麻豆原创

When I was an undergrad in the middle of the Material Girl 80s, I don鈥檛 remember anyone鈥攁 professor, a parent, or even a random guy on the street (or in the career counseling center)鈥攅ver telling me to 鈥渄o what I love and the money will follow.鈥� And while author Marsha Sinetar released her book with the same title in 1989, the year I graduated from college, it never showed up as a graduation gift.

Instead, I heard 鈥淕et a job.鈥� (And: 鈥淵ou鈥檝e only got six months before you start paying off that student loan.鈥�)

I was encouraged by many, of course, to find work that I would enjoy, that would maximize my skills and my creativity. I was raised to believe money didn鈥檛 matter all that much. But I wasn鈥檛 told to 鈥渇ind your passion鈥� and, if I was, I鈥檓 not sure I could have found it鈥�even if you鈥檇 given me a glass of wine and a life coach.

It鈥檚 possible this is a Midwest sentiment. I grew up in the heartland, raised by first-generation Americans. We鈥檙e known to be relentlessly practical (and polite). And, it鈥檚 possible, I was told this and no longer remember because I didn鈥檛 take it seriously.

This may seem odd to my creative writing students and people who know me well, because I am a person who is passionate about many things, especially reading literature and trying to write it. My mother says I began reading at 3 and even if she鈥檚 exaggerating, my favorite childhood memories are summer days in the hammock with my library books. When I wasn鈥檛 reading, I was writing or, at least, watching the world as a writer does, observing and analyzing while trying to make meaning out of it all. Not much has changed in 40-some years. But still it seems odd to call it my 鈥減assion;鈥� it鈥檚 simply who I am as a person. The act of writing rarely feels like an act of passion. It just feels hard.

After graduation, I spent the next 15 years writing for various advertising and marketing companies. I wasn鈥檛 passionate about these positions, necessarily, but there were projects I became passionate about. At night, I still read and I wrote what I wanted to write, not what I was paid to do. I joined writing groups and book clubs; I went to workshops and readings. I published a few things. I even got paid a few times. I鈥檓 mathematically challenged, but if I had to guess I鈥檇 say I average about .0002 cents an hour for my creative work (and that鈥檚 probably a high estimate).

I suppose to many that doesn鈥檛 feel like success or, at least, it certainly doesn鈥檛 seem to correlate with the notion that 鈥渢he money will follow.鈥� The money, for my 鈥減assion,鈥� hasn鈥檛 even limped behind me. And while I鈥檓 happy it worked out for Walt Disney and Steve Jobs, I lose zero sleep over my own 鈥減assion鈥� income.

When I started the MFA program in creative writing in my late 30s, I looked at it as a gift I gave myself. For years, I felt as if I wasn鈥檛 improving artistically on my own. I get weary when people say 鈥渨riting can鈥檛 be taught.鈥� Of course, it can. It鈥檚 the equivalent of saying trumpet players are born that way. My professors helped me shape my work in immeasurable ways. I鈥檓 forever grateful.

While I was there, I taught as a graduate teaching assistant and found I loved teaching. After I graduated, I was fortunate enough to be hired. I tell everyone鈥攐ften鈥攈ow much I love my job. I work hard to do my job well and to keep growing as an educator. I feel like it was something I was born to do, but I鈥檓 still not sure I would call it 鈥渇ollowing my passion.鈥� I am passionate about my students. I am passionate about the work we read and the work they write. I am passionate about the service-learning work they engage in. When I stop being passionate about these things, I鈥檒l find something else to do. But even though the term 鈥減assion鈥� remains problematic for me, I suppose I reserve it for my own creative work鈥�which still hasn鈥檛 produced any real income despite a growing list of publications.

My students often ask me how to make a living as a writer of literature. I know very few people who do, so I send the students to speak with visiting authors and others in our department. I tell them about jobs they can get as students with degrees in the humanities. I鈥檓 convinced studying the arts鈥攁nd trying to create your own art鈥攎akes you a better person, one this world desperately needs. I鈥檓 hugely proud of them and their willingness to pursue this path.

But I worry about this rhetoric we seem to collectively agree on, one that assumes everyone has a 鈥減assion鈥� that鈥檚 full of power and just waiting to be unearthed and used for financial gain. Some people do; some people may not. But I believe everyone has a purpose, and everyone can find activities that fulfill them. And, sure, those activities can absolutely lead to jobs, but they don鈥檛 have to.

If you do what you love鈥攐r what you like or what you find important or useful for yourself or for the causes you believe in鈥攊t鈥檚 possible 鈥渢he money will follow.鈥� But it鈥檚 also possible, it won鈥檛.

Do it anyway.

Laurie Uttich an instructor of creative writing in the English Department.聽She can be reached at聽laurie.uttich@ucf.edu.