the sixteenth question

Why do you want to be a writer? — Jeffrey
Because I can’t imagine doing anything else. Not really. Not for more than a day or two. There have been lots of things I’ve considered — editorial assistant (or something in publishing), architect, interior designer, elementary or secondary education language arts/English teacher, nurse (this one’s laughable, really, given that I take such lousy care of myself), singer, psychologist, bookstore manager (come to think of it, everything from nurse on is laughable — I hate getting up in front of people, can’t get my own head straight and couldn’t hack it as a bookstore supervisor, probably because, in reality, I didn’t want to.)
Honestly, I’d much rather be doing something that paid well. The six-figure kind of well. And in those moments where I’m either thinking in terms of being able to support myself financially, or doubting my own talent and ability to persevere, I have to say, writer doesn’t seem to be the wisest choice. So, I rack my brain, trying to think of something better.
And I can’t. Nothing else seems right. Nothing else feels right. The only thing that comes close, I guess, is professor.
Unfortunately, it’s not a solid decision, but, I’ve accepted that my mind, because it is such a curious thing, will always wonder if there’s some sort of career out there for which I am better suited and, despite that curiosity, will always, after the wondering, sway back towards and linger upon, writer.
previous essays: the thirteenth, the fourteenth, the fifteenth.

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