The Literary Dreamer

Maybe not now, but soon. After a year of university, I’ve reached the dawning realization that maybe a career in publishing isn’t my dream after all. I want to write, of course - I need to write - but I am not happy where I am. I could truthfully admit I’m damn near miserable, writing six-page essays in M.L.A format and sitting in two-hour lectures about onomatopoeia and taking god-awful Logic and Quantitative Reasoning courses just so that I’ll be “well-rounded.” I couldn’t care less about getting A’s, or maintaining a gleaming four-point-oh G.P.A, or - quite least of all - the piece of paper I’ll receive that sums up four-to-six years of blood and sweat and systematically-conditioned torture, which I’ll be expected to frame and hang in my office cubicle with pride. I suppose I’m critical about post-secondary education in general, but even more so because I’ve dedicated a year towards striving for a career I don’t wholly want. I need to quit questioning myself and admit the truth, in utter frankness and sincerity: I am not happy. I do not want to be here, studying what I am studying. I do not want to be an editor for a publishing company. I may not even want to work in publishing at all. 

I want to write novels and screenplays, articles for magazines and newspapers, feature spreads for periodical journals; I want to interview other writers, artists, musicians, filmmakers, photographers. I also want a career in fashion - designing editorials, blogging, capturing the visual aesthetic of beautiful clothing. I want to work in the music industry, attending live shows and reviewing albums online. I want to choose scores and soundtracks for films and television shows. I want to make movies. I want to open my own coffee shop that hosts open-mic Fridays for young musical artists wanting a start in the business; I would sell donated used books along with lattes and cappuccinos and chocolate croissants. I want to travel around the world and blog about foreign food and customs and cultural traditions. I want to pursue just about every artistic career that is extremely difficult to succeed in and hardly earns enough monthly income to make a decent living on. As naive and idealistic as this statement may seem, these are the pursuits that I would be motivated enough to work towards, possibilities for my future that could make me truly happy. It’s a reckless and terrifying thought - changing course, questioning all I thought I’ve wanted for the past few years - but after meeting  people who dedicate themselves so much to what they do - whether that be designing, directing, creating music, or even serving customers - I realize that it’s their passion that makes them so vibrant. I am pale gray in comparison, with my A- essays that I take zero pride in, the writing I force myself to enjoy because I’m “supposed” to (as much as I respect Shakespeare, I can hardly press a quarter of the way through one of his plays without falling asleep) and contrived, mimicking poetry. I’ve been aiming towards a life that isn’t mine; a life that seems promising in theory but is tasteless in substance. I don’t fit in this world of “higher-level learning” (insofar, at least) and I don’t have my whole future mapped out as neatly and precisely as I had (naively) thought.

So what am I going to do? I am not going to abandon university altogether (as much as I despise the sometimes ostentatious atmosphere of post-secondary, I’m still intellectually curious enough that I want to continue exploring other fields of study; besides that, I’ve only just completed my first year, and I don’t wish to surrender to a lifetime of greeting-and-seating so quickly.) I’m going to take courses that I actually want to take, as scattered and foreign as they may be; art history, more Gender Studies classes, maybe even script-writing. I’ll learn the basics of a new language - Spanish or Italian? - and brush up on my French. I’ll start saving up my money so I can travel somewhere (anywhere?) I’ll keep writing in copious amounts and poring over the spreads of fashion magazines and watching beautiful films; I’ll introduce myself to more passionate people and learn more about what they do, and maybe even volunteer myself for some collaborative projects. I’m only eighteen, and I don’t have to know what I want to do, or who I want to be. I may not know until I’m fifty-five and verging on retirement; I may damn well never know. I’m beginning to learn, however, that your occupational pursuit does not define who you are. I could juggle twenty artistic projects at once and be more than happy. My ultimate goal - as for now, at least - is to experiment, and to experience. I need to be sincere to myself and claim my life so it’s mine.