the next few years

i want to write a book. i want to write one at a fabulously young age and slap on a fabulous witty title and have people say that its a blend of chic lit and literary chic- that it's bridging a new genre. i want it to be sophisticated and smart, insightful but not obviously so, a roman a clef about growing up in new york that sheds light on what this city is feeling before it even surfaces. a lot of people have tried to do that. some have succeeded, some failed, some are stuck somewhere in the middle.
I used to think I could do anything. That because I was cute and bubbly and mostly considered a good writer, the media world would come to me. Or at least, when they saw that I was knocking, they would open the door, instead of switching on their video intercoms to tell me I'm underqualified. And sometimes, I just keep knocking and they don't even hear me.
I want to work at a magazine that I'm proud of- one that I love. I want to be happy at my job and proud of my job and proud of myself for working hard and doing what I love.
I want to be having so much fun I can hardly stand it. I want to spend my days with charming boys and get close to people I've only read about. I want to be somebody, or at least, on my way to being somebody.
What I've realized is- this city doesn't owe me anything. The world doesn't owe me anything. I don't know if that's depressing or inspiring. I guess it would have to depend on my mood. Right now, it's just intimidating.