This is turning out to be the journal of a fraidy cat.
Today, there was a career fair for writers at school. It's actually going on right now: publishers, writers, associations. I thought, neat, I can go and ask questions to get a better idea of what the industry's like. So I get ready to go, read over the questions I prepared and print off a couple resumes on pretty paper, just in case. What happens? I walk in, and walk right out.
A wave of ill-feeling just swept over me. I suddenly felt like everything was really heavy. What am I doing here? I don't belong here. I don't even really want to be a writer. That was just some childish dream of what I would be when I grew up. I keep pushing that reality further and further into the future that will never really happen. I thought I could hack it as a copyeditor, part-time or for a summer job; but, merely getting pissed off at grammatical and stylistic mistakes doesn't really qualify a hack for a job.
I'm looking over the brochure like a remorseful little girl. This is what the face of a fraidy cat looks like: sour and disappointed.
Did you ever say to yourself, this is too challenging, but one day, I'll be able to do it, and I'll do it well? I feel like I've been saying that my whole life. I keep thinking in that perfect place called 'the future', things will work out in a whimsical way. I've been saying since high school that I'd get my mile down to seven minutes. That's a modest time, it's really not that great. I haven't trained in years, but I keep thinking about it. I always make sure I've got a good pair of running shoes kicking around, just in case. I don't want my little dream for a seven-minute mile to be a metaphor for how I tackle life.