But before I go into that behold this: http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2
Hilarious. If you disagree your humor is broken.
This is almost the very end of my penultimate year of college. Four years ago I started and the end seemed so far away as to be a non-issue. I really had it down to a science, my life. However, as life is wont to do, plans changed on me. I've wanted to chase the will-o-the-wisp down a lot of reads in the last four years and I think now I've finally come to the conclusion that is right for me.
It took a lot of effort, finding what I needed. I suppose it always does. Without effort, really, a thing means less. I've made and lost a number of friends in these four years. I've spoken my mind to people and had it thrown right back in my face and was called wrong, utterly wrong. A few instances come to memory. I can recall someone with whom I share so very much in common and for whom I have the utmost hatred now telling me that I was too cruel, too amoral a person and that in my heart I was sick. I can remember a conversation I struck up as I watched a man with tattoos all over his hands and arms and neck walk out of a kitchen through the passenger seat window of a car. I said he was clearly a very courageous man. The driver asked me what I mean and I told her that to have all those markings, to be dedicated to expression through appearance in the face of how cruel the job market will be to him. She called me a fool. She called him a fool. I felt like it was my duty to defend him. So I did. I found myself doing that often to many people.
My life really did improve dramatically the day I picked the guitar again and taught my idiot-fingers how to dance across the strings. I remember how difficult it was to re-learn everything, I remember the price I pay and cherish each note, even the missed ones, that I can call up. Music healed me. I stick by the truth and the magic of that statement each day. The guitar helped teach me who I was again. It showed me how important it is to me that people look strange, act strange and think even stranger and that this strangeness and the burden it includes, is one of the most important things we have in this world. I feel like all those people, those strange and amazing people, anachronisms and faerie tales I defended with my blood and my words thank me each time I play.
Each word I write in my novel, in any of my writing projects, here or in my physical journals brings me closer to the mastery of my writer's craft. It brings me closer to my goal. Even now I can feel it and it feels damned good. I wonder how the struggle for career authorship will go. I am certainly eager to find out. It's been something I've wanted since childhood, since I was reasonable enough to decide "Hey, I love books. I suppose I could MAKE books for a living. That is brilliant!" Truth be told.... My opinions have not changed a whole hell of a lot from that point. I read books that don't thrill me now but are still quite fair and say "This was good. But I can do better than this. I can write better than this, make a story more fun than this. I CAN do this." and walk away joyous.
My life is kind to me now. I have real hope anymore. Despite how apathetic I sometimes become when I think that the working world is waiting for me I have a powerful feeling that I am being directed towards my dreams by the application of my will alone.
I've had my detractors, and I always will. But, as a great, big blue man once told me, "Alex. People are always going to be waiting to cut you down and you have to realize that their heads aren't even worth the pikes you'd put them on at the end of the day."
I'm starting to think he's right. But even if they sit gathering dust, I'll always have the tools for retribution.