“Having a to-do list is like having a gyroscope to life. There’s a certain magic to committing your goals to paper.”
I’ve liberally paraphrased that saying, but it’s been a while since I was knee-deep in Zig Ziglar, so don’t quote me on that. Some ten years back, I was young and naive, working in a video-game shop, devouring self-help books by the dozens.
I may have romanticised the writer’s life way too much. I’ve always pictured the typical writer as a broken but attractive soul, shelled up in his (or her) study, surrounded by books and way too many mahogany chairs. He’d stare out his window, lift his finger in exclamation, and break out his trusty typewriter (a Remington, of course).
I squeezed my one-way ticket as I boarded the bus. The stub permeated in my sweaty palm, wet from anxiety and excitement. This is it, I thought. A new chapter in my life is about to unfold. I took out my phone and texted her, “On the way. See you love!”
I felt like I was diving head first into things, and perhaps moving in with somebody I just met wasn’t such a good idea, but I’ve always been enthralled by the spirit of adventure, and this was the beginning of one. I looked out into the passing landscape, not knowing what the near future held, and I sometimes wonder if I’d still have gotten onto that bus, had I known what it did.