I may be the perfect example of a person with seasonal affective disorder. After months of feeling down because I couldn't answer the questions on my mind (When will I get my first full time job? When will someone respond positively to my query letters? How long before an interview actually leads to a place on a masthead?), the sun has finally started to shine.
And so, days have passed in which I've skipped blogging in favour of watching The OC. I've tried to take comfort in the fact that I'm not alone. But the truth is, that doesn't comfort me, not one bit. I've been searching for ways to write for as long as I could remember. In elementary school, I took each short story assignment extremely seriously. Sometimes I wrote about friendship, others I wrote about genies. High school came and so did the essays. I may have not loved writing about Waiting For Godot, but I always had my diary (yes, I've gone back and reread it) waiting for me at home. I knew I wanted to study English in university, and have now gone on to Ryerson's Certificate in Magazine Publishing. My time as a student is running out, and I'm so eager to find out what comes next.
Earlier this week, LVS inspired me (not the first time that's happened). She believes that being unsure at twenty-something doesn't have to be a bad thing. According to her, not having my dream job right now isn't a bad thing. We can volunteer, we can travel or we can research careers we never dreamed we'd be interested in pursuing. Suddenly, I realized that I just have to continue shaping my own experiences.
Lists of things to do are strewn about my room, along with disorganized piles of magazines (these are my text books these days). I've got assignments to work on and emails to send. As the sun shines outside my bedroom in suburbia, I hear kids playing instead of busy city streets. Just for a minute I really don't mind.