At work the other day, completely out of the blue, my coworker says: "Krista, how's life?" Well, I mean, that's kind of a big question, but I answered. "Life is OK." Because it is OK. Good, even. But he kept digging.
"What would make it better?" he asked.
Oh, sweet Lord, THAT is a loaded question. I tell you what, right now a fat steak would make it better, but that's neither here nor there. But he was serious. What would make my life better?
My immediate response is: a new job. It's instinct. I don't want to work in insurance forever. Not even part of forever. Ten weeks has already felt like forever. At the same time, I'm thankful. I have a job. It pays my bills. It has great health insurance. GLASS HALF FULL, you guys!
Then he asked me this: "What are you passionate about?"
And that's when I absolutely fucking blanked. BLANKED. I was asked a simple question, and - nothing. But maybe it's not simple. Are our passions simple? What AM I passionate about? Why is that question so hard? I feel like passions need to be deep. Complex. Passionate.
Running. Am I passionate about running? I think I am. I do it. I like it. Without it I'd be a wreck. Is that passion? Or a hobby?
And then I remembered I used to have a career. I wrote. I didn't always like my job - reporting is hardly glamorous - but I liked what I DID. I wrote. I don't need that job to write.
Well, I'll be damned.
So why the hell am I not writing? My blog's fallen to the wayside. I haven't looked into freelance opportunities. I've never picked up a piece of paper and just started writing. And by "picked up a piece of paper," I mean "opened a Word document." Regardless. I'm not doing it.
I'm going to do it. I'm going to nose around the community for a writing group or class. I'm going to blog more often. Even if it's drivel, as it generally is. I'm going to exercise my writing. If you don't use it, you lose it. Right? Or was that just a sexual reference?
I need to snag myself a laptop one day. Let me go ahead and add that to my list of needs. Right after bath soap and groceries.
I WILL write. Dammit. (How was that for passionate?)
After the discussion, my coworker said he'd make me a deal. Once I wrote my first novel, he'd hand me a copy of his first album. That's his passion - music. The idea of a novel and an album both seem overwhelming. Who are we kidding?
But I will do my best to live up to the deal. Nevermind that it might be 36 years down the road... Or that it's just a few handwritten pages bound with staples. You say "best-seller," I say, "I bet I could come up with a really good chapter or two."