along.
I’m sure plenty of it is complete nonsense, but if I never give it a try, I’ll certainly never succeed. So I write. Sometimes I re-read. Sometimes I scribble notes in the margin. At some point I need to transfer the interesting bits to typed text, where I can easily edit, re-arrange, and polish them into something that shines. But I must say I do enjoy writing these first drafts and proto-stories longhand. There’s just something about making marks with ink on paper and the way letters curve and tumble into each other on the page. (That may be my artistic background talking.)
I opened my notebook tonight to see that it was half-full, which surprised me. The pages seem to have filled quickly, without any strenuous effort on my part. I have the suspicion that this, more than anything else, suggests I’m on the right track. It’s all play and no work.
Of course the “work” part of finding people willing to pay me for any of these efforts is yet to come, but I remain cautiously optimistic. I’m doing what I love and I’m sure I can’t go too far wrong.
