2/18/16
I was thinking about my English degree.
My impractical, pricey degree. My being "somewhat versed in literary theory" was really what helped me realize a lot of my values in life. For example, it helped me question the "infallibility" of the Bible (thanks, post-modernism), it helped me understand the influences of the social world on every aspect of human life-- the reason I began to start "caring" about social injustices, and finally, it helped me recognize that I really just love over-analyzing things and talking about it. Processing out loud with someone willing to listen and participate.
Is there something it wrong to take pleasure in conversation? Tete-e-tetes.
A 9 year old girl I saw yesterday told me, in response to the question, "What are your hobbies,":
"Um..." with a smile on her face, "I like talking."
"What do you like to talk about?"
"Anything."
"Any other things you like to do?"
"Nope."
I immediately came to the conclusion that this 9 year old girl was going to become a therapist when she grows up.
To me, it makes sense that my next step from English was social work-- at least in retrospect. Isn't talking just a raw and unedited version of writing? Given that I enjoy writing about the things I like talking about: analyses. But here's where my idiosyncrasies come in.
In writing, you can perfect it before it's exposed to anyone. Even in thinking before you speak, it's not quite as perfect.
I am my own perfectionist.
Pulling, ripping, grabbing, dragging. Torments me until an acceptable part of me is created.
Writing is perfect, talking is not.
And then I realized that pens are also imperfect. If I could perfect this right now, I would.
