I hate the question: “What’s next?” It’s almost as bad as: “So you have a degree in writing? What are you going to do with that?” or “Oh, writing? You mean like ‘journalism?’” My favorite would have to be: “What do you want to do with the rest of your life?”
Secretly, what I want to say is: “Get off my d***!” However, usually I bite my tongue (Literally. I like the taste of my own blood. What do you expect, I’m an unpredictable, starving artist writer man.) and go into the same spiel: “My ultimate goal is to get my writing published. I have one completed manuscript and I’m hard at work on another. My realistic goal is to teach writing at the college level, which is what I’m doing.”
Then I get this: “You teach college writing? Aren’t you too young?”
To which I want to say: “GET OFF MY D***!” No, I’m not young. I’m old. Every day is another day closer to death, which makes me prime to teach young, impressionable minds how to write. Those who can’t do teach, right? Not that I can’t write, but I just don’t have the time.
Writing is a tortuous, arduous task. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, and no, authors don’t just ooze perfect, poetic prose out of their pores. If it were that easy, we’d all be JK Rowling. Inspiration hardly ever strikes when you want it to, and when it does, it’s at the most inopportune times. Like when I’m showering and I’m soaking wet and I can’t just “hop out” and “jot it down” because if I try that by the time I get to a piece of paper and find a damn pen (because when you want one, pens are like f***ing leprechauns), the brilliant idea I had while soaping up is now a fizzled idea that may or may not be the worst thing I’ve ever thought.
And who has the time to write? Honestly. I’m sorry, I work three jobs in order to not suffocate under all of my student loan debt. I don’t have the luxury of having full days to just WRITE. I wish I did. So I write when I can, and I take what I can, and whatever comes next, comes next.
I envy my writer friends who have all of this time to churn out words as easily as they breathe. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like spare time is in the cards for me right now. And I’m ok with that. If it takes a couple years to finish my next project, I’ll be ok.
I don’t need to know what’s next, honestly. I’ve lived my life year-to-year, month-to-month, day-to-day, figuring it all out as I go. I’ll figure this next step out, too. Just get off my d***.
Image credit: Marie Claire