I have this feeling that, despite being in my 30s, I haven't yet started my proper adult life. All my friends are off, busy getting married and raising babies, secure in their young families, futures, and careers. And somehow I feel like I haven't even started doing what I'm meant to be doing. I'm not even sure what I'm meant to be doing -- only that I hope, sooner rather than later, I'll be living in a house with a garden somewhere in England, possibly near water. (Maybe I'll raise some pygmy goats.)

For the first time in my life, I want to be a writer (funny, it's taken nearly 10 years of doing it to like it, kind of). Writing suits my personality -- it's something you can do at your leisure or on deadline, something that can be done from the comfort of my own home, in pajamas, and it's an ideas-driven career, a skill that I can continually work at improving upon. Sometimes I think I started too late, in my late-20s -- writing was never something emphasized in my high school curriculum and I think I got a C in my freshman writing seminar at Dartmouth.

So I've decided to really get my act together. Right now I'm involved with a bunch of extracurricular projects and odd-jobs -- fun-ish activities that take up a lot of time. But I've realized that I'll never be able to tackle any major projects -- and, thereby, make major accomplishments -- if I'm spread so thin working on something here, something there. It was all fun and games in my 20s, working 16-hour days for five different bosses, but I'm in my 30s, and it's not cute anymore. After eight years of fun and games, it's time to get down to business.
"Observe Everything. Always think for yourself. Never let other people make important decisions for you." — from Bad News by Edward St. Aubyn