Dave and I graduated from college 8 days ago. In this picture, my scarlet journalism tassel is resting against my cheek; Dave's bright-orange engineering tassel is half-hidden under his left wrist, still attached to his quickly-doffed square cap.Graduation brings the question of "What next?" During the preceding weeks and the following days, the question I've been asked most is, "What are you going to do now?" I tell the Asker that I have a good part-time job in a law office which pays the bills and provides health insurance, so I'll be there for the forseeable future and attempt freelancing in the mornings. The Asker gives a typically bland response, such as, "Well, that sounds good!" and the topic is laid to rest. Meanwhile, I'm fumbling in my purse for an antacid because this scripted conversation always gives me heartburn.
Three weeks ago, I got coffee on a Saturday morning with my dancer friend, Katie. On the whim of caffeination, we walked a couple blocks south to the community market and ambled around the stalls and stores. We ducked into the bookstore to avoid the crush of people and strollers and were surrounded by tall narrow shelves brimming with books that spilled into piles on the floorboards.
I tossed my empty coffee cup in a small metal trash can as we headed toward the back room, a small space suffocated by bookcases 4-aisles deep. And there, sitting on a rusted white stool at the back of a row of poetry, I looked up and up the beautiful rows of torn and peeling books, and a horrifying realization dawned on me: I recognize almost none of these authors' names. And as if on cue, Katie came around the corner, musing aloud as her fingers brushed the spines, "Being in a bookstore reminds me of just how many writers are out there trying to make it."
I wanted to throw up.
It's not because it's news to me - I know what I'm getting into. But seeing it there, 10-shelves tall with nameless names, is disheartening.
And I think of that shelf every time someone asks me, "What are you going to do now?"
But I also think about my part-time job - my black pleather chair, my grey pressboard desk, my cracked plastic in-tray, the hundreds of documents I've labeled, and the hundreds of labelled documents that come back to me to be recycled.
I have a good job. And I love every single person I work with. But I despise the thought of wasting my abilities and my degree (I have a degree now, not just a major!) for the sake of predictability and financial comfort. I taste acid when I think of my writing being ineffective, but I also fear staying in this legal world when I want to throw my mind and body into the pursuit of writing. And sometimes I wonder if I'm being a coward for not dropping my plows in the field where they lay to make chase.
I'm afraid that my voice will be silent, even when printed and hardcover-bound. I'm afraid that I'll use my degree as decoration and stay comfortably at the law office until I'm 80.
But this is my present post-graduate plan: to remain a part-time legal receptionist and begin freelancing in the mornings. And I hope in time I will fade out of the office to focus on writing, rather than fading out of writing to earn money at my comfortable job.
I hope I hope I hope.
Now where did I put that roll of Tums...
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