Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Nobel Prize of Literature

I have wanted to be many things in my rather short life; neither of which has ever been simple. I have never, since I have the use of my senses and am able to remember, wanted to be a housewife, which should give you a pretty clear idea of my aspirations. I never wanted to be an astronaut, a firefighter or a police officer. Those were far too plain and everyone wanted to be one of them. Everyone could be one of them.
When I was seven, I took a stand against outdated expectations. I proudly announced at the dinner table that I would grow up to be a physicist. I was literally in love with thermodynamics. I was never so infatuated with anything else until about eight years later when I began writing. When I was nine and my father presented me with the choice of law school or nunnery, I promptly decided I would be a lawyer. I utterly refused to follow the set norm of nun or wife as the only "career" options for women. So it was only logical that a few months after this decision, I would set myself the goal of being a Supreme Court Justice. When a few years later that didn't seem good enough, I decided being President was a good option. I was still in middle school.
The goals did not change much in high school other than the country in which I wanted to be president due to an unexpected yet awaited move across borders. Somewhere in the years I spent trying to figure out how to change the law so I could be president, I began writing as a way to entertain myself considering the breeze high school was and the easily acquired persuasion for politics. I needed a challenge. Since writing had always been on the sidelines, it never occurred to me that it was challenging enough. So as I headed out of high school the worm of my early encounters with calculus and thermodynamics for some reason translated into a lust for Aerospace Engineering. It took one class in college to change my mind. There were rules I could not question. Everything was already set. I found this to be a problem as I had an instinct to find the wrong and point it out. I did not have space to scrutinize every detail. I needed a new game plan. I began to rethink my strategies and reevaluate my goals. I needed something that would match my instincts and my newly found intoxication with philosophy as well as my thirst for deconstructing everything.
I switched possible careers several times throughout my college years as a result of such drives. I took classes which presented themselves as interestingly rich in content in an attempt to discover what I truly wanted to do according to how much I had changed through time. Supreme Court Justice became an option again, but it was quickly forgotten as it was known and previously discarded territory. Why could I not simply lead a bohemian yet luxurious life? I wanted to spend my days at a cafĂ© writing or in art galleries. Fuzzy dreams. Scandalous expectations. High standards. So directing the IMF or presiding over the UN became shinning stars that guided my steps. True, I was attending (and graduated from) the number one public university in the nation [GO BEARS], but a piece of paper that stated my qualifications was not enough. As my goals escalated beyond proportion, I questioned whether I had the necessary passion to pursue any of these jobs? Oh, bingo! I was calling all these options jobs when I had been looking for a career since early childhood.
Time elapsed uneventfully. Goals and projects piled up. Achievement was a description I stopped using for anything I did. My world became dull. Self-perpetrated torture became the everyday practice. I searched for options and possibilities. I wanted to create opportunities, but my creativity was out of commission. I focused on the one thing that never failed me: literature, whether admiring it or creating it. When I started writing, I was fifteen. Everything I wrote then were rants about how I felt about events occurring, comments made or people who surrounded me. Slowly, it grew into the biggest affinity I have ever had for anything. But it grew hand in hand with my literature obsession and art fascination. I remember the days I read while I walked... on the streets! Oh, those were the days when literature began to take over my life. All I did then was read and write. I read whenever possible and as many books as I could get my hands on. I wrote on napkins, notebooks, pieces of paper found randomly or provided to me by those whom I asked. Ideas poured and I wrote frantically for weeks or months at a time and then I went an equal amount of time without writing a word. I felt dry. My inspiration suddenly reached the over and done with point. My moment had passed. It took me a while before I discovered that inspiration came and went as it pleased. Inspiration is like a nightly butterfly. It sees you and it strikes, but it knows how to hide. So it came and went indeed throughout the years. There were pauses in the road of creativity but never a full stop. I always had something to say, and more often than not, I put it on writing. Eight years later, inspiration decided to provide me with a dose of what it could do if it gives itself totally and unconditionally.
As writing took a life of its own, I reached the only natural conclusion as to what my career should be. But it seemed so... ridiculous! Journalism? After all those dreams and aspirations of curing cancer and overthrowing the government on the same weekend, it seemed completely out of line that I would be a journalist. Author would be more appropriate as a title if it is allowed or deserved. But journalism was not convincing enough. It is all about the writing, however, because as my favorite author -Gabriel Garcia Marquez- said, "the only thing that hurts more than writing is not writing."
Articles in important magazines? As soon as possible. Best sellers? In the near future, of course. Fame and fortune? Not so much. I am waiting for the day when I can find a book I wrote in a library. Bookstores will have them, but it is not until they become important for lack of a better word that a library has a copy. It took me almost 24 years to finally realize what I live for: Nobel Prize of Literature.
Do I deserve it? Obviously, I do not. Do I want it? MORE than anything else! Will I work for it? Until I STOP breathing!
Yet, here I am 23 years old still unpublished and working in corporate America. GROSS!!

xoxo,
R

©Copyrighted 2010


p.s. Despite common belief, dreams are not free. One who dares to dream pays a high price indeed! But they do make for great fuel, perhaps even worth their sky-scraping price...

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xo,R