If one person tells you you're wasting your talents, they can be easily overthrown with a few logical statements about practicality and quality of life.
"I may not love being a receptionist, but the benefits are great, and I'm making good money. Besides, I like my job, I like the people I work with, and I like a regular schedule. It might not be exciting, but it's stable and I'm not in debt". Easily solved.
But if four people tell you you're wasting your talents, you can't help but start to think that maybe they're on to something.
I have been in a lazy, unmotivated, uncommitted, and frustrating battle with myself in a lukewarm effort to gain some fragment of an idea of what I want to do with my life since I was a teenager. But unfortunately, despite years of pondering, a lot of soul-searching, and several ridiculous epiphanies that provided me with a short-lived sense of accomplishment (and some pretty absurd ideas), I still have absolutely no idea what I want to spend my life doing. Not even a little bit.
I do, however, know what I'm good at and what I like. That's why I went to school for writing -- I like it, and luckily I'm pretty good at it. The other choice would have been drawing, but that likely would have only led me to a hatred of any and all art and an even more intense hatred for other artists. Unforunately, neither one of the two identifiable talents I possess will likely provide me with a formidable income and grant me the luxury of eating more than store-brand cereal out of a drafty apartment in a frightening location.
Given the appeal of the lifestyle, I feel it's pretty understandable why I haven't been motivated. I don't love much of anything enough to live such a sad, struggled life. I'm the kind of gal who likes life's little joys, like heated car seats and not having to worry about whether or not I can pay my rent. I admire anyone who follows their passions and makes sacrifices to live their lives doing solely what they love, but I need quite a strong focus and a specific, obtainable goal to so willingly make such sacrifices.
So that leaves me here, where I can't even finish writing a sentence without being distracted by the evils of the internet or MythBusters on TV in front of my face. I'm really a little disgusted by myself. The past two nights this week, I've gotten drunk and watched Julie and Julia, rambling on to my supportive and prodding boyfriend that Julie Powell's story could have easily been mine. I love food, I like writing, I have no idea what to do with myself, and I can't finish anything.
Now, I have no choice but to force myself, like a kid with a plate full of peas, to slowly get myself into a rhythm of at least utilizing what I like and what I'm good at. So I will write about something everyday. It might not be interesting or profound, but it will be as regular as the intenstinal system of a Labrador Retriever, and that's more than I've got at the moment.
This is the beginning of my journey of wandering around in the dark, hoping I stumble into something that will point me in some kind of direction. Like Julie Powell, I will finish something. I don't expect anything to come of it, but I am tired of being disappointed in myself. I'm not trying to be anyone but the version of myself that isn't content with going to bed at 9:30 PM.
This is day one.
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