writing

Writing has always been what I wanted, what I was good at. When I was younger, notebooks were the only thing I spent money on. I wrote story after story about whimsical girls who didn’t have bowl cuts or annoying little brothers like me, and thus led much fuller and more desirable lives. As I grew up, my creative pursuits took a back-seat to television dramas and the wonders of AIM, but writing was always something I loved. When I got to college, my choice of major was really no question. Being an English major, I was able to read and write for four years. However, very few people who love writing get the chance to do it for a living. 

I have to admit, since blogging hit the scene, I have been staunchly opposed to the concept.  Ask my family, friends, practically anyone. For an assignment senior year, I had to create a blog and I actually titled it “I hate blogs.” My main objections came from my memories of livejournal, where the inane thoughts of teenage girls were published for the masses. I felt that that sort of brain dump in such a public way was acceptable when you were 14 and had more emotional energy than healthy, but for it to become a popular avenue for emotionally controlled, or at least above the passive aggressive need for others to read a diary, people, seemed to me the sign of the degradation of humanity. 

But, when I graduated college, and the reality of trying to make it as a writer hit me like an oncoming train, I finally did some research and saw that while the online journalers still exist, blogging, as a whole, has transformed into a sophisticated, almost bohemian, art form. Writers no longer need editors and publishers to approve of what they write, and while that can lead to many abandoned pursuits (and extremely mindless websites), it’s also a pretty freeing concept. 

So here I am, foot in mouth, trying it out. And though I am currently writing to no one, and probably have very little insight into this life after college so many people are trying to make, it feels like something is finally falling into place.

[image from givingchallenge.ning.com]

a dream deferred

Over 50 years ago, in his poem Harlem, Langston Hughes asked a simple question: “What happens to a dream deferred?” While his question specifically pertained to the dreams of African-Americans in a certain neighborhood in New York City, it is one that we can all relate to. A trait that made his poem, in 1951, amidst the anger and tumult of the civil rights movement, so unique. Everyone could understand it. From Park Avenue all the way to the slums, people knew how it felt to have a dream deferred; the loneliness and pain that comes with rejection is a universal human experience. His question has proved to be timeless, and one I would like to pose again, in light of the economic recession. As a recent college graduate, I am filled with deferred dreams. For four years, I sat inside the walls of my university, dreaming of the opportunity and accomplishment that lay ahead, only to graduate and barely be employed. As of now, chasing dreams does not seem like an option; a steady paycheck appears to be all I can ask for. A fulfilled soul has been moved to the back burner.

So what do we do while our dreams are seemingly postponed? How do we ensure that they do not dry up or fester, as Hughes suggested they might? With unemployment and underemployment running rampant across the globe, how do we fight off the temptation just to exist, and find a way to live?