Most of my life has been spent contemplating my purpose. Even at a very young and innocent age, I wondered why God put me here. As I grew older, teachers told me that I had a future as a writer but I never considered it a gift. Writing was just the way I expressed my thoughts. Instead of pursuing the career of a writer I was focused on survival. By the time high school ended, there were no gifts, there was only work. As I assembled paint sprayers, I would glance at the older workers in the warehouse. Some were in their fifties, still struggling, and I used to swear that it would never be me. I promised myself that I would at least have a better paying job than 8 dollars an hour by the time I was their age. Still, there was always the fear that I would end up in their position floating around in the back of my mind.
When I was twenty-one my brother told me that only five percent of the world is doing what they love to do and that scared me because I never felt more special than anyone else. I never felt like my reason for living somehow overshadowed another persons. I always asked myself, what makes me so special? My brother was always a big inspiration to me because he firmly planted his flag in science when he was seven teen and never looked back. I, on the other hand, have questioned my purpose and its real value to the world. If I feel this way, I wonder what a person whose purpose is to be a plumber feels. You may say that’s a disgusting job but where would be as a society if no one saw value in this career? Can you imagine, in this day and age, having to excuse yourself to the out house after dinner.
Secretly, I wished that I could be a court reporter or an anesthesiologist; something safe and solid. You can map out your whole college career in one sitting and have a concrete footing on your future. Writers, on the other hand, are tortured – Emily Dickinson, Truman Capote, even Steven King. That’s an off-road to voluntarily stroll down. My lack of belief that I had the possibility to place my name next to that of the greats prohibited me from sharing my words with the world. Meanwhile, poetry and short stories piled up in discarded notebooks as I worked a security job with a dreamers belief that I would one day be a great writer. There were years of me trying to do what I thought was neccesary but I never felt satisfied. When I was given opportunities to advance, I didn’t always take them because I didn’t want more responsibility in a job that left me unfulfilled.
Years have passed and my soul has been tortured. Not as much from life experience as from not always making the right decisions concerning my divine purpose in life. So I write. Instead of hiding my gift, I talk about it, opening myself to any criticism someone listening may have about artists. The thing that keeps me coming back to my pen and pad is the fact that none of the stories I wrote have ever been told. That gives me purpose; to expose the world to a different perspective. In doing so, I had to open up and not be afraid to show people who I am because that’s what makes my work unique. In no way have I retained phenomenal success since reaching this conclusion but I have a greater goal beyond a dollar amount or academic advancement. Are you in the five percent? Are you fulfilling your purpose or just trying to pay the rent? If not, change is a must. You don’t want to be 80 years old still regretting decisions you made in your thirties. Realize your God-given gift: There’s no time like the present.