Here it is: 2012. The year I finish school after twenty years of it. The year that finding a job gets real.
I'm toying with several different directions and searching job ads like a madwoman. I can continue my current course and teach at a college or university. I can jump ship and see what lies in the world of copywriting or copyediting. I can sink the whole boat and say, "Forget it, I'm folding sweaters at GAP." These days, I stay up late wondering if poetry is a viable commodity, or if the whole point is that it must resist commodification. I ask myself what was I thinking when I decided to study writing instead of, say, pottery-making or woodworking—things that people hold and use and enjoy.
In an alternate universe (in which I have more capital and business savvy) I would open my own little cafe where it is mostly always sunny. There would be big windows and wooden beams and sturdy bookshelves (and basically everything from this pinboard). The pastry case would be full of fresh and flaky things. There would be people studying and talking and meeting other people. I know writing something like the next great American novel is a big deal and a worthy pursuit, but creating a warm and open place where someone can sit down with a friend and something to drink—that's meaningful too.