Disclaimer: This one got a little personal.
I have been questioning my life choices lately.
Here I am. Finishing up my first year as a doctoral candidate in English. On the cusp of thirty.
Not that age should be a factor. I am not worried about getting older. Hell, I am actually ready for the big 3-0 (still several months away). Nor am I in a rush to get married, having recently extricated myself from a relationship that wasn’t really working that well.
No, I am just wondering why I haven’t done it yet. Written the book, you know? There was a time when I saw myself a published author by the time I hit my thirties.
A joke really, considering that one only gets one chance at that first book. Fuck up, and you are fucked.
Pardon the language, but really, W.T.F?
A writer friend who is also as engaged in academia as I am states that she is unable – unable – to be both a creative writer, and an academician.
I beg to differ. I can be both. For me, it’s not about the switching between the academician and the creative writer that’s the problem. But the mental space. The time one gives oneself to become both – not necessarily at the same time – and do it well.
Well, well. That is the key word, isn’t it?
How does one do it well? How does one know that one is doing it well? And, how does one do it and know that one is not fucking up?
I have realized these are questions that have their own answers, depending on who you are asking.
Me? I am still searching for my own versions of truth.
But I feel them shimmering. Hovering just out of reach.
But there they are. Right there. See?