I’m not sure what the plan is, at least for my future, but I know there is one somewhere deep down. There is some direction, some sort of path that I will follow. Sometimes, I get distracted by the shiny objects that are or that should be a formulated plan, laid out with precision, dictating steps.
My house is cozy. The house isn’t actually mine, I just rent a place to sleep and all my stuff is in a house somewhere in San Jose, stuffed in a room that I don’t live near. I live in a room with my pooch and a twin sized bed with a crappy fitted sheet that comes off the mattress when I toss and turn at night. In the morning I can smell dog, which is not always what you want to smell when you first open your eyes. My cloths hang in the closet, I have internet, my taxes sit in a folder on the floor because I have now done them in three different ways that all end somehow with me owing the big feds a few hundred dollars, some of my jewelry sits on a dresser that’s painted blue with white clouds, and my car that has yet to pass smog takes up space in the driveway.
My roommates are nice. One older, one middle-aged, and both full of advice that I’m all ears to hear. One says I should start to think about buying a house because it gives me something that I own, something that contains equity, the other says I should figure out where I want to be in 10 years so I can take the steps I need to get myself there. Both sound like viable options, good options, options that somebody in my situation should totally take steps toward.
But being me, I just can’t wrap my head around it. I would like a house, I think. It would be nice to have someplace that is mine, someplace to put my money into and call home. I like it here, the Central Coast is pretty amazing and it’s cheaper than some other places I’ve looked at. Ten years is a long ways from here. It might as well be 30 years. Who would have thought that at 30 I’d be living on the Central Coast in this woman’s house in Guadalupe working as a staff writer at the Independent weekly in Santa Maria bitching about the photographer and going on stilted, slow runs with my pit bull and a gimpy knee.
I can tell you I certainly didn’t even think about writing as a serious career, I always thought it was just an emotion, something that came and went when I felt the need to get something out of my head. I’m not sure I even consider it a serious career at this point in my life. I can’t see it really pushing me into anything lucrative, but I do enjoy it. I mean really it’s quite a gig. Phone calls and meetings turn into words on a page, in a paper mind you, that people actually read.
I can’t believe my luck. And then I turn around and can’t believe myself, working for money that doesn’t really sell the job as anything more than a labor of love. But I don’t want to give it up. I guess I’m not sure that I ever knew where I would be in 2 years and to be honest I still don’t. That kind of longevity doesn’t exist in my mind and I’m fighting it because it can drag you down into a world where you aren’t good enough and will never be good enough.
Nothing will be enough, ever. It becomes more about the next step than the process and that is not good enough. I think I get overwhelmed because money has certainly been an issue the last few months. But I forget that sometimes life does have a way of conspiring to work out, especially if you want it to. I wouldn’t give up my try at a career I actually like for a shot at a real salary. I don’t want to, it doesn’t feel right. It would be giving in.