Week One of Move-In

Pro: Fried chicken for the first time. Absolutely amazing. Not to toot my own horn but it was basically KFC. 

Con: No job. No Money.

The anger that would suddenly burst out of me when I was home has subsided since moving in with Grandma. Though some of her elderly, slow ways can be irritating at times, she's quite active for an 81 year old and the visits I make with her to her various friends has served as a fountain of inspiration. 

My grandma is recently 81, loves playing card, visiting friends, and playing the nickel machines at the casino. She gets more calls in a day than I do texts. She cooks amazing country food, like pot pies, homemade noodle soups, and fruit pies, but her dissolving memory has increasingly resulted in stale concoctions that may or may not be missing an ingredient or two. She also notoriously cuts people off on the road, forgets where she put things, and is hard of hearing. Still, she is spry, funny, and doesn't take shit from anyone.  She also got me hooked on this 1940's tv show about an Appalachian family living in the Appalachian Mountains during WWII called, "The Waltons." Did I mention that she has pets? There is the perfect beast-hound named Shady (we're best friends), and a half-dead cat, Oreo. Who needs any more company than that? 

I think since moving in I have inspired in her the need to take care of someone, something she hasn't done since my grandpa died seven years ago. She in turn has forced me to put something other than my pajamas on every day.

Since being here, I have applied to a factory and to a casino nearby for jobs. High aspirations for a college graduate, I know. But I am actually excited to start working for either. Not only would the structure be beneficial and give me some sort of purpose in life, but I am sure I would meet a variety of interesting characters and come across countless story ideas.

But the more I think about it, the more I am worried that I am holding off my life. I am not progressing myself in any way. The worst part is, I have absolutely no direction in where I want to go in my career.  How can I progress myself? I seriously don't know. Some of my friends already are settled down in companies, buying houses, and some have even moved to New York City.

And I'm here. Not really trying to do anything at all except move to Europe.  And when I get there, what next? If I become an Au Pair and my term ends, what job am I going to pursue when I return home? 

Am I not a hard worker? Is that it?

Am I not trying hard enough? 

Why else is everyone getting real jobs and settling into mature careers and I am not?

I envision this life of adventure and travel and romance for myself, and eventually I want a semi-nice house with a half dozen tots running around, but I have no idea how I am going to get there.  I have an end goal but no real career in mind, other than getting published. 

I read something to supplement the book I am currently reading called "Success Secrets of The World's Most Cynical Man." When I saw it I thought, "Hey, I'm pretty cynical. Maybe this guy can help in my time of directionless wandering." So I read it, and though it turned out to be persuasive Christian, bible-banging propaganda, it had a few good points. 

One of them was that, no matter how great something seems, like a new wardrobe, or a million dollars, or even travel, it will never fully satisfy. Getting the much-coveted Chanel purse I have had my eye on for the past five years will not actually make me an eternally happy person. It will not solve my personal problems. It will not give me purpose in life. 

And neither will travel. 

This revelations completely quaked my foundation for going to France. "What?" I thought, "Moving to France for a year won't solve my problems? It won't inspire me? It won't show me the true meaning of life?" 

Crap.

And though the book said that only living a life for the purpose of pleasing the one true God will make me eternally happy, I don't completely buy it. This one book on Buddhism that I'm reading claims that to be fulfilled, one must give up all desires. I don't really buy that either. 

My goal right now is to find a career that will make me happy and fulfilled. I know a lot of people who love their job. I need that. It exists somewhere out there. 

The key is finding it.

The problem is how.

A Necessary Move

I am moving to my Grandmother's next week. I have to. I am wasting away here.  The past four weeks have all smooshed together. It flew by and I have almost nothing to show for it. With no structure in my life, I got absolutely nothing done. I have learned a total of two chords on my guitar, got as far as "see you later," in French, and have made meager attempts at cooking a recipe from my French cookbook. You want to know why my writing isn't going so well? It's because I haven't given it a true, concerted effort. 

I wake up every morning, practice guitar for a little bit, eat breakfast, read magazines or articles online, watch Sex and the City from 1-3 and then putz around the rest of the day. On a good day I take my dog on a walk.

I have absolutely no excuse for not having a rough draft done for a short story. I have no excuse for my atrophying muscles and flabby body. If 40 year old Sarah Jessica Parker can have a toned body, little old me with nothing to do all day should too. I haven't even opened my GRE study book and I should be able to say a paragraph or hold an introductory conversation in French. 

I am going stir-crazy here and becoming increasingly restless. My one paltry attempt at cooking something Julia Child-esq resulted in a temper tantrum over the phone with my mom when she informed me that I started the process too late and my plans would not be fruitful until too late in the night to eat it.

I hate cooking. I never want to cook. Why I wanted a cookbook for Christmas is beyond me. The only thing I'm good at making are eggs and ramen noodles. Reading a recipe is near-impossible. The words, and tools, and techniques necessary all require culinary training. Without a proper introduction, my wasted efforts are frustrating. 

