A therapist. A writer. An editor. Two cats.
The Pursuit of Happyness vs. My Life
These days I feel like Will Smith in The Pursuit of Happyness — always running, full of anxiety, and I don’t think I know exactly where I’m running to. Three days a week I’m a therapist. I nod and ask things like, “And how did that make you feel?” The other three days I’m an editor. I cut things and think about commas as if they were the most important thing in the world (they are).
Sometimes I dream that I’m a charismatic editor and artist. It’s so cool. I sip tea slowly and say witty things. I talk about literature and art.
But when I wake up, I realise it hasn’t happened yet, and I wake up in Turkey, in a shrinking economy, begging my cat not to eat my latest manuscript review… I feel like I’m in that scene from The Pianist, in the ruins, crying. Some might think this is a mid-life crisis. I can’t deny that I look in the mirror and cry sometimes, but let’s go deeper.
The guilt of leaving
I am happy editing. I love being an editor.
But the guilt is always there — like I should be in a session listening to someone talk about their Uncle Eric’s drinking habits instead of editing. Why do I feel like I should be listening to someone? Why do I feel guilty when I draw or do my artistic work?
