Member-only story
I’m not a good writer, and I think that’s ok
I didn’t study this. I just like telling people what I think.
When I was 8 I wanted to be a writer. Everyone in my life and their dog told me how much of a bad idea this was. And I listened. I remember one of the advice went like this: “You can always practice your writing and become a writer later in life, but you only have the patience and fortitude to pursue a career now, that your young”. At the time I thought this made a lot of sense — and to some degree I agree. Writing is a lifelong journey — having a piece of paper that you hang on a wall doesn’t make you a writer, much less a good one.
I decided on Architecture and I regret none of it. I am extremely passionate about what I studied and all its adjacencies. But I know I am not as good of a writer I could be — not by a long shot- if I had dedicated the same amount of hours (over 10k+++) to writing instead of architecture. And that’s ok. I’m not broken up about it, nor is this a sap story. This is a message for all the writers that are transplants. Who recently found this passion, or like me delayed it because life presented you with choices, or for none of the above. For the tourist just figuring it out.
The art of being yourself
I think being myself is that hardest thing I do all day. You can’t be your candid self. Maybe with your dog (?) but even he gets skiddish and a little scared when I dance around the house like a crazy person. It’s hard to be you — because you is imperfect and clumsy. You is not the person who sits and listens attentively — you is the person who lets their mind wander while staring fixatingly to a squashed m&m in the conference room floor corner.
Balancing relationships, professionalism, what you can say or not say, reading a room, dressing right, trying constantly to look not tired and just getting over life in general, thinking of your next caffeine intake and questioning if you are where you said you’d be when you were young is all part of the noise and all part of my desire to not be myself. Myself doesn’t consolidate all these realities. Myself wants to build houses out of mud and renovate as many old houses and apartments until I fall asleep out of exhaustion.
