The question of what one wants to be when they grow up is one of the ones I never finished answering. I had different ideas in high school from when I was in primary. I had new ideas again in college. Then a couple years of grind slavery changed my mind again. Now I have enough background in my field to legitimately pursue senior titles and salary, and once again I have new ideas on what to be when I grow up. I think this is normal stuff – mundane really.
Throughout life I’ve been writing. The imp (I’ll be buggered if it’s a muse) sits quiet in the dark recesses of fantasy and whispers out both corners of its toothy little maw:
“You should write for publication.”
“You’re a talentless damn fraud.”
Sound familiar? Of course it does.
So now I get to think of myself as a big-dreaming aspirant. I have a few bits out there on a rack, which means I can make myself do the work, right? I’m a husband and father, which means I want a family. I’m also a full-time regular employee, which means I have to juggle focus and energy to survive. Not treading any new ground here, am I?
I guess what I want to be when I grow up is busy. I’m busy now, so I must have it worked out.
I’m writing this on my iPhone from IAH in Houston, TX. I’m sitting here drinking cold coffee waiting for a window of opportunity to go home once again and resume a sense of the familiar. I’ve been negotiating with my full-time regular for an adjustment that would change my direction as a salaryman and bring me more professionally in-line with the writing I do for myself out of love and habit. I don’t see a major book deal in the near future (yet), but at least I can tell the imp I’m doing my part, and his schizophrenic ass can get fucked.
In every way it’s a lofty, star-eyed idea. No one gets their cake and eats it, right?
Don’t ask, don’t get. So why not ask?