There are generally three schools of reaction after I introduce myself to people as “EP.”
Proponents of the first, and most populated, school stare at me blankly for a few seconds, then, puzzled, ask, “EP? Well, what does the P stand for?” Thanks to this group of people, my middle name has evolved over time from Patricia to Pizza, soaring to Pterodactyl and landing at Penelope. My middle name does not actually start with a “P,” though, so this school of thought has forced me to tell the story about my name about a gazillion times.
The second, and more accepting, school of thought rolls with the “EP” punch, never questioning its origin. I appreciate this, though their acceptance inevitably leads to a joke about an alien with an affinity for Reese’s Pieces.
“So, uh, when you call your parents do you tell Siri, ‘EP phone home?’” the most clever of these people ask. No. No, as a human with a sliver of self-respect, I do not.
Then there is my favorite faction, albeit the smallest. These people do not skip a beat upon hearing my name; rather, they simply say, “EP Stonehill. Wow. That’s authorial. Like, you should write an epic novel.” E.B. White. E.E. Cummings. E.L. James, the list goes on.
I usually shrug the comment off, perhaps muttering I do indeed write a biweekly column and take great pride in my Facebook picture captions. Recently, though, I have been seriously entertaining the possibility of attempting to write, in some manner, as a postgraduate — especially after I realized “seriously entertaining” may be an oxymoron. How literary of me!
We’re constantly told to “do what you love” — from sage professors and virtual TEDTalk presenters to parents and orientation leaders. Oh, wow, how insightful. Do what you love! To think, if only I had known this one tidbit of advice — oh, the places I would go! Sarcasm aside, this notion does, of course, make sense. Figure out what you love doing, and find a career that fits.
For me, that’s writing. I enjoy adding humorous jokes — well, at least I chuckle — to emails instead of emoticons. As an English major, writing papers has been both the bane and pride of my existence. My diary, albeit dusty at this point, sits only an arm’s length away on my shelf. From the minutia of to-do lists to my self-serving attempts at figuring out the best way to humbly brag in family holiday cards, I love writing.
I’ve always assumed, then, my career should involve writing. But what if my career was writing? Why have I never, before this point, really thought about being a writer? For the next two years at least, I’ll be an English teacher with Teach for America. After that, I want to pursue a career in educational policy, where writing will certainly factor into my job.
It seems I’ve found a way to bundle my passion with a profession. But why can’t my passion be my profession?
For one, there’s that persnickety little website called “Thought Catalog,” which nearly monopolizes the market for writers whose main points seem to be “I’m in my 20s and thinking deeply about life.” If that’s not my realm, I don’t know what is.
It should follow, then, that I consider writing for “Thought Catalog.” In reality, though, I’d rather write menial copy for the Watching Paint Dry Gazette than sell my soul to the everything-is-about-me-and-my-sex-life devil. Some of Thought Catolog’s content is poignant, but on the whole it’s not for me.
What about a blog, then? I could think of a witty title, pontificate about my day-to-day existence and magically accrue a 2-million-person readership through the power of puns alone! Yeah, and construction on Grounds will end tomorrow. The fact of the matter is everyone and his decently literate mother wants to write a blog now. The landscape is entirely too saturated for me to make an impact.
I need to take a step back. Here I am, going through possibilities of a writing career — but what if I’m just not good enough, or don’t have anything worthwhile to say? When it comes down to it, I’m just another Thought Catalog-ing twenty-something trying to navigate the big bad world. My parents and friends will always encourage some sort of writing career, but I also have to calculate the difference between selling myself too short and overstating my value.
Sure, I’m a writer with a voice. But aren’t we all?
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