I realized a few weeks ago that I have been lying to myself for almost ten years. It's not a big deal. It's not even about anything huge or emotional, which makes the lie even stupider.
When I was in sixth grade reality smacked me in the face in the form of an essay titled "What I Want To Be When I Grow Up." Retardedly unimaginative, this topic question did nothing but terrify dumb kids into haphazardly choosing a profession and then defiantly and staunchly committing to for the rest of their lives for no other reason than the fact that they had always been told to stick to their commitments. Oh, no, wait, that was just me.
My neuroses about being somewhat successful coupled with the steady understanding that being a "writer" wasn't really going to cut it lead to my decision, made at the depressingly young age of eleven, that a more practical career choice would be journalism. I had read a narrative from the ever-enlightening Chicken Noodle Soup for the (Pre)Teen Soul—my source of knowledge on all things tween, such as the embarrassment of not being allowed to shave your legs and weird family members who touched you—about a girl who had found the power of the tape recorder. While writing my paper I recalled this, and decided that transitioning to writing about the purgatory of middle school to writing about important things strangers do would ultimately be a great (read lucrative, not stupid, not pointless, etc.) life choice.
Other than my bizarrely early capitalist tendencies, no doubt unconsciously instilled in me by my parents (who are wonderful and have only wanted me to be happy, but also grew up poor and thus want me to be successful), I am not really sure why I thought journalism would be a good profession. I am not particularly aggressive and don't really like bothering people, nor do I have an insatiable need to GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THINGS and TELL THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY NEED TO KNOW. In fact, as I've continued my education and have taken classes studying the American media, I've found a number of things that I hate about journalism.
Still, once I decided that I was going to be a roving reporter, I was relieved. Now that I had resolved the question that adults had been asking me since I learned how to form coherent sentences, I could enter the world. So what if it wasn't exactly currently my dream to become a journalist? I was sure that, along the way, I would learn that becoming a journalist, was in fact my life's desire.
I worked for my high-school newspaper for a little while—that sucked. I attributed this to the fact that everyone working on the paper was a brain-dead loser, which was absolutely true, but didn't change the fact that I still didn't feel like I was supposed to feel. I pushed this away, obviously, but when it came time to choose a college I decided against going to University of Missouri—the best school for journalism in the country—even though I had gotten in and received a scholarship. I knew that if I realized, or if I finally admitted, that I didn't necessarily want to be a journalist, there would be nothing for me in Missouri.
When I got to American, I figured that I'd work for The Eagle, which, instead of exciting me, filled me with apprehension and weirdness. I went to a few pitch meetings—even covered something for them—but my article never ended up being published. I didn't go back. This isn't a huge deal objectively. A lot of journalism students I know at AU haven't or don't write for The Eagle. But then again, maybe they're all questioning their career choices too. Maybe the only real journalists at AU are the staff of The Eagle. I really hope not, but maybe.
The past few months have been some of the most enlightening of my life. This is the first semester of college where I didn't take any comm classes, and it was one of the best of my academic career. Writing 62 pages of research papers for various classes really blew, but for the first time I actually felt like I was learning something of substance, rather than a skill or a routine.
That's something I want to do forever. I want to learn and I want to write and I want to be happy, at least a little bit, and I don't think being a reporter will give me that. I have been pretending that it will because it's almost too embarrassing to admit that I've been lukewarm on the idea since its genesis.
Here's a secret: I used to think that the only thing I was good at was school. Writing papers, synthesizing information, memorizing things, making teachers like me—I have all of that bullshit down pat. But school's for people who force themselves to be enthusiastic about a profession that they don't actually care about, and I don't want to be that person anymore. I don't regret majoring in Journalism at AU: I want to write in some capacity and it's important to know how to do that. The classes I've taken and experience I've gained at AU will only benefit me in the future. But I love writing and I want to do it in a way that won't make me anxious, won't make me second guess myself. I want to do it in a way that will force me to confront shit, that will help me learn something significant, help me share something real. Help me come to terms with the fact that I can do and be something beyond the structure of an educational institution.
So now when people ask me what I want to be, I tell them I want to write, "in some way." And I'm finally being honest, which is worth something, in my opinion. We lie to ourselves constantly; writing this means that I'm getting somewhere, even if it's all internally.
And, you know, whatever. Fuck it. I'm in my twenties and I'm supposed to be all fucked up and not know what I want to to do. I'll never have a chance to question myself like this ever again. I guess I'll revel in it, and maybe one day they'll make an HBO show based on my boring, clichéd life.
