If you could do anything...

...what would you do? I feel like this is a fairly common question for people; it's used as a check-your-heart exercise to see if you're pursuing what really matters to you, and as the days of my grant rush towards their termination point, I find myself mulling it over, to somewhat surprising results.

If I could do anything in the world, what would I do? I would be an actress.

Depending on how long you've known me (or if you know me at all), you may know that when I was growing up, acting was my thing. At age 5, my mom tells me, I memorized the lead part's lines in a church musical--before the auditions. Not surprisingly, since I was 5, I lost that particular part to a 12-year-old, but it did little to dampen my desire. From age 5 till age 18, my happiest moments were on stage. Church musicals, a middle-school Shakespeare troupe, a variety of plays and musicals in high school; I couldn't get enough.

Then college hit, bringing with it the realization that, in the real world, you just don't have enough time to act when your hours are eaten up working to pay for tuition, room, and board, and throwing yourself entirely into your studies and preparing yourself for the real world. In the real world, there are very few successful actors; without the perfect cocktail of superhuman talent, beauty, and connections, most would-be actors spend the vast majority of their lives waiting tables. I knew that going into college, and I'm an optimist only up to the point where my in-bred pragmatism comes into play. So, my last performance was 5 years ago.

And, truth be told, I mourn for it. Whenever I go to a play, I ache to be, not just sitting in the audience, but up on the stage. So much of myself comes from my years in the theater: my ability to project my voice when needed (I've refused microphone usage this entire year), my silent footsteps (born from years of creeping around backstage as I wait for an entrance cue), my deep love of Shakespeare. I find myself thinking about the fact that I'm the right age now to play the ingenue roles; I find myself thinking that my lifelong frustration with looking younger than I am would come in handy now if I ever wanted to audition for the role of a teenager; I find myself daydreaming, in short, that I could do this. I long to return to theater.

But, again, pragmatism prevails. Ironically, though, it prevails on a sliding scale. What would I most like to do? Act. Do I think that would actually work out for me? No. What would I next most like to do? Write. Do I think that would actually work out for me? Possibly, but let's throw in a contingency plan just in case. What would I next most like to do? Edit. Do I think that would actually work out for me? Yes, I think it just might. If I work at it hard enough.

But here's the flaw in my logic: editing jobs are still incredibly hard to come by. Publishing, indeed, was cited by the New York Times (in this excellent article) as one of the stereotypical so-called "lottery industries"--fields with any number of applicants clamoring for a shot at a very few spots doing the job they love. Publishing was listed right alongside acting, with the only difference being that those who make it as actors get paid more. Well gee, that's encouraging.

But this is not a post informing you of my new intention to run off to LA or NYC to try to make it big as an actor. (Though, ironically, I may be headed to NYC to do the same thing as an editor.) Because, regardless of my love for it, the reasons that I shelved it as an ambition still hold. I have no delusions of grandeur there, much as I wish I did. I picked writing, and editing, because I think I have a comparatively better shot there of doing something I still love, and getting paid for it--if not as much as others monetarily, at least in the knowledge that I'm doing something I love. Even if that something isn't the thing I love the most.

In the meantime, I'm going to start looking into community theaters. Because if you love doing something, why should not getting paid for doing it stop you?

Eggs in baskets

I mentioned Sunday that I recently made a three-year plan for myself. In a flurry of excitement, I mapped out a potential three years spanning several states and, quite possibly, continents, and which included anywhere from 1-3 grad school programs. It was exciting. It was fun. It was so incredibly unrealistic.

Part of that was implied, of course--I can't seem to help myself from wanting to prepare for every possible contingency. Putting all my eggs in one basket has never been a temptation for me. I know I won't get to do everything on my list; it's physically impossible for me to do so, and that's the way I like it.

