In the past 24 hours, I have been contemplating some very big decisions!
The first: Apply for a few online editorial internships, in addition to submitting for journals and grants, so I when I call myself a writer, I don’t feel like I’m frontin’.
The second: Using the money I’ve saved up this year for a used car… and instead, moving (back) to New York City this summer, like I’ve said I would do for the past two years.
I hate making important life decisions. I’m very good at deciding what to buy at the grocery store. I’m very good at deciding which Internet service plan from AT&T U-Verse will allow me to stream at optimal speeds for the lowest price. I’m not so good at deciding when I should move 3,000 miles away to pursue my clichéd dreams of becoming a writer in New York City.
Like most adult-ish types today, I posted a Facebook status about my dilemma. I have a lot of friends who want me to get on to New York. I don’t know if I should be flattered by their enthusiasm for my dreams… or offended that they want to get rid of me. My brother was the voice of reason and practicality: Will you be able to pay bills and live comfortably in New York? My very best sistafriend reminded me that I’m supposed to be focusing on writing and performing, and would I do that any more in New York than in Los Angeles?
I’m still trying to figure myself out. But I am honestly leaning towards New York. Cold, gritty, expensive-ass New York. Far away from the comforts of my birth place and my momma, New York. Some of these apartments on Craigslist look very scary, New York.
This feels like such a grown-up decision. This feels like such a ballsy decision. And although I sometimes talk a good game, I don’t know if I’ve ever considered myself “ballsy”.