I’ve spent the past five days in a state of angst:
Who will I be when I grow up? (though really, at 28, shouldn’t I be grown?)
Will I be happy with the career choices I have made?
Did I make the choices I did purely because K made them, and I wanted in some way to feel as valuable and important as her?
The end result of all the angsting is that I probably wouldn’t be happy as a therapist. Don’t get me wrong. I’d be a DAMN good therapist. But would I be a happy one? Knowing I could be writing?
I don’t think I could.
So I’m working on a plan to change these things. More writing. DEFINITELY more revising. And perhaps a BFA in creative writing is in my future.