I am a writer by nature. It is only natural that I conceive of my life as a story, a series of twists and turns that when strung along somehow will form a coherent adventure.
When I left the states nearly two years ago, I had a plot in mind, and it went a bit like this:
American girl goes to France, where she teaches English to kids for a year. American girl considers staying to do her Masters in French Literature at Parisian universities. American stays another two years to do said Master, which will help catapult her into prestigious American universities for her doctoral degree. American girl repatriates and goes to said doctoral program, where she meets the love of her life and four to six years later, gets her tam. A brilliant career in academia along with a happy family life ensues.
This is the plot the Lindsay who left America in 2010 dreamed up, and the Lindsay writing this post is the Lindsay living in France in 2012 shaking her head. Both Lindsays are at the part where she is near finished with said Masters degree...
But now the part after the Masters degree isn't so sure anymore.
I dream up plots because they are soothing, because knowing what's coming next in the story somehow relieves the anxiety of the ¨what could happen?¨ open-ended-question of this crazy ride we call life...but i do not pretend to know the answers anymore. I stand before the void of what's next humbled.
A girl can dream of smooth simplicity, can't she? After all....it is fiction.