Because.

It’s one of those days.

When I taught a Junior Achievement class called “Real Jobs, Real World,” I used to ask my high school students to imagine they had the job of their dreams. It supported the lifestyle of their dreams. They loved every minute. (I cheated a little – I emphasized the part about “of your dreams” with a video of stunt cyclist Danny MacAskill practicing his moves, riding his bicycle off a wall and up a tree, among other things.)

Then I asked them if they thought, when they had that job, that there ever would be days they just did not think they could go to work. I asked them if they thought MacAskill ever felt that way. Always, the answer was, “No.”

This was the unit on motivation. It was the reality check, the “think it through” class. I wanted them to choose carefully, because I know about those days. No matter how much you love what you do, sometimes it just doesn’t come together. Those times, you need a reason to get up and do it anyway.

I love to write. I love to tell stories, to surprise, to make my audience laugh or weep – maybe even get mad. I want them to feel more than they did before. In the best cases, I may be able to shed a little bit different light on a subject, get one person to see something just a little differently. But some days, the latest twist of the new short story drives me crazy, or the layout of the Wire won’t work. Some days, I have no earthly idea what to say in this note, and I fear it will be pure drivel. Some days I question my ability, and some days, I just flat don’t want to do it. But I do. Even if it’s drivel, I write something.

This morning, I heard the news on NPR of the death of Marie Colvin in Syria. Ms. Colvin was a journalist – a woman who wrote. She spent much of her adult life on the front lines of war, recording what was happening, particularly to the civilians caught in the crossfire. She was, as are all war correspondents, well aware that her job could cost her life, but she kept doing it. She lost an eye to shrapnel in Sri Lanka in 2001; she put on an eye patch and went back to work. There were stories she was put on this earth to tell, and no one else could tell them the way she would.

This morning, NPR anchor Steve Inskeep asked one of Ms. Colvin’s colleagues, London journalist James Hider, why she kept going back. Before the poor man could answer, I was shouting at my radio (it’s a bad habit, I know), “Because she was a writer!”

I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure there are no Marie Colvins in my house. I haven’t yet run across a story I’m willing to die for. If ever I do, you’ll be the first to know.

But I get it. If you’re a writer, you just do it. Even on the days when you’re pretty sure you can’t, you do.

I think we’re special, we women who write. We tell stories our own way – stories no one else can tell. We bear witness to the little details of the heart as well as the sweeping horrors of war. Even the best of us – like Marie Colvin – probably wake up some days thinking, “It just is not worth it. I can’t do it today.” And then – if it’s our dream job, if it’s what we believe we were put here by the Universe to do – we knuckle down and tell our stories anyway.

Days like today, I feel very small. Marie Colvin exposed the tragedy and the lies of war up to – even on – the day she died. The best I’ll ever do is maybe get someone to stop and think twice about a dearly held preconceived notion.

But I also feel honored. Marie Colvin was a woman who wrote. I belong to that universe, too. My stories are smaller, less earth shaking (an understatement if ever there was one), but they are from the heart. And my stories, for the most part, are short fiction – but they bear witness to the truth as I know it.

This is one of those days I’ll remember when I have one of those other days, when I wake up and think, “Not today.” I’ll think it, sure – and then I’ll put on my shoes, make my cup of chai, and go do my job, telling stories. Being a woman who writes.

Achievement

Tomorrow is my second day teaching high school.

Okay, not entirely - it's a once-a-week gig for the next seven weeks, one class every Wednesday morning. A Junior Achievement pilot program called "Real Jobs, Real World," intended to introduce high school freshmen to the concept of career planning.

I'm thinking back to when I was 14, like most of these kids, and my brain is going off in 19 directions. (Nothing new there.) The main ones: (1) Who cares about planning anything at 14? (2) I wish someone had told me 40 years ago that a plan might help. (3) I wonder if I'd have listened. (4) Probably. I was dumb enough to listen when they said I should forget being an architect because I was no good at math.

Last week, I blew the curriculum all to hell. We were supposed to focus on how you need to go to college, although trade school is okay and graduating high school is okay, but you need to go to college, and by the way, only about one-third of one-third of one-third of Kentucky high school students will even make it to their second year in college, and incidentally, you can't bomb out like that, because you'll never get the career you want if you do. To which I said ...

Never mind. This is a family blog. I won't tell you exactly what I said. My meaning was, essentially, "What a crock of crap."

Yes, the statistics are true. What they leave out, though, are the very things that 14-year-olds won't be able to "abstract out" (as my old friend Bill used to say). First, there's no such thing as an "average" student. Everyone is different, and there is no norm. Second, if there were such a thing, it wouldn't look like you. And third, anyone who tries to tell you that your dream is unattainable is The Enemy. Trust no one who tries to take your dreams away from you.

So I followed the curriculum outline, but I don't think my class of 21 heard much of it. What they heard - over and over - was if you don't have passion for what you're doing, you're wasting your time and making your life miserable, whether you realize it or not. And follow your dream - success is a lot more than what kind of car you drive or how many bathrooms you have in your house. And I don't care where you live or what your family is like or what anyone else has told you - you can have any dream you're willing to work for.

I did also say that having a plan helps - that it took me 30+ years to attain my dream because I didn't plan for it - and that it's also a good idea to have a Plan B, so you can keep the lights on, the cable working, and ice cream in the freezer while you're working on Plan A.

Somewhere in there - I think while getting sidetracked by a young man who speaks Albanian at home and a bilingual Hispanic young woman - I also mentioned Dr. Ricky L. Jones, head of the Pan African Studies program at the University of Louisville. None of the kids had heard of Dr. Jones, so I gave them a thumbnail sketch of his bio. (If you're interested, google him. Good story. Also an excellent writer and an engaging speaker, not to mention a rabble-rouser par exellence, which for a Question-Authority Mama like me is the finest kind!)

This week will be a little closer to the book. We have videos of employers in the immediate area, and we're supposed to talk about what you can do close to home. And we will.

But I'm also going to send them to their next class with a copy of my IDP (Individual Development Plan), which aligns my professional goals and personal dreams and enlists my workplace manager and others to help me accomplish both, and an interview with Dr. Jones from the Courier-Journal a couple of years ago. I want these kids to see what dreams can do for you if you work your plan.

I wish someone had shown me that.