For the Young Asian Woman Who Cared
Maeko
Mar 29, 2006
Hi there, so sorry to worry you. What, with the sudden onslaught of emo-jankery. I promise there's a reason--albeit not a very good one--for it.
Whenever someone asks me what I'm going to do with my life, I get depressed. Not that my life is depressing, mind you (or maybe it is, depending on how you define deviation from societal norms and what constitutes a depressing life situation). But whenever confronted with the idea of the future, the first thing I want to do is hide and wait 'til said confrontation goes far, far away. I dread these conversations like I dread doctor's visits, running into friends from highschool, writing a research paper (yeach), or even family reunions (you know how DRAMA Pilipino family reunions are). It's depressing and daunting and nauseatingly frustrating how underdeveloped my ambition is for advancement.
I'm going to be twentyfour, and I haven't graduated yet, don't have an inkling of what I would want to pursue with my English degree at all. When I finally graduate a year and a half from now, what meaningful work can I set my hands to that won't make me want to commit seppuku? I know I want to write but my lack of ambition means I never write articles for school papers to flesh out my writing portfolio with clips and accomplishments, nor do I often submit my work to be published in anything but pithy student or community publications. Can I truly call myself a "writer," even, when I blog sporadically at best and don't even put my hands to a keyboard to compose something once a day? Those who truly love their craft will still practice it when they hate it, they force themselves to continually hone and become.
Am I in a perpetual state of becoming, as a writer? No.
Colour me pathetic.
Whenever someone asks me what I'm going to do with my life, I get depressed. Not that my life is depressing, mind you (or maybe it is, depending on how you define deviation from societal norms and what constitutes a depressing life situation). But whenever confronted with the idea of the future, the first thing I want to do is hide and wait 'til said confrontation goes far, far away. I dread these conversations like I dread doctor's visits, running into friends from highschool, writing a research paper (yeach), or even family reunions (you know how DRAMA Pilipino family reunions are). It's depressing and daunting and nauseatingly frustrating how underdeveloped my ambition is for advancement.
I'm going to be twentyfour, and I haven't graduated yet, don't have an inkling of what I would want to pursue with my English degree at all. When I finally graduate a year and a half from now, what meaningful work can I set my hands to that won't make me want to commit seppuku? I know I want to write but my lack of ambition means I never write articles for school papers to flesh out my writing portfolio with clips and accomplishments, nor do I often submit my work to be published in anything but pithy student or community publications. Can I truly call myself a "writer," even, when I blog sporadically at best and don't even put my hands to a keyboard to compose something once a day? Those who truly love their craft will still practice it when they hate it, they force themselves to continually hone and become.
Am I in a perpetual state of becoming, as a writer? No.
Colour me pathetic.
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