Today is my mom's birthday. She doesn't read my blog but it's nice to wish her the best anyway. I talked to her for a while on Monday and she has a convoluted way of encouraging. My mom really wants me to be a professional writer; has wanted this for me since I was in elementary school. Mom isn't someone who will totally encourage our endeavors unless she really believes we can do them, so the fact that she wants this so strongly for and from me is an honor. If I wanted to be a, say, mathematician I wouldn't be getting the parental backing I have now so I know she really does think I have what it takes. I have always loved writing even before I knew of her desire about my future and I'm not entirely opposed to it; if I could be a professional writer I'd do it in a heartbeat. But being a “professional” writer means selling myself and dealing with slugs of rejection from all sides, two things I've never been keen about. She thinks this ridiculously long trek through the land of unemployment is a sign from the heavens that I should be writing; I told her its a sign that I need to get a damn job and write once the car payment is in. But she is my mother, so now my brain can't stop thinking about it, about getting the courage to go for it, about what I would submit and to whom.
Other thought: I was watching “Rent” last night (don't judge me, I love that musical. This is why I can't keep a relationship, because I'm borderline uncool nerdy. Next thing you know I'll be playing world of warcraft and talking about how Bilbo Baggins is “sexy”) and I realized a line in a song I'd never picked up before. It's “...where all the scars of the nevers and maybes die...”
I'm mulling over that. It is a fascinating truth, the scars of nevers and maybes.
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