My quest to become a professional writer is a perilous one. Not so much physical peril, but definitely emotional and financial. Student loans are hard to qualify for now-a-days. I'm paid for now, but I'm not sure what I'll do about the fall. I wont worry too much right now, though. It's not like I've explored all of my options, so my eyes are still fairly dry. The thing is, I'm the kind of person that might never explore her options, and then cry about it later like I never had a chance.
Have you ever seen "House of Sand and Fog"? There's a scene in that movie that I'll never forget. The girl stands there as if she were paralyzed, staring at the weeks of unopened mail that still lies on the floor. She thinks if she doesn't open the mail, then she doesn't have to face her reality. Even though the mound beneath her letter slot is probably just as torturous as opening one, she cant bring herself to face it. Low and behold, a bailiff comes to foreclose the home her father built, and she is absolutely shocked and unprepared. She cant believe what is happening. Was she playing stupid? No. She convinced herself the letters were nothing. She believed it. It was her brain coping with her stress. A very ineffective brain, I might add. A brain I think I might share.
I have comfort in the fact that, unlike her, I'm aware of this "condition." I hope that acknowledging it will keep me away from it. I would like to be a proactive person, always on top of things. I want to be someone who contributes to, and creates her happiness instead of just convincing herself of it. Which reminds me, I need to buy a letter opener.