Today, as I watched the sun set over northern Seoul I was stricken by a feeling that was foreign to me. It crept upon me, and at first I didn't know what it was, but I soon realized that it was the feeling of finding what I was looking for. It was the first rays of happiness, shining through a heavy fog. I arrived in Seoul about a month and a half ago. I arrived broken, in a haze, and as I staggered off the plane I had no sense of identity. I was afraid of who I may become. But, to contrast, this evening as I watched two egrets skim across the Han I realized that I had become the person I had wanted to become.
Change is scary. It's hard to let go of the past, because it's safe. It's easy to grow complacent, and it is comforting to tell yourself that you can always do something about it tomorrow. I was comfortable. I needed to grow as a person. I didn't understand what it meant to be happy. I didn't understand what it meant to love. I didn't understand how to regain a sense of who I was. But I found it. Along the banks of the Han river I heard the flash of a camera shutter, twice. A common occurrence when you're a foreigner living in Seoul (Everybody seems to want to take your picture). I glanced over, and two young women were standing farther up the bank, sneaking peripheral glances at me. They were alarmed by my gaze, and they looked away shyly. I laughed to myself, and stared into the sunset. I didn't mind--I never mind when I catch the eye of a pretty girl, as rare as that me be. I heard the camera twice more, as they stole another image. I wish I could have asked them to see the photo, but beyond getting directions, and occasionally telling somebody that I want to sleep with them instead of saying I want to sleep (자는 자고 십어요) my Korean is still rather limited. On that bank, with a pen behind my ear, a notebook in my hand, and headphones dangling from my neck I was excited to be me. I was excited to be somebody who had traveled 10,000 miles for the sole reason of finding purpose--somebody who was still a little lovestruck, and lost--a stereotypical aspiring writer working as an English teacher and finishing off a first novel. I had to be careful, I knew my happiness would dissipate if I let it.
Life in Korea has been good so far. I just made my first payment into my North American bank account, and for once my pockets aren't empty. By no means am I rich, but I can afford the occasional Pomegranate... and maybe a few avocados. I recently finished writing two short stories that I think have the potential to be published--and that's the plan. I bought a copy of "Writer's Market" today. And once I have five stories that are polished I'm going to start contacting publishers. "Being a writer" was always a dream that was way off on the horizon, but I feel like I'm on the precipice of breaking through. I'm hoping to finish off my manuscript in December, and then go after the white whale, which is to have a novel in stores. I'm ready for months, if not years of rejection. Bring it on.
Today, as I watched the sun set over northern Seoul I was stricken by a feeling that was foreign to me. It crept upon me, and at first I didn't know what it was, but I soon realized that it was the feeling of finding what I was looking for. It was the first rays of happiness, shining through a heavy fog. I arrived in Seoul about a month and a half ago. I arrived broken, in a haze, and as I staggered off the plane I had no sense of identity. I was afraid of who I may become. But, to contrast, this evening as I watched two egrets skim across the Han I realized that I had become the person I had wanted to become.
Change is scary. It's hard to let go of the past, because it's safe. It's easy to grow complacent, and it is comforting to tell yourself that you can always do something about it tomorrow. I was comfortable. I needed to grow as a person. I didn't understand what it meant to be happy. I didn't understand what it meant to love. I didn't understand how to regain a sense of who I was. But I found it. Along the banks of the Han river I heard the flash of a camera shutter, twice. A common occurrence when you're a foreigner living in Seoul (Everybody seems to want to take your picture). I glanced over, and two young women were standing farther up the bank, sneaking peripheral glances at me. They were alarmed by my gaze, and they looked away shyly. I laughed to myself, and stared into the sunset. I didn't mind--I never mind when I catch the eye of a pretty girl, as rare as that me be. I heard the camera twice more, as they stole another image. I wish I could have asked them to see the photo, but beyond getting directions, and occasionally telling somebody that I want to sleep with them instead of saying I want to sleep (자는 자고 십어요) my Korean is still rather limited. On that bank, with a pen behind my ear, a notebook in my hand, and headphones dangling from my neck I was excited to be me. I was excited to be somebody who had traveled 10,000 miles for the sole reason of finding purpose--somebody who was still a little lovestruck, and lost--a stereotypical aspiring writer working as an English teacher and finishing off a first novel. I had to be careful, I knew my happiness would dissipate if I let it.
Life in Korea has been good so far. I just made my first payment into my North American bank account, and for once my pockets aren't empty. By no means am I rich, but I can afford the occasional Pomegranate... and maybe a few avocados. I recently finished writing two short stories that I think have the potential to be published--and that's the plan. I bought a copy of "Writer's Market" today. And once I have five stories that are polished I'm going to start contacting publishers. "Being a writer" was always a dream that was way off on the horizon, but I feel like I'm on the precipice of breaking through. I'm hoping to finish off my manuscript in December, and then go after the white whale, which is to have a novel in stores. I'm ready for months, if not years of rejection. Bring it on.
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