Life's kind of funny. It's a little like a long road trip. You look out the window for hours, watching the scenery go by without really noticing that it's slowly changing. One day, you're in the scrub forests of Florida and the next thing you know, you're smack in the middle of the Smokey Mountain foothills.
So it is with me. As I gazed out the window, believing I had left school for a career in copyediting (the hallmark of an unsuccessful fiction writer), I found myself in the foothills of a new job. I am now a staff writer for a medical marketing publication. I have a ridiculously long commute, but great hours. I know more about laparoscopic surgery than some doctors, but I make a bunch of money.
It's the money thing that really changes your trip, though. It lulls me, like wind through an open car window, into believing that this is good. This cushy back seat, this bag of Cheetos, this seemingly endless landscape--these are good.
I haven't thought about graduate school in months. I haven't written a single thing that doesn't have to do with endoscopy or mitral valve replacement. I haven't even logged on to this site. Alas, I have forgotten the destination.
And I know. I know. The journey is the destination. But what happens when you become so comfortable in the back seat, that you forget you know how to drive?
If anyone reads this, remind me: I'm not scared of driving. I drive like a bat out of hell. And, really, I've never liked an automatic.
