Always few and far between...

So this month has been a whirlwind. It's already over before it's begun. I've been doing a lot of soul searching and this is what I found out: I'm awesome at stuff, so I should do the stuff I am awesome at. Savvy?

You heard - err, read - that right. I've got a lot of talent. Talent that I pretty much waste day-to-day. Does that stop me from wasting it? No. Why? Because I'm scared, that's why. What normal human being is afraid of accomplishing their goals? Not very many. I'd go so far as to say very few. That's me, though. How about a hypothetical? Just for funsies omg I said funsies 

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Let's say I dream of being [insert -mostly- attainable dream here]. Let's say I reach it. Great, right? "How wonderful that you could fulfill that dream, Sam! How blessed you must feel! How alive!" No. You know what reaching that goal means to me? A bigger goal. The smaller, first goals are easy to reach, and I'm certain I can succeed in what I'd like to do. It's like climbing a ladder. Any genius with the required appendages can climb up on the first rung. Then the second, then the third. You look around and, hey! You've made it a quarter of the way up. Congratulations, you're a capable human being. Then what? Do you climb back down? Do you take away what progress you've made and return to Earth? Maybe. But that wouldn't feel very good. You wouldn't feel like you had reached as far as you possibly could've. So you take to the fourth rung, then the fifth. Now, all of a sudden, you're in the middle. High up enough to fall and hurt yourself, but not so high that you can see over the trees. Do you keep going? When is it enough? When you've reached the top? Maybe then. So you keep going. You keep climbing. You are nervous, cursing yourself for wearing flip flops instead of tennis shoes, and developing what can only be a flop-sweat caused by the anxiety of being up high enough to break your neck if you fall. But you make it. You make it to the top. You can see above the trees. You can stand atop your house, and look down at all of the lowly peasants neighbors on the ground and know, in this moment, you have attained something that others have not (right this second, in your general vicinity... Cable guys don't count. Those dudes have a death wish; I'm certain of it).

Then what? You could just get back down, and go about your life knowing the highest you've scaled is your roof. You could do that. Wouldn't you wonder, though, if you could've gone higher? Would you not set bigger goals? Maybe not. Maybe you're not concerned with scaling mountains. Maybe this is a bad metaphor. I kinda lost myself in the altitude.... Anyway, my point is, what if I get too big for my britches (welcome to the south, y'all). What if my dreams get too big. When do you stop and say, "Okay. That's enough. I've done everything that I set out to do. There's nothing more." Or do you? I feel like the answer to that is a resounding "No." So you keep setting goals and keep setting goals.... I'm losing myself again. My conundrum here, folks, is that I'm not entirely certain of what I'm afraid of; I just know I'm afraid of succeeding and  failing. Maybe that's it. Or maybe the "pressure" to keep topping whatever I've done. Actually. Yep. That's it. (Excuse me while I talk out my issues, Doctor....) When do you stop with the ever continuing competition with yourself? Never?

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The coward in me doesn't want to post this. The "sensible adult" wants to rationalize it all away, and scrap this excerpt for a satirical piece that will make you chuckle and move on. The child wants to hide away in the cave, never coming out (Unless there's candy or whatever. Then I'll be there with bells on). I've been reading a great book that, when I started to walk past it in the book store, reached out and smacked me in the face. Not literally. I probably would not have bought it had it physically assaulted me. It did, however, assault the huge block in my flow of writing, and doing, and creating. Writing is My Drink is by Theo Pauline Nestor, and is absolutely brilliant. It's filled with her journey as an aspiring writer, as well as exercises to complete at the end of each chapter. One of the things she talks about is the moment she finally heard her voice in her writing. When she started writing about all the things she was terrified to put on paper. The things she never said, never wrote, in an effort to save face and eliminate the risk of offending those she cared about. It was when she set all those fears aside, and poured them from pen to paper, that she felt like she had been honest in her craft. I haven't been honest in my craft. Sure I laugh and poke fun at myself for starting and stopping a workout routine. Who doesn't? I will freely speak about frustrations surrounding my job, my weight/physique or lack thereof..., the weather, my family... Those things are easy. Safe. So, I'm being honest, now. I'm scared to move forward for fear of failing. For fear of letting myself down. I'm terrified of each accomplishment never being good enough, because it's all of a sudden in competition with a new goal. I'm. Scared.

