I wish I had chosen a different profession all those years ago.
When I was a child, I wanted to be a journalist. I pictured myself in some exotic land, loads of cameras around my neck and a press card in my hat, getting the scoop on some big story. I would be like Nellie Bly, only in jeans and a tee-shirt (which is all I ever wore at the time.)
Then somewhere along the line, I took a detour. It was no longer enough just to report about what happened in the world around me; I wanted to understand it. Ten years later, I had a college diploma, a B.A. and an M.A.–and a career I hated. And stayed in it for almost 20 years. I wasn’t in a rut; I was in a crater the size of Vredefort.
It took an emotional breakdown to get out of that world. Now that I’m out (thank the gods and goddesses), the synapses in my anaesthetized brain are once again firing. I no longer want to be a journalist (who the hell wants to live out of a suitcase?), but I do pine for exotic places, with a camera in hand instead of a steno pad, and a palm tree nearby.