You're not following me. Okay, I'm being confusing. Try again.

The whole point of therapy last year was to figure out why I'm having panic attacks. My conclusion: I've separated my creative self from the rest of me. That separation has been causing me endless problems. I'm profoundly unhappy by not having a clear path to pursue. I'm so tired of the murk and the false trails and the dead ends. I thought understanding the problem would clarify the path. It hasn't. It's just cleared out the murk a bit, and the false trails are more obvious.

Ahoy creaky metaphors.

Look, it comes down to this: maybe the travel business isn't ultimately where I ought to be. But if it's not, what else can I possibly do? I don't see my way clearly. None of the things I'm interested in pay what I'm earning now. No one will pay me to know everything there is to know about 18th century England. No one will pay me to enjoy being around animals, or at least not enough to uphold my share of the mortgage. No one needs someone with a wonderful color sense but no design background to go with it. It's so frustrating.

I'm not contemplating quitting my job. I've got a great situation where I am; good bosses, fun co-workers, a nice paycheck, a sense of being appreciated. But the panicky feelings make it obvious that I need to contemplate doing something more artistic eventually, so I've been wondering what else I might like to do. The sad truth is my resume is very limited at this point in my life.

"Dilettante, has had twenty jobs in about that many years, is two classes short of a two year degree in music, reading program limited to history, biographies, mysteries and science fiction, has a certain amount of wit, charm, and cleverness but would be chewed to bits by any serious intellectual, doesn't understand how computers work, is obsessed with travel, the 18th century, classical music, and writing, but only excels at creative writing and would die of boredom doing something like tech writing or web page administration."

I'm barely being sarcastic. That's a pretty realistic assessment. I may have people skills but I'm sick to death of using them. I can talk to anyone about anything, but I don't want to. I don't know any office software so I couldn't be a temp even if I wanted to be one now (and believe me, my Kelly Girl days are over). I would like to do something that makes use of my imagination and talent. I'm sure as hell not going to be a musician full time ever again. But I can write my way out of a paper bag, and I wonder why I'm not doing just that.

John just came downstairs and said he thinks I should write a humorous book about being a travel agent. I replied, "A time travel romance with a travel agent heroine!" And we both think this is dandy, except for the part where I don't know how to plot anything. I really don't. I never, ever know Who Done It in the mysteries I read, and I'm always afraid the hero won't win the heroine in the romances I read. I'm such a big dupe when it comes to plots, how can I write any?

Well, there's one thing I've learned about myself in the last six months. I am not a person who gives up if something matters to me. I might stage a huge hissy fit, but I tend to go back, and back, and back until I get it goddamned done. I can't tell you how little I want to take California State History but I will take it because I'm getting this stupid Associate of Arts degree this year so I can stop hurling myself at the brick wall of Higher Education.

The main thing is I could write in my spare time. I don't have to quit my job and change my entire life in order to work on a book. It might take a long time, but it might be totally worth it. I even have some ideas of what I'd like to write. All I have to do is take the idea seriously. No, that's not right. All I have to do is start having fun with the idea.

You know, I feel better now.

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