publish or perish

brooklyn, ny

i'm looking, i really am. there are the websites that cater to people with my education and ambition that i have bookmarked on my computer. i always write down the name of an interesting organization when i come across one in the various current events publications that i scope daily. i dedicate a good part of my morning or afternoon to researching the specific job or organization to assist in crafting the most meticulous cover letter possible. and then i ponder the waiting room and the interview and filling out a 1040 and wearing a button down long sleeve shirt with some sort of striped pattern and buying a phone with internet access and stepping out for coffee at 11 and a power lunch at 1 and maybe a quick walk to the nearby park at 4 and then falling asleep on the train ride home when the day is done.

these are not bad things. far from it. i have seen some incredibly stimulating work that serves the common good and, besides, i could use the money and the insurance. it would also be much easier to explain to the people i love and know and meet just exactly what it is i do. just exactly what role i play in the theatre of life.

but the reality is that the job search is of little concern. in fact, i think i'm secretly rooting against myself with every application i send. the reason is that i harbor an ambition that i have mentioned to few and explained to even fewer.

i am writing a novel. the idea came to me years ago, a story inspired by my experience as a volunteer teacher in namibia, and it has only metastasized with time. i wrote an introduction before thesis took over my life a year and a half ago, then continued when i returned from india in the fall. shortly after new year's, i began dedicating a couple hours to writing at least four or five nights a week. at the current pace, i anticipate being done with an initial manuscript by september. then i get to fill out cover letters of a different sort and see if any agents and publishing houses will bite.

i don't know why i feel so secretive about it. it's just something that's so quixotic and strange, the idea of writing a novel, something usually done by the suicidal or those who regard aluminum foil as a fashion accessory. i am not one to typecast myself as a novelist or really as anything, but maybe just a guy who's realized that he has a story to tell and that it needs to come out. a dream that will never cease to itch unless it's scratched in this one peculiar, torturous, enervating manner. to put it bluntly: my soul needs to take a shit.

who knows what will come of this. maybe i'll......nah, better to just focus on what needs to be done. for now. i do know that it pains me to demur each time i am inevitably asked what it is i do for a living. while i feel the pressures of acceptable ambition tugging at my lapels, not from anyone in particular but from everyone and everything in general, i keep having to remind myself that it's okay to dream. it's okay to roll the dice. i have the sinecures to pay the bills and consume enough ginger to ensure continued health. i am still young and without dependents and it is my life, after all.

to those who worry, i can only say that i have the education and experience to pick myself up and make it back to the professional starting line in the event nothing comes. to those who disapprove, i can only say that this would be one failed dream that would leave no carbon footprint. to those who still just don't get it, you're not the one who would have to live with having never tried. that would be me.