But. I now have a separate browser window with five tabs in it perpetually open, daring me to begin. Five tabs, innumerable tasks within: one program application for this year (including 3 recommendations to be gotten, for some of which I don't know whom to ask); one job application for this year (which I really really want, and so am paralyzed from actually applying for, lest I am refused); one scholarship application for next year (read: turn in this year, complete with dozens of essays, responses, resumes, recommendations, and of course transcript-getting, with a very slim chance of success); one grad school-ish program for next summer (applications aren't open yet, but I need to do more research); one page of the top 50 MFA programs in America for next year (to sort through and determine which are worth applying to--and then cue the actual portfolio preparation and application process).

My next step: send a couple of emails. Shouldn't be that hard. Really shouldn't be that hard. But something in me doesn't want to start the process; doesn't want to wade into that pile of paperwork and admit that it's actually time to move forward, time to make another major decision about my life, time to get back to reality. Reality is scary. Reality is scary when you don't have a plan, and it's even scarier when you do, but that plan requires dozens of hard-to-move pieces to come into perfect alignment--or else, failure.

But of course I have to--and I will, if only because failure comes inevitably to those who don't move forward. I'll find a way to move forward, and I'll find a way to make at least one of my contingency plans work, or else I'll invent more until something works.

And in the meantime, I'll sit down and write an email. It's not three years, but it's a start.

Inventing Boxes, Checking Them Off

I had quite a pleasant day, all told. As it burns down, now, I feel accomplished and happy to have got so much done. There's only one problem: I didn't.

I've probably mentioned it on here before, but I'm a list person. When I have a lot to do, or I start feeling overwhelmed, I break down what I have to do into steps, write the steps down with a little empty box next to them, and get to work checking those babies off. And when I check them off, oh, how accomplished and happy I feel. So yes, in other words, I might be a bit type A.

Where this system fails, though, is that I'm the person who determines what gets written down. Further, each box is just a box; regardless of the size or relative importance of the task, it falls simply into the categories of "done" or "not done." So what happens when I just want to get the great little feeling of having done something? I invent new things to do, of course!

So, what did I do today? I chopped my article-writing bit into three new elements, and finished two (yay!). I vacuumed my room (yay!). I sorted through all the paperwork in my room and got rid of half of it (yay!). I reorganized my bedside drawer (yay!). And what did I not do? Either of the bigger-picture boxes I'd originally slotted for today: finish ALL of the five parts of my article-writing, and finish and submit my final report for Fulbright. Those boxes are still empty.

But, psychologically speaking, who cares? My boxes are checked, hooray!

*SIDE NOTE: Really, though, this system does still work: smaller bits at a time get accomplished, but the little high each of those finishings give me is usually enough to inspire me to work through the next, rather than get bogged down by the hugeness of the entire task. Just give it another day or two.*

Wormhole

Some things just disappear into mind-numbing nothingness. Today featured several of those things for several different reasons. Let's just catalog them, shall we?

1. My sleep schedule. Let's just throw this one out there: it's currently 2am. Why am I up? Because I woke up today just before noon. And why did I wake up just before noon? Because I went to bed last night just before 4am. And why did I go to bed just before 4am? Because I took a long nap Friday afternoon. And why did I take a long nap? Because I had to wake up early Friday morning, and I had gone to bed just before 1am. And why did I go to bed just before 1am? Because I had gotten up just before noon.

The end of my week, every week: it's just completely, totally screwed up. Also, it makes Mondays (and Friday), Hell.

2. My work ethic. What did I do today? Ummm.....

3. My decision-making ability. Today, my original planned productivity was to be centered around choosing and booking a hostel for Australia. However, as I've noted before, my ability to choose such a place utterly sucks. I have had it narrowed down to four for over a week now, have asked several people's opinion on the subject, and have still not found a way to pick. It's a wormhole of too much information.

Cue today. I did pick a hostel, sort of--like 85% sure now--but I haven't booked. Why? Well, because I realized that to book a hostel, I need to know what nights I'm staying there, and to know that, I need to know what nights I won't be, and to do that, I need to know when I'll be on a boat at the reef, and to do that, I need to know what company I'll be going through, and to do that, I'll have to pick one.

