I woke up in a cold sweat twenty minutes before the alarm buzzed 7 o clock. I’d been having crazy dreams all summer, probably because I a) get up to pee five time a night, b) created a turning roadblock (also known as body pillow), inhibiting my old lady hips to shift when they get sore, and c) I have no time (or will) to exercise–so my brain is ready for bed–but that’s about it. These dreams left me disoriented when I woke up, but usually faded on my 40 minute drive downtown with 100.9 cranked passed carhorns. But today, I stirred in place, sick to my stomach and unable to dry the glaze that coated my already tired eyes.
I had written a riveting screenplay to “Batman,” or I suppose “Batman II-underwater adventures,” that involved high speed chases among seaweed and treasure chests. I guess I was anticipating the upcoming movie, or just really wanted to write a mind-blowing play where Batman hides behind velvet curtains and then ends up in a spider web in my childhood back yard.
So far, the dream is pretty standard for my summer nights. After the movie/play acted itself out and I withdrew from Batman’s sidekick’s body, I rushed to show the screenplay to my nameless friend. Let’s just say, he almost shat himself it was so good. I then showed it to my father, and that’s when the nightmare began.
He finished the screenplay and sat it down expressionless, as if to say it was fine enough not to merit a grimace, but not mindblowing, pants-shitting good. He didn’t comment on the logic or writing, but rather looked at me with all the seriousness of an afternoon surgery and said: Why are you wasting your life?
I woke up with similar questions. Why did it matter whether my screenplay was the next “Good Will Hunting” or “Batman: underwater adventures” ? Why does what I’m doing matter whatsoever to my future? Why the fuck did I decide to be a writing major? Why did I get into journalism fully knowing it’s competitive, not well-paid, and “dying?” And lastly, how am I ever going to live and work in a safe, comfortable place with a terrible economy, and when crime in Indy right now pretty much equals crime in the Bronx?
These questions left me grumpy over my waffles and irritable at the chatter on 100.9. I pulled into Eyewitness News, the number one news station in Indy, thinking “What’s the point?” “Why am I here?” I knew it was an honor to be able to walk into those doors every morning, but today, I could hear my dad saying: “Why are you wasting your life?”
This isn’t a cry for someone to negate my father’s dream-statement, because I know deep down, that his point is something I should’ve thought of a long time ago. Before it was too late to become an engineer, a doctor, a biologist, a businesswoman, or even a lawyer.
All I know is that I can write. I can edit almost better than I can write. I can research, be resourceful, and ask questions from every angle. I can learn quickly, and to be honest, any job in this field can be learned by doing rather than a class where you sit and listen. I can get people to say things they’ll never say to anyone else, and they trust me enough to present that information correctly and with care. Now, I can edit video (poorly, but hey, still learnin) and do photoshop, but all of those were learned by doing rather than in a college classroom or j-program. To me, the news is a vital part of our society, whether it’s TV, internet, newspaper (wah wah), or radio. I want to make news, make history, through my writing, and soon my speaking if I keep at it. It’s for these reasons that I got into this in the first place, just like anyone else: because I like it, and because I’m good at it.
But in the end, is going for something you like, and you’re good at, totally pointless? What if the thing you like and are good at won’t feed your family? What if it wont even get you a job? What if it will leave you with minimal vacations, long hours, and no social life, leading to no husband or friends? That’s when you have to ask yourself–am I good enough to excel at this enough to make all of those worth it–or am I just wasting my life?
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