So, naturally, because I was scared, I hid. I stopped writing. Why not? It's not like there was anyone waiting for me to write.... And then, out of nowhere, there was. "You haven't written in your blog in a while. You should go home, write tonight." Huh? "Hey, Sam, when are you going to put up a new post?" ....Wha... Me? "Baby, you should really pursue your writing. You could write a book. Or something. Anything." Okay, he has to say that. He loves me, and he has to say those things.... Except he doesn't. No one does. If I just absolutely sucked at writing (< now that was quaint), would people be asking for more? ...Probably not. So, I really started thinking about it. "I could do this. I could really write... like... for a living. I could do it. I could do it... ... ... Oh God. I think I'm gonna do it." I started researching how to start out. What to go for. Where to begin. Freelance writing? Hmm, maybe, but it didn't feel true to me just yet. Maybe I could get more followers on the blog... But what difference would that make? (Other than possibly starting a small following, ya know, of maybe ten whole people...) And then it hit me like a sack of oranges. I need some training. Formal training. Training one usually gets from... wait for it.... SCHOOL.

Nothing like a phantom on an 80's computer helping
you solve mysteries...

Being the rational, non-impulsive person I am, I obviously took my time researching... Okay, no I didn't. I went for it. Filled out my financial aid info, looked around for online degree programs (ain't nobody got time for in-class settings and parking passes - not this girl, at least), picked one, and applied. A few days later, I spoke to my admissions counselor. She's super chipper, and super supportive. I can see why she's an admissions counselor. Right now, we're finishing up the process of requesting all my transcripts. The FAFSA has been processed and approved, so now Drew (A.C) is just waiting on my award info to come back. I already took dual credit English classes my senior year in high school (a rare moment of responsibility and planning as a teenager...), so Comp 1 and 2 are done. So there's that at least. The degree I'm going for is a BA in Creative Writing. If I'm going to have all of these loans, I'm going to have a degree to show for it.

As for all of you nay-sayers, I know. There are tons of people with degrees that are doing jack-diddly pertaining to what they spent all their money going to school for. I. Don't. Care. So you can take all of your "Well a lot of good that's going to do you"'s and shove 'em. Do I need your pessimism? That's a negative, Ghost Rider... Writer... BAH! (did anyone else watch that show? Ghost Writer?)

Apparently that's my philosophy.
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So there you have it, ladies and gents. I'm going back to school (back to school, to show my dad I'm not a fool.... A little Billy Madison for y'all) I'm nervous. I won't even be in a physical class, and I'm already getting jitters. College was never my strong suite. Then again, I was always pursuing something that didn't feel true to me. The idea was great. The intentions were there... but they never stuck. I was going for something that I couldn't honestly see myself doing in the long-run. Not the smartest way to go about it, kids. If you switch your major more than four times in two years? Take a damn break. Figure it out. Don't continue racking up loans and expenses if you have no idea what you want to do. That's dumb. What did my mom always say? "Do as I say, not as I do." Well in this case, not as I did. There's no shame in taking a breather to figure out what you want. Even if you just take an entire semester to just take random classes that interest you. A list of random classes on my transcript? Bookmaking. Weaving. Victimology. American Sign Language. Criminology. Lots of Psych classes. An entire class on Lincoln and his wife. Just so I could see what sparked my interest. Turns out I liked learning about random things, but that's just me. I wish I had taken a creative writing class in that slew of miss matched classes. Maybe I would've figured it out sooner than later. Oh well. You live, you learn. That's the whole point, isn't it?

I'm not going to say I'm definitely going to write more. I'd love to, but I can't make any promises. I can say that I'm not going to hide. So if there is a lapse in writing, I'm not down under the bed hiding from the boogey-man that is my calling. I'm simply too busy writing for school. Or sleeping. Or working. Or eating... super healthy stuff... Like.... pie. Mmm, pie. I'd love y'alls support and encouragement along the way. Lord knows I'm going to whine and complain about deadlines and the such, so be prepared for that. No matter how bad my nerves over going back to class make me want to barf, I'm also very excited. I feel like, this time, I'm going for something that is absolutely true to me. I'm going to school because I want to go. I'm majoring in something I want to major in. No more being influenced. No more following the crowd. I would pick one of the most uncertain of paths... But that's the beauty in it all, I guess... Who knows how it'll turn out?

Until next time, reader(s)...