Dear Leigh,

I know exactly what you mean.  Though I enjoy many things--a good book, writing an interesting sentence, painting, awful fashion shows on tlc--I tend to lack passion about any of them.  It's become particularly apparent to me in the last few months, when I've found myself faced with the question of what I want to do after graduate school, and when I've found myself questioning why I'm here to begin with.

From the beginning, the professors reference our THESIS, that horrible paper we'll be writing next year, and from the beginning I've been trying to figure out what mine is going to be on.  I like creative writing, and I like reading, so maybe I'll look into the evolution of the short story as an American genre, yet this idea fails to excite me beyond "oh, that'll be relatively easy to write about."  Other people have chosen eras that they love, authors that they love, yet I...I just like to read.  I like a good story.  I like to know about the people who wrote the story, and I like to know how that comes through in their work.  Yet, still, none of it excites me beyond "oh, that book sounds interesting; I think I'll read it if I can find the time."

Then I watch and listen to J, who agonizes over his stories, who turns out wonderful and original prose, who can argue passionately about a number of things, and I feel as though I'm failing in some way.  As a human, am I not supposed to have a calling?  

I haven't touched my most recent painting in a month, I can't seem to come up with a good story let alone finish one, and a thesis just sounds like a chore to me.  Afterward...honestly, I'll take a job wherever J plans to finish grad school, as long as it pays okay and seems somewhat interesting.  I'll have weekends to clean and do my little hobbies like sewing and painting and thrift-store shopping...

It seems like I'll live a life where my passion won't be translated to paper.  I'd love to be a writer, but my life up until this point has been entirely too average, and I don't care to write about it.  I wish I could make it relevant to others, and I wish I could think of an era of English literature that inspires me, but the truth is I just want to be able to enjoy my family and small occupations comfortably, and that's not really novel-worthy...

So I don't really have an answer to it all.  I feel similarly to you, and most of the time I'm pretty much okay with that.  Every now and then, though, I wish I had an intense interest in medieval linguistics or...Rudyard Kipling...or...writing the next great american novel.  I just don't have that thread, as you say, to weave through my writing that makes it exciting and relevant enough to be said to have passion except on the most superficial level.

My cat just began to snore.  I think it's time to go to bed.

Love,

Kate