In an age where everything is monetized, you might not find it very surprising that it is common to also try to capitalize on your hobbies as well. Often you might hear an involved parent, an enthused teacher, or online entrepreneur quote the late Mark Twain and say, “find a job you enjoy doing, and you will never have to work a day in your life.” Prompted by our capitalist society, well intentioned teachers, and numerous self help videos, you might be even less surprised to find that I have also fallen into this thinking.

From a young age, I really enjoyed writing and storytelling. I would come up with random spin offs for books I had read, ideas for shows and movies that I would then passionately explain in detail to anyone that would listen, and the lying! I could come up with a lie for anything. Stories were my thing. However, work was not, and if you tell a 12 year old me that I wouldn’t have to work a day in my life, I’m running with it. And so what did I do? I chased every fleeting interest, any subject or hobby I seemed to be good at. I wrote every day I could, staying up until ungodly hours to create a passable paragraph, until my brain was buzzing and short circuiting, until I was sick of writing. 

Then I started playing football, and I thought it was the most fun thing ever, ignoring the anxiety and stress it caused me. I had a ball, being praised for my speed and my will that didn’t let me give up on a play. I saw a future, a glittering one filled with sweat and pain and fame. It wasn’t very realistic, I didn’t go to a big school, or a school known for football for that matter, but still I clung to this dream where I wouldn’t have to do any work. It was the same for track, and then eventually boxing. I saw a way out. A life of glory and passion, of endless riches. Sure, I would have to train and practice and actually do well enough to play at any elite level, but what’s some training when it’s something you love? That was where my problem arose. Did I love doing any of it, or did I just think I could make money and become famous? Thinking back I think I always knew the answer. No, I didn’t really love it. It was always a means to an end.

Now finally deciding to hunker down and focus on writing, on what I’ve always wanted to do, I feel confronted with a similar question. Do I truly love this or just the life I believe I can get out of it? Sometimes I feel like an empty shell, attempting to fill myself back up with the hobbies and interests that once left me bursting. I crave that feeling back, that filling and overwhelming emotion that would burn in my chest and leave me lightheaded and my legs weak. I will sometimes get glimpses of that feeling again, after an especially good paragraph or after sketching for a few hours, and it serves as the only confirmation that maybe I’m going on the right path, but the feeling leaves me before I can even process it. I imagine myself reaching out into the darkness at shadows that remind me of my past loves, but it always goes up in smoke. All empty silhouettes. I feel like I’m missing something, something very obvious, something that would answer all my questions, but I know realistically that doesn’t exist. All there is is to live, to learn. I believe I’ll figure it out one day.