Here’s a line from my last post:
“A prestigious, stable job starts to look appealing, while my dream of writing for a living fades into the background as unfinished novels and book outlines linger on my hard drive.”
When I was in high school, I wrote a term paper for a grade 12 philosophy elective. Before our professor handed the papers back, he announced to the class that he had given out several perfect grades, but one paper had clearly stood above all the rest. He looked at me and said thank you, handed my paper back and left the rest on his desk for the other students to sort through on their own. I still remember everything about that moment, and how I felt for the rest of the day.
Later that year, I was kicked off the student council because I skipped every meeting for football practice. I spent the next month writing and distributing pamphlets, faux-pseudonymously signed Publius, calling for a general election between the Student’s Council and my new creation: The People’s Council. I put more time and effort into those pamphlets – even doing my teenage best to carp the language and tone of the most colourful American revolutionary pamphleteers – than I did into studying for the final exams.
Since then, I’ve been writing blogs, columns, letters, short stories, aborted novels, and poems (“Nerrrd!”) whenever I’ve had the opportunity and the desire. All my life, whenever I’ve been confused, excited, scared or curious, my first instinct has been to crack open my laptop and write.
When I started this blog, I wrote about a vague desire to become a more creative, ambitious, fulfilled person. I still have this desire. I still want to be a better athlete, musician and entrepreneur. But for my entire adult life, there has always been some part of me that wants to write. That is my dream. That’s why when I woke up and realized my job was killing me on the inside, I started a blog rather than a jam band or an all-out effort to qualify for next season’s NHL training camp.