For the past year or so, I've been hatin' on my major (still officially creative writing), and what said major has gotten me into (editing and publishing). Hence the quarter-life crisis.
But every now and then, something tugs at my memory and reminds me how much I love to write, and even edit.
My good friend Britt (a fellow writer & feminist) came to town at the end of January for the first time since moving away over the summer. We went to a poetry reading and then out for a few beers. We ended up workshopping some poems in the bar. I fell back in love with writing, and called my mom the next morning to babble on about how wonderful I felt. It's hard to think I once felt that way all the time. My love of writing fueled everything I did, which explains why losing it left me stagnant.
The other day I was in the student publications office on campus, laying pages for this semester's issue of Cardinal Sins. And I found myself enjoying it (which is how it should have been all along). We were on spring break, so the campus was dead, and I think the stillness eliminated the pressure of deadlines and whatnot. It wasn't anything like the euphoria I experienced when Britt came to visit, but oddly, it was better, because it wasn't joy, it was contentedness--something else I hadn't felt in months.
It'd be easier for me to change my mind & do something else with my life if I didn't have these constant reminders of how much I love what I do.
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