And, incidentally, the picking may require me to go through my hostel to get the best deal...

4. My evening. Like I said, it's past 2am. The last productive--or even semi productive--thing I did was at least three hours ago. What have I been doing in the meantime? Watching Youtube videos. Several of which did, in fact, involve wormholes as part of their conceits, and which did, themselves, form a wormhole into which my evening was sucked. Here are a few, to illustrate the wormhole effect for you:

 

 

 

No, for those who hear an accent and stop paying attention, those are not the same guy (or rather, the first three are the same and second two are the same), but they are friends, and both quite hilarious and relatively famous Youtube Vloggers. Also, if you haven't watched "Alex reads Twilight" (the last clip), do so immediately if you want to see the horrible deadening effect those books have on actual human readers. Also, it's funny.

So those were the items being sucked into my wormhole of a day. Hope you enjoy them as much as I did! Or, you know, hope you remember to wave to the time that slowly seeps out of you as you watch them... :)

Color-coded

Ten years ago, no one would have described me as a planner. Granted, ten years ago I was 12 years old, and scarcely anyone would describe any 12-year-old as a planner, but a quick scan around my room would reveal nothing whatsoever to indicate that anything within me liked things to be ordered in any particular way--or, for that matter, in any way at all.

At some point, probably in high school, this changed, and I became a strictly regulated being with a full schedule. In college, this intensified; I discovered that, without a clean dorm room (or at least a clean desk), it was almost impossible for me to be productive. In addition, I suddenly had to face the prospect of paying my own bills out of my own wallet--not just gas money and movie tickets anymore, but tuition and living expenses and books, too. And, as those things are expensive, I got a job, then more jobs, and my schedule became something which I couldn't have escaped even if I wanted to.

But despite all this organization--or perhaps because of it--by the time I graduated college, I had determined that I had earned a little disorganization. A little time without plans, a little time in which every last bit of minutiae in my life wasn't finely humming along with my internal self-regulator. This philosophy actually started in college, in my rare and precious free moments: If I didn't absolutely have to plan something, I wouldn't.

Usually, this works out fine; I am fortunate enough to have plenty of great friends who are more ambitious when it comes to, say, travel plans. But sometimes that's not enough. And, when that's the case, I realize abruptly that I am a planner, after all.

Today, I planned my break-time trip to Thailand. Karina and I have been making preliminary plans on this trip for months--I wrote about this stage a while ago--but even pinning down dates has been difficult, let alone pinning down physical locations or, the ultimate plan, reserving plane tickets. But it has to be done, and soon.

So, today Karina and I sat down and hashed it out, finally choosing a time for certain, and working out a rough itinerary of where we wanted to go. A few hours into the process, Karina had to head for bed, but I kept at it. I couldn't seem to stop: I had to finish it, and finish it well. After a grueling whole-Internet search, I found plane tickets which should knock 30% off what we thought we would have to pay. So I took down the plane numbers, the arrival and departure times, the sites where I found the deals. I did some more research and figured out when and how we could move from Bangkok to Chiang Mai to Phuket to Krabi to Phi Phi and back again.

All pretty normal, right? You've got to know where, when, and how you're going, right?

Sure. But then came the attached maps. And the color-coded days and diagrams.

I'm pretty sure that's not normal. I'm pretty sure that, if 12-year-old me could see it, she would roll her eyes and walk away, dreading the moment when I'd force her to follow every detail of my plan, down to the minute.

Fortunately, I'm still not at that phase; I still value freedom within a vacation, but my journey from messy, disorganized child to That Person Who Color-Codes Her Itineraries is still perplexing.

Then again, 12-year-old me never got to go to Thailand. So if she wants to run screaming away from me, let her: I'll be lounging on the beach at Krabi.