A Real Adult

I have a persisting nagging feeling that I'm misusing my twenties. I mean, I'm hardly pissing the years away, since teaching kids is a largely thankless and utterly philanthropic endeavour. But you need a strong stomach and even stronger convictions about why you're doing it. I suspect that my twenties should be more indulgent, more selfish, and I predict instead that philanthropy will probably make my post 30 era more meaningful. Give me ten years out of the job, and then let's see where I'm at.

Jumping the hurdle.

Today I have realised that I feel I have less to write about than I did before, and the reason is that I haven't read nearly as much. Reading a really good book makes me want to write, in the way that hearing an excellent band makes me want to pick up my instrument, but both are often demoralising since I'm automatically comparing the product to whatever superlative creation has spurred me on in the first place. Inevitably, the venture feels doomed to fail. I also think that many people might be reluctant to write in this manner (i.e. me until about a month ago) because they feel that whatever they have to say isn't sufficiently important.