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I want to be a journalist. I want to love my job and to be happy taking it home with me. I want to believe in what I do and think it worthwhile.
I want to be more than someone with an english degree who knows a lot of esoteric words. I want to be a fabulous writer and continually improving, continually developing and moving from floridly pedantic to just inexplicably but indubitably damn good at expressing the reality of things. I seek to be astute, perspicacious, have a sane and balanced view of life–to be in touch with reality, like C.S. Lewis. As Somerset Maugham has written, “I’ve made a career as a humorist simply by telling the truth,” or something to that effect.
I want people to be able to recognize my style, just George F. Will’s erudite style is recognized even by mainstream society. I hope to hone my style to be the following: immensely readable and entertaining, even by the common people who have a decent vocabularly; erudite, like George Will, with a wonderful capacity for finding the nearly perfect word; insightful and incisive, probing the depths of human nature; and of course, witty.
In all of these confessions, I see a lot of pride, much desire for self-advancement. Much desire to accredit myself by my deeds. It may be difficult, if things don’t pan out as I like, for me to consider myself a worthwhile person. So perhaps I’m not ready for tremendous success yet. But if and when it comes, I hope to be ready. I have much to learn in the way of humility. I also think that most people who end up being artists, who think they have something worthwhile to express, probably have some kind of egotistical complex. Well that’s probably true for me. What will you write about? I don’t know. I just know I want to write.
I want a nice life. I like being in contact with the lifestyle of the upper middle class. I guess that’s why I like frequenting Bellevue. When I walk around Belle square, I try to see myself walking around here 10 years from now, as a young mother–yet also a very polished-looking one. I like the idea of meeting my girlfriends to go shopping at Nordstrom’s and other fairly respectable places. I hope that someday I’ll be able to wear dresses without feeling slightly awkward in them, the vintage looking kind that looks best on hour glass figures.
In addition to wanting time to shop and spend time with girlfriends, I want to time to play the piano and read novels. But most of all, I want time to write. So here is what I hope for: that my husband will make enough money so I won’t have to work at a job I don’t like, so I’ll be able to work from home as a journalist/writer. At the moment, I want, in my journalism, to contribute to the agora by insightfully interpreting the times–like George Will. Yet I also hope that I have some hidden talent for writing creatively: perhaps my memoirs, if I’m someone people want to read about someday.
And travel. I would love to write and travel. Someday I hope to stay in Paris for an extended period of time, at least a few months. I want to travel the world and know it and know the different customs of many people.
but there are a lot of hypotheticals in this dream. If I get married … If he makes enough money … etc.
