I like writing. I've been writing since forever. I loved it when we were made to do essays in grade school. The words came easy; even today I don't really do much proofreading for the posts I make here.
Should I have pursued that instead? Maybe go into journalism or literature? I could have transferred out. I could have spent my college life learning about Hemingway and Bukowski and Kafka. I could have learned to write poems as evocative as C.P. Cavafy's or fiction as arresting as Edgar Allan Poe's. I might not have been good enough to win a Pulitzer, but learning to write better would have been a joy.
Instead of writing for computers maybe I could have instead chosen to write for people. To expose the darkness in the world, have adventures in far-off places. I could have befriended witch-doctors in Haiti or investigated hoodoo in Louisiana; I could have trained in Daqingshan or walked Akihabara. All to pursue a story, to submit a deadline.
I might have had the singular experience of contracting epic obscure tropical diseases. I could have died in a hail of gunfire, a martyr to the cause of free press.
Writing is easy for me. It still is. If I had chosen that path, how many days would it be until I realized I wasn't really that good after all? How many days until I figure out that I won't get to write what I really want? How well will I be able to handle deadlines?
Choosing mediocrity has its perks. One can hold on to his illusions and sigh, staring into the distance, thinking of what-ifs.
No comments:
Post a Comment