Essay - How I am Going To Spend My Time

Recently, when you asked me to set goals for myself, I was unsure and scared. I’m still scared. I’m supposed to write this essay about what I want to do with my life, and I guarantee, I’m getting to that.

Before you start asking questions about what I’m doing, isn’t the bigger question who I am? Do you expect me to be working towards my future whilst running the gauntlet of human identity? I can answer this for you, you do, and I’m trying.

“Committing yourself is a way of finding out who you are. A man finds his identity by identifying.”

~ Robert Terwilliger

When asked to figure out what I was to do with my life, I imagined an easy road of laying back and writing a small bit of poetry or stories now and again. It wasn’t until I started that I realized that you wanted me to not necessarily do more, you wanted me to find a passion. This request is so simple, but answering it with action is not.

I’ve been well on my way to publishing a book of poetry, and it’s been very interesting and challenging. But apparently you want me to speak more of it.

“Be yourself. Above all, let who you are, what you are, what you believe, shine through every sentence you write, every piece you finish.”

~John Jakes

I’m going to find a way to make it work, I’m going to work hard and long if I have to. I’m going to climb high and travel far if that’s what it’d take to convince you that I’m going to write. I don’t care if it’ll leave me poor and homeless, I give you my word, I am going to write. Not only am I going to write, I’m going to write things like people have never seen before. Not only am I going to knock everyone out of their seats, I’m going to pull them off the ground and keep working; all of my faithful fans begging for just a little bit more.

I’m not going to be just a cult figure, living in the shadows because the rent in the sunlight is too high. I’m going to be adored by my fellow poets and storytellers, and live in the shadows because I hate the sunlight.

But maybe that won’t happen; maybe I’ll just barely scrape by. But isn’t everyone else scraping by already? It’s even possible that I’m not a great author, and that all of my dreams are just illusions of grandeur. But even if I’m not the best in the world at what I do, at least I can have the blessing of being blissfully clueless to it. So simple, isn’t it?

This last bit here is a desperate attempt to stretch out the word count at the end, but I recall an essay needing an ending where you tie up all the loose fragments of an idea together with a few simple sentences.

You asked me a simple question, so I’m going to give you a simple answer.

I’m going to write things. Simple, right?