Why must everything be so difficult? Why does everything I try seem so out of reach? 

I am hoping that a change of scenery will uplift my dreary outlook, but for a more realistic and long-term change, I need a change of attitude. I need to be more disciplined. I need to make a schedule and stick to it.  I need to hold myself to a higher standard. I need to be more of a Go-Getter, have a more Type A personality. 

There are a few things I need to get in order before I make my departure, aka: I need to pack.

I absolutely need my writing desk. How am I supposed to write without a writing desk? My guitar and guitar books. My French lessons. Some art supplies. My camera. My printer. Books. Tons and tons of books. My French cookbook (I'll give it another go). GRE study materials, and I need to buy some notebooks to use for writing, French, and for studying the GRE. I also need some good pens for writing. There is nothing I hate more than writing down a story idea with a cheap Bic pen.

A Little Intro

My name is Sascha and I want to be a writer. The problem is I don't get around to doing much writing. I love reading and I think that is why I want to be a writer. I want to create something as profound as the literature I read in college. I don't know why I have a draw to do it, but I do. I think it is kind of because I put authors on a pedestal. I worship them in a weird way. I do this with all artists actually. Whether they are writers, painters, actors. People who have mastered their craft, I always end up wanting to be them.  Part of me wonders whether I idolize them because they are famous and received international acclaim, or if it is because they have such an intense passion for their trade. No matter the criticism, no matter the heartbreak or hard work, those artists have found a sun to orbit around. My life has no sun, no central guiding light that I jump out of bed for every morning, and I think I envy artists for having that. I am 22 years old, recently post-grad, with no direction in life. I know it sounds like a sob story, like I'm complaining that I'm the only one in my generation to experience this, but the aimless wanderings of my everyday are rather depressing. 

So I think I'll start a blog. 

A blog about what you ask? About whatever the hell I want. Its direction will change from day to day I'm sure. But with me about to move to my grandmothers for a few months to clear my head, focus on "writing," and make some money, I want to have something to show for my time of isolation in Northern Michigan. Because to be honest, I don't think my writing is going to amount to much, and if I hope to get hired one day for anything, maybe keeping a blog with semi-consistent posts will give me an edge.  Maybe it will show that I am dependable, or organized, or persistent, or some other bullshit virtuous word people use to describe applicants. 

So a bit about me: I like green tea and drawing buildings with Sharpies. I like the idea of learning to cook. I love to travel though I have only been to a few countries in Europe. I want to go to Istanbul in Turkey one day soon, even though I am a bit scared of the safety precautions. I think I might have ADD. I love to read but what I'm reading right now, "The Invisible Man," by H.G. Wells kind of bores me. I'm trying to learn French cooking,  how to speak French, and how to play the guitar as part of my New Year's Resolutions, even though I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions. I am trying to write a story about my grandma in a Eudora-Welty-Style but it is not going very well. I need to study for the GRE and get a score that will get me into a good graduate school because where I did my undergrad is nothing to brag about. I wish I was more fashionable. I am having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that I am rather plain looking. I just realized today while watching "Sex and the City," that I am Miranda, even though I have always wanted to be Samantha. I had admitted to myself that Samantha was a bit far-fetched for me, so I settled with being Carrie, but my revelation today made me realize that I am a cold, cynical bitch, and I will probably continue scaring men away for the rest of my life. I wish I could fall in love, but never have. I might be allergic to ibuprofen.

I don't know what I want to get from this blog. Perhaps a sense of self? I have always kept a journal which hasn't helped me much and I don't see how a blog is much different, but maybe it is. Maybe it will give me the kick in the butt I need. 

So what shall I call you? And what should I focus on? Because now that I think of it, if this blog is to have any meaning, and if I am to gain anything from doing this, I should have some sort of focus.

Should it be writing? Should it be the enduring state of my singleness? I surprisingly have a bag full of stories that exhibit my many defense mechanisms. 

Perhaps both? 

I will include events of my day to day life, my writing and advancements I am making with it, and observations that I make about people and situations.

The latter part I think will be the most interesting because I will soon be moving in with my dear grandmama in a semi-northern Michigan town that is known for absolutely nothing. Except for Tony's Tacos, a pit-stop that people passing through the town infamously stop for. I think the pool of people in the area will be interesting to observe. It is a group of people I have had very little contact with. Being from a very liberal college town, it is always a bit of a culture shock when I visit my grandmother and am surrounded by people with poor grammar but incredible hunting skills. 

So now that my focus for this blog is all the more ambiguous, I need a title, and few concrete goals to achieve during my time in hick-ville. 

"Untitled: the Wanderings of a Post-Grad"?

"Undefined"?

"Not Yet Declared a Major in Life"?

"Undecided"?