Shine a light

Usually I’m averse to revealing too much of myself, period.  Baring my soul on the internet seems unlikely; admitting on the internet that that soul is hollow and ego-stuffed even less so.  But this essay began to unfold in my head last night and I sat down at the computer tonight and kept unfolding until I had this.  And seeing as it is in part about risk-taking I decided to go ahead and take the risk and post it, though of course I decided to temper that with this disclaimer.  At any rate, it’s a rough draft: it’s probably two pages too long, barely hangs together, and I haven’t even looked it over for typos.  I may or may not take the time to fix all that.

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On Saturday night I went to the movies with some of the guys.  During the half-hour of previews, one looked vaguely interesting, so I paid enough attention to see when it would be released.  The words “Coming Summer 2009″ flashed across the screen –  and it occurred to me that I would be 25 when this movie comes out.  I felt a little flutter of nervousness dance through my stomach.

I shouldn’t even be thinking about 25; I’m only half-way through 24.  But earlier this week I was talking to Kim and she pointed out that we’d turn 25 this year and that that was a scary thing.  I said that the number didn’t faze me; I said I was looking forward to a steady, grown-up future, to not only knowing where this life is headed but being there.

I was scared enough, right then, just wondering where I was, to realize it’s doubtful things will be that steady in just six months.

I was in the middle of a quarter-life crisis.

You get cheated on, even just a few months into a relationship, and all the things you think you’ve got lashed down get knocked loose, and when you try to sort things back into their proper boxes you just can’t seem to make them fit.

That’s how it felt to me, at least.

I had been in a routine — get through work, go run, eat dinner, say good-night — so when I stopped and stepped out of it and looked up, I realized I didn’t know where I was anymore.  I had been drifting.

When I was growing up I took the you-can-be-anything mantra seriously.  And why not?  Most things I had tried worked out okay: I was a celebrated artist, at least in third grade; by fifth I was a mean trumpet player, and only braces and apathy put a stop to that; by high school I found myself standing on stage in the auditorium, receiving an All-New England plaque that proved that even despite my own doubts, I was an athlete, too.  Then there was academics.  Hand me a test and I aced it.  I wouldn’t even have to try hard.

So at some point I decided I was destined for something great.  What it was didn’t matter, because I could do it all.  If I kept on living, I thought, the light would keep on shining forward and I’d follow it to somewhere golden.

(I remember during the primary last year telling someone that being a third-party presidential nominee would be a moderate success.  Nice, for sure, even if I wasn’t interested in politics; but certainly do-able.)

So I kept on living.

In college I dabbled tried a little of everything, proved I could both major in English and minor in math.  I was interested in what I studied, could bury my head in a book for hours, but I never found one I could devote my life to.  Mostly I got enough good grades to prove to myself that I could still do anything.

Then I went off to South Dakota.  I wasn’t a great teacher, but I could grit my teeth and work long hours until I got a pat on the back — until someone with authority could tell me I was at least a good teacher.  Then I would blast off for the weekends, take to the Hills or the Badlands, dreaming about where that easy light might shine once the two years were over.

Which brings me to now.

Last week, home for Thanksgiving, I said something to my Mom about what I’d do when I grew up: “When I grow up, it would be cool to live in a house like this,” maybe, or “I could imagine doing something like that when I grow up.”

“When you grow up?” my mom replied.

Oh, yeah.  I am grown up.

But I’m not somewhere golden.  I saw a lot of friends and acquaintances at home over Thanksgiving, many of whom seemed to have things figured out; they at least had picked a path to follow, started to make some money and squeeze out their space in the world.

And here I am, Mr. Supposed-To-Be-Golden, making $11.50 an hour at the bottom of an industry where the even the mighty are falling: today the Tribune filed for bankruptcy; the company that owns USA Today is slashing its staffs across the country.

Success has always been easy to measure: good grades; fast races. I figured that when I moved on from those baby steps onto the wider world of real, grown-up life, success would be just as clear: a novel published and praised, maybe, or a post atop the masthead of some famous magazine.  Hell, I’d take that green-party presidential nomination.

I forgot about 25.  When the easy measures drop away and grown-up life swirls around you with no clear hand-hold.  Or maybe I never quite realized it existed.

I first decided I wanted to be a writer in eighth grade.  I won an award, and I was convinced that this was something I could do without trying too hard.

For many years I kept a journal, but only for days at a time.  I’d buy a composition notebook, scrawl a few observations, take a stab at poetry.  But it wouldn’t come easy, and I’d read over the lines in embarrassment.  I’d distract myself with a book to read, set aside the notebook and never come back to it.  I tried my hand at a few stories but never got past the first paragraph.

I would always read a lot of writing advice.  I remember one of the books or websites said to keep your writing ambitions a secret; that way, I guess, you could write without the pressure of your friends and your family reading over your shoulder and judging.

But I couldn’t keep my ambitions a secret from myself.

Through all my youth I ignored the second half of that you-can-be-anything mantra: that it takes damn hard work, and you’re not gonna be anything right away — or for a long time after that.

Now I see the 25-year-olds that are where I figured I would be.  The ones who edited the daily newspaper at their Ivy League school and upon graduation found themselves writing for the New Republic and now wander the world, picking the freelance stories that interest them.

They did the hard work, picked their path and climbed and crawled and dragged their way down it while I stepped lightly, easily, from golden light to golden light.  I was never much of a risk-taker.

So I ended up here.

When I looked up, jostled from that routine, it looked for a moment like nowhere.

This is my moment for a sentimental cliche: it’s not quite nowhere, of course. I’ve got roads to run on, friends to meet in the city for a beer.

Last winter when I was visiting Goat City, Grant and Trouble and Sherm and I got beers at McCloskey’s and talked about how most people from schools like ours shape their lives around ambition. They chase this job or that job from city to city, from success to success.  But a lucky few shape their lives around friends.

I knew even then that as much as I love my friends, that ambition burns inside of me.  I want to be great; I want to be golden.  I always assumed it would be easy.

It’s not.

I mean, I can still see where the easy light shines.  I started practicing LSAT questions yesterday because I figured, yeah, that’s something I can do well enough that it could lead to money or power or respect.  It would lead somewhere, at least, a safe line to follow.

Or I can take the risky path.  I’ve pawed at it every year or so the past decade, ever since I won that eigth-grade writing award.  But it’s dark and dangerous, with winding paths and dead-ends and tricky footing where I might stumble and drop my long-polished, precious possession: the fact that I can do whatever I want, and do it easily.

I’m peering down in that darkness now, seeing how the path winds past 25 and on, but no grown-up stability, no golden greatness in sight.

I still don’t know if I’ve the guts enough to take it.