“What’s your favorite project right now?” I ask my sister. After eighteen years of knowing of her, you’d think I’d know that wouldn’t be a good conversation starter. She’s an accountant. Even when she wasn’t an accountant, she was an accountant.
“What do you mean ‘my favorite project?'” She asks.
“You know. What’s something you’re doing right now? Outside of work, what’s your thing? Do you have any ideas you’re working towards?”
“I’m reading a new book?”
I don’t know how else to put it. So we talk about books we like or TV shows we caught up on. But to this day I’m not sure if I’m just asking wrong, or if she really doesn’t have projects. It’s my projects that keep me going. What I create has always been a part of who I am, and how I view myself. I can’t remember the first time I experienced the love/hate relationship with a “thing” I decided to make/write/do.
Still, when my grandparents ask me what I’m up to, I respond with something dull about school and the conversation moves elsewhere. I don’t say, “Trying to write a book and it’s fun but it’s also killing me slowly.” or, “Keeping up with my blog, but I wish I had time to draw more for it.” or, “I had an idea for a web comic!”. And I don’t know why not. I guess that’s why I like to ask other people. Because I really would like to hear about other people’s fun projects. But either they don’t have any, or like me-with the exception of telling the Internet- they just don’t really talk about it to many people.
Maybe when my sister walks into my room and sees a painting of eyes above my desk that’s littered with notebooks and story notes, or opens my closet door to see a life sized drawing taped to the inside of the door, she doesn’t have something of her own to compare it to. Or maybe she does. It’s just not drawing, or writing.