Truth or Dare

I stumbled across this addictive game of Truth or Dare in the blogsophere the other day and wanted to try my hand at it. The dares they were throwing out, however, were a little too much for my taste, so I chickened out and chose truth.

Trish said she'd take it easy on me. My question:

What would you like to do/be when you grow up?

When I first read it, I was kind of disappointed (no offense intended, Trish). I was expecting some question where I'd have to delve into the depths of my sould to answer it properly. Instead, I got what I thought would be an easy question to answer.

Hardly.

Truth of the matter is, on paper, I am a grown up. I own my car and pay insurance. I rent my home and have household bills. I buy my own groceries and clothes. I have a budget. I work a full-time job. I have a 401K for goodness sake. But as far as knowing what I want to do with my life, I'm still in my infantile stage.

Last week, I turned 23. Not a milestone age, but important nonetheless. At 23, you can no longer blame your mistakes on your parents, teachers or the world. At 23, you're expected to know better, and to do so. At 23, your life is yours and yours alone - to cultivate or destroy as you please. My whole life I was trying to get to this point. Graduate high school. Graduate college. Become a journalist. Be successful. I never really thought much further about what success entailed or what I would do when I got it or until it came.

Like most 23 year olds, I have a job. A job that is laying the foundation for the rest of my career. I am a journalist. More specifically, a reporter. I write about any and everything in the town of West Warwick, R.I., a seemingly innocuous town with more scandal and ill-mannered people than you can shake a stick at. While each day I come to work able to do what I love - write - I've come to some realizations lately. Realizations that don't mesh kindly to the world of the bureau reporter.

Realizations like I hate politics. Therefore, I hate politicians. I hate them because they call me and nitpick about the space I allotted them in my profile of the race, or the ommission of their picture in a brief about them. Ugh, I'm getting nauseous just thinking about it.

I like painting pictures with words. Unfortunately, I haven't done it lately because of the deluge of copy they expect me to churn out in this season of last minute vacations and elections. I'm delighted when I find the exact word that conveys the meaning I want, or when a phrase accurately captures the essence of a scene. I used to play a game with some of my journo friends on who could get the most outrageous words into the paper. I'm proud to say I got kerfuffle and feckless into print.

I like explaining things. And pouring over complex documents and subjects and boiling them down to their essence. My editor says it's a strength of mine. I'd like to do more of that.

Anyway, lets bring this all back to the question at hand. So what do I want to do/be when I grow up?

I want to be a great journalist who tells amazing stories about even the most mundane of subjects. I want to recognize and tell the stories that go overlooked. I want to tell local stories, but not be so localized that all of my days are spent at sewer commission meetings and traffic board hearings. I want to write about things that matter, without having to churn out 80 inches of copy on my birthday just to fill space in the next day's paper (and yes, that really happened). I want to be able to make words flow like butter from my pen. I want to get back to the writing that I enjoy and the writing that sustains me.

That's what I want to do when I grow up.