September 19, 2010

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.