My good friend and fellow writer Liz recently interviewed Nina Garcia. You know, the judge on a little TV show called Project Runway. Her interview resulted in not one, but two stellar articles:

“Nina Garcia’s 5 Quick Fashion Fixes for Moms”

“Nina Garcia’s Six Sophisticated Staples No Woman Should Live Without”

I know. My friends are pretty darn cool.

A while back, my best friend Lizzi gave me a tough-love speech about my writing.

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” she told me. “So many people don’t know what they want to do with their lives. You do. You do, and you’re not doing it.”

She had (has) a point.

My other friends express the occasional interest/concern, too. Just this past week, my friend Adam asked me about The Book.

I attempted to dodge him, mumbling something about if I wanted to work on it I would and when the time is right and I’ll get to it eventually. Sensing my neuroses, he said, “I’m not sure whether or not to ask about it. It’s probably annoying, huh?”

But the truth is, it wasn’t (isn’t). No, I told him. It’s good for me to be reminded of That Gift I’ve Been Given That I Haven’t Been Doing Shit With. My squandered talent. The thing that I supposedly love to do and yet don’t. Good to be reminded, because I spend a lot of time trying not to think about it. Because when I do think about it, I can’t come up with a good reason why. Why I continue to squander and ignore and waste and dodge.

Theories abound. I’m afraid? Maybe. I don’t think I’m talented, good enough, interesting enough, enough enough enough to “make it?” Probably. I’m lazy and just want to watch TV for the rest of my life? Perhaps. I write marketing copy all day and can’t muster any more creativity in my spare time? Could be. The Book and the issue of what the fuck to do with it and how the fuck to re-write it have so mentally constipated me that I’m literally unable to work on anything else? A good guess. I’m not really excited about my life and haven’t had sex in a very long time or been in a relationship since Bush’s first term? Okay. A combination of all of these things and more? Sure, why not?

My point being: I have no fucking clue why I’d rather write about not writing than write something of actual substance. And without understanding the why, I’m not quite sure how to overcome the problem, other than just telling myself to get off my ass and goddammit do something already. But that hasn’t really been working out so well for me.

Own worst enemy? Yep, that would be me.

My only consolation is that I’m not alone. Other writers experience the same damn issues. In her post on writeforyourlife.net, a site about writing that I read in lieu of writing myself, Manuela Boyle breaks it down:

There are lots of us writers who make their living doing the thing they love; and yet as a result, don’t make their living in the way they’d really love.

What I’m trying to say is that the writing skillset is like France: much bigger than you thought when you get there, and that if you’ve got talent, then hell, make like Simon Cowell and put it to work.

But let’s pause and think about the writer’s gentle soul awhile. Some of the copywriters I know have literary or non-fiction ambitions; others quite simply, don’t.

Some are lazy when it comes to that magnus opus, some think they’ll eventually get round to it, and others know their own creative practice is good for them, like greens are, but don’t want to participate.

A handful—and here’s the type that impresses me most—do both. They write copy in the day, and create worlds of their own by night.

What of the writer who is (g) all of the above? What will light a fire under her ass? Though a better question might be: If the fire isn’t already lit, is it even worth hunting around for those matches?

In middle school, I decided that I wanted to be a journalist. I wanted to write, and this seemed like the most “practical” approach. I envisioned myself interviewing people, writing under tight deadlines, and working in a frantic office where everyone had had too much coffee. Neither one of my parents drank coffee, so I envisioned it as something that other, more exciting adults did. Something that professional journalists did.

When I entered high school, I signed up to write for the school paper. I was assigned to the features section, and for a while, this suited me just fine. News could be boring, I reasoned. Feature articles would allow me to flex my creative muscles and write about real people and the things that were important to them. I am and always have been a human-interest kind of girl.

Every month, my editor would assign a topic, and at first, I loved it. I wrote about the “fun” stuff, wrote the articles that people would actually read—about Valentine’s Day and beloved childhood toys and the reasons that teenagers spent so much time on the phone.

But after a year or so, I was bored. I wrote my articles during my lunch period, an hour before they were due. I had mastered the features formula: catchy lede, set-up, quote, transition, quote, transition, quote, transition, quote, cute full-circle concluding sentence. And my assigned topics got dumber and more ridiculous. One of the last articles I wrote was about PDA. Public displays of affection. During a free period, I had wandered the halls of my school, interrupting couples mid-grope to ask them why. Why are you touching your girlfriend’s breast in the library?

So, when the newspaper advisor offered me an opportunity to write an op-ed, I jumped at the chance. Maybe this was my true calling! I thought. I would use my words to take a stand, to convince people that I was right and that they were wrong. My articles would have substance!

My assigned topic: homophobia. Was homophobia a problem in our school? The year was 1995: of course homophobia was a problem. I got to work, discussing the topic at length with my friends and teachers. And I listened. I listened as boys called one another “faggots” and passed judgment with “that’s so gay.” I asked my fellow students why they used these expressions and received some interesting answers. I poured my heart into that article, believing that it could open a dialogue and, in some very small way, actually make a difference.

But all of my hard work was for nothing. My advisor had wanted an op-ed that expressed her opinion, one that wouldn’t ruffle any feathers or include the “f” word. Re-write it, she told me, and argue the other side. In other words, my advisor wanted me to lie. Worse, she wanted me to compromise my entire belief system, the very core of my being, the kind of person I aspired to be.

I was enraged. I told her that I quit, and marched into my guidance counselor’s office, demanding that he drop me from the newspaper. I fought back tears as I explained what had happened.

“This is absolutely no problem,” he assured me. “You’re doing the right thing.”

As it so happened, my guidance counselor, in addition to being sympathetic and understanding, was gay.

That night, I told my mom that I had quit the newspaper. She had just walked through the door, and was distracted, sifting through the mail.

“What?” she said, whipping her head up to look at me. “Why?” She knew how important my journalistic aspirations were to me.

I broke down then. I had never quit anything in my life, and this had been my dream. More than anything, though, I was so disappointed. So disillusioned. How could the world work like this? How did people who cared as much as I did even stand a chance?

I cried and cried, and when I stopped, my mom told me that she was proud of me. For quitting? I asked. No, she said. For standing up for what you believe in.

Today is my 31st birthday. It’s much calmer, much more relaxed than 30 was. One might call it anticlimactic, but that implies a let-down of some kind, unfulfilled expectations, and I don’t feel that way. The nice thing about relaxed is that it allows you to contemplate your age, your life, and your accomplishments in a productive way.

I was reminded of the above story this past weekend, and thought that it was a fitting 31st birthday tale. People who have lived through their 30s often tell me that it’s the best decade, that you know yourself so much better and subsequently have an easier time of it, enjoy it more.

I may have given up on a childhood dream when I was 16, but at 31, I am thankful for that experience—and where it led me. I am thankful for the people who have shaped me, shaped my life, made it better.

As I move further and further into adulthood, I hope for many things. But mostly, I hope that I continue to be the kind of person who makes her mother proud.