When I was in sixth grade reality smacked me in the face in the form of an essay titled "What I Want To Be When I Grow Up." Retardedly unimaginative, this topic question did nothing but terrify dumb kids into haphazardly choosing a profession and then defiantly and staunchly committing to for the rest of their lives for no other reason than the fact that they had always been told to stick to their commitments. Oh, no, wait, that was just me.
My neuroses about being somewhat successful coupled with the steady understanding that being a "writer" wasn't really going to cut it lead to my decision, made at the depressingly young age of eleven, that a more practical career choice would be journalism. I had read a narrative from the ever-enlightening Chicken Noodle Soup for the (Pre)Teen Soul—my source of knowledge on all things tween, such as the embarrassment of not being allowed to shave your legs and weird family members who touched you—about a girl who had found the power of the tape recorder. While writing my paper I recalled this, and decided that transitioning to writing about the purgatory of middle school to writing about important things strangers do would ultimately be a great (read lucrative, not stupid, not pointless, etc.) life choice.
Other than my bizarrely early capitalist tendencies, no doubt unconsciously instilled in me by my parents (who are wonderful and have only wanted me to be happy, but also grew up poor and thus want me to be successful), I am not really sure why I thought journalism would be a good profession. I am not particularly aggressive and don't really like bothering people, nor do I have an insatiable need to GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THINGS and TELL THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY NEED TO KNOW. In fact, as I've continued my education and have taken classes studying the American media, I've found a number of things that I hate about journalism.
Still, once I decided that I was going to be a roving reporter, I was relieved. Now that I had resolved the question that adults had been asking me since I learned how to form coherent sentences, I could enter the world. So what if it wasn't exactly currently my dream to become a journalist? I was sure that, along the way, I would learn that becoming a journalist, was in fact my life's desire.
I worked for my high-school newspaper for a little while—that sucked. I attributed this to the fact that everyone working on the paper was a brain-dead loser, which was absolutely true, but didn't change the fact that I still didn't feel like I was supposed to feel. I pushed this away, obviously, but when it came time to choose a college I decided against going to University of Missouri—the best school for journalism in the country—even though I had gotten in and received a scholarship. I knew that if I realized, or if I finally admitted, that I didn't necessarily want to be a journalist, there would be nothing for me in Missouri.
When I got to American, I figured that I'd work for The Eagle, which, instead of exciting me, filled me with apprehension and weirdness. I went to a few pitch meetings—even covered something for them—but my article never ended up being published. I didn't go back. This isn't a huge deal objectively. A lot of journalism students I know at AU haven't or don't write for The Eagle. But then again, maybe they're all questioning their career choices too. Maybe the only real journalists at AU are the staff of The Eagle. I really hope not, but maybe.
The past few months have been some of the most enlightening of my life. This is the first semester of college where I didn't take any comm classes, and it was one of the best of my academic career. Writing 62 pages of research papers for various classes really blew, but for the first time I actually felt like I was learning something of substance, rather than a skill or a routine.
That's something I want to do forever. I want to learn and I want to write and I want to be happy, at least a little bit, and I don't think being a reporter will give me that. I have been pretending that it will because it's almost too embarrassing to admit that I've been lukewarm on the idea since its genesis.
Here's a secret: I used to think that the only thing I was good at was school. Writing papers, synthesizing information, memorizing things, making teachers like me—I have all of that bullshit down pat. But school's for people who force themselves to be enthusiastic about a profession that they don't actually care about, and I don't want to be that person anymore. I don't regret majoring in Journalism at AU: I want to write in some capacity and it's important to know how to do that. The classes I've taken and experience I've gained at AU will only benefit me in the future. But I love writing and I want to do it in a way that won't make me anxious, won't make me second guess myself. I want to do it in a way that will force me to confront shit, that will help me learn something significant, help me share something real. Help me come to terms with the fact that I can do and be something beyond the structure of an educational institution.
So now when people ask me what I want to be, I tell them I want to write, "in some way." And I'm finally being honest, which is worth something, in my opinion. We lie to ourselves constantly; writing this means that I'm getting somewhere, even if it's all internally.
And, you know, whatever. Fuck it. I'm in my twenties and I'm supposed to be all fucked up and not know what I want to to do. I'll never have a chance to question myself like this ever again. I guess I'll revel in it, and maybe one day they'll make an HBO show based on my boring, clichéd life.
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