For years, I had taken acting classes, spending my summers indoors, on stage, while my friends canoed, hiked, swam, and threw various balls toward various nets. I pantomimed a tennis match in one of my summer shows, I recall. That's about as close I got to what my friends were doing. I loved it. But nothing prepared me for the utter infatuation into which I would fall after acting in my first real show, Flowers for Algernon in the sixth grade. I had a small part, just two scenes. But before the run was over, I had two more auditions lined up. From that point on, I ran show into show into show. I learned to work backstage, too, and loved that just as much. I took a summer playwrighting intensive and while watching my one-act at the end of the summer, I couldn't stop thinking, This is what I want to do the rest of my life.
Through high school I imagined I would major in theatre. In fact, I even visited and applied to theatre programs. But, as seventeen year olds often do, I changed my mind. I contacted the college I had chosen and informed them that I would instead be majoring in Cultural Studies and Linguistics. When others found out, they were shocked. The refrain seemed to be, But what else can you do? This was not exactly inspiring, and I began to worry how "one note" I must have appeared to my peers all along. Didn't they know that I studied two languages in high school? That I wrote poetry, read sociology and psychology for fun, and liked to train and handle dogs? Didn't they know about my small but growing collection of political science and philosophy books? It seemed they did not. They couldn't. I spent most of my time in rehearsal or performing. I wasn't as far along in French or Chinese as I had hoped because I just didn't have the time. I had begun to resent theatre for this. And so, I knew that I would grow to hate it if I relied on it to pay my bills. It would have to be a hobby for me to love it so. And, as with any great love, saying good-bye, even if just for a time, was tragic. My last performance before leaving for college had me sobbing for hours, sitting on an old scenic flat backstage breathing in the smells of freshly cut wood, paint, and moth balls for as long as I could, like a lover's cologne. I was afraid I'd never nestle my face in this neck again.
During college, I attended theatre whenever I had the extra money, which was rare. I continued to write, even if it was only academically for stretches at a time. I missed theatre, but life without it gave me time to pursue my studies, decide that I wanted to study other things, and then pursue those. By the time I finished college, my life was completely unexpected, yet, looking back now, completely predictable. When I left my hometown for Chicago, I had been dating my high school sweetheart for two years, and it was just a matter of time before we'd be married. I thought for sure that I'd return to theatre, that I'd be an interpreter or professor, mostly writing for a living, and that I'd eventually live in a home that looked more like a library or used bookstore.
Today, I run a training department for a dotcom start-up. And while I don't write creatively for a living, I do spend a bulk of my time at this job writing and editing training material, which becomes more rewarding each time I receive an email from a superior who cannot communicate effectively in writing. Apparently to do so is a skill not granted to most people. I graduated with BAs in Social Justice Studies and Feminist Theory. I did marry my high school sweetheart; and divorced him, too. Writing does not pay my bills, but my work does appear on several sites, and I'm a staff writer for a great local city guide. Sometimes, I attend plays.
There was a plan. I had a plan. My plan was theatre. It changed. Then, it changed again. Careers I have entertained over the past ten years include, yet are not limited to: interpreter, professor, journalist, film editor, mortician, social worker, editor, restaurant manager, massage therapist, business owner, nurse... etc. But in my frantic search, what I kept neglecting to ask about each career path was, "Will this make me happy?" I don't know if it was maturity, or enough unhappiness in my life that finally made me ask that question, but once I did, I realized that I can't have an all-consuming career. I need a job that I love, yes. And I do love my job, believe it or not. Cubicle life ain't bad! I don't worry about my income the way I would have with many of my other career options. The 401K, stock options, stellar health insurance, and paid vacation make life less stressful. And when I leave my office, I leave work. I come home to write, to read, to laugh, to walk to the dog. I just started learning the history of the typewriter for an essay I'm writing (and for my own quirky enjoyment, of course). I spend my nights trying writing exercises with my love, and eating his delicious meals. I live, essentially. I love to live, no matter how different his life is than the one I had planned. Sitting in that dark theatre years ago, watching the play I wrote being performed, thinking, This is what I want to do the rest of my life, holds true. For in that moment perhaps what I wanted for the rest of my life was not so literal as watching my words come to life through actors, but the feeling I had, the unmistakable spark inside that says, You are alive. You are happy to be alive.
"So I be written in the Book of Love
I have no care about that book above;
Erase my name, or write it, as you please--
So I be written in the Book of Love."
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