How is that every time I think I know what I want,
How can half my life be devoted to one thing
And one thought can upset an entire dream?
I want to write
But what to write about? What for?
I could be a screenwriter,
A writer of films.
I’ve always loved movies. Why not?
I could write children’s books,
the next J.K. Rowling.
I like kids. Kids like me. Why not?
I could write textbooks,
The How-To of life.
I hate textbooks. Better job security. Why not?
I could write reviews for a magazine or paper,
Ebert for a new age.
Maybe they’ll give me free things. Opinions are nice. Why not?
I could be a film director, photographer, artist,
But just maybe on the side.
I don’t know enough about those things to do them for a life.
I could work in a bookstore,
Just to get me on my feet.
What if I end up liking it? Owner of a bookstore. Why not?
I could be an editor,
Of a magazine or for publishing.
But really that’s not writing at all.
And what I love is that I love to write.
And despite all these questions, that’s what I want to do.
But how do I know if what I’ll write is right?
Will it make me happy
And if I finally do decide on a job, where will I be jobbing from?
Probably in the same place
Where all the jobbers go.
What about books? That’s what I’d always planned to do,
Is it bad to have these thoughts,
To feel like I’m cheating
on my dreams?
And what is it about college,
where you’re supposed to
that makes you question