VERONICA KUFFEL

FEBRUARY – APRIL

“Age” – Jim Croce, 1973

It’s inconceivable to think it’s been three months since my last entry. At the same time, I’ve been busy with the weekly news of Southern Arizona.

As a writer, I like to think one of the best ways to get to know an area is by writing about it. I’ve kept an even if not aggressive stream of articles flowing through my publishers, Marana News, the Northwest Explorer and Tucson Weekly.

I had a goal to look for outdoor stories and broaden my network, and I sure enough accomplished that in full. I’ve connected with organizations, businesses, nonprofits and some cool leaders in the community. Like my fascination with writing art news years ago, I’ve built a good base of news for the outdoors.

I initially never wanted to be a full-time journalist; the work of a reporter is crucial, and most of the time, it’s a sacrifice. You help get the word out regarding current events and stories that often go untold but at the price of a decent living wage.

My time with Times Media Group has been different, and I enjoy my work and coworkers. If I’m ever stressed, it’s usually because I did it to myself. It’s a good experience.

Every month, I’ve managed to visit my people in Madison, and I’m grateful for that. I get to see Dean and Reilly and hang out with them, along with the other people in my life that make me whole.

As the summer draws near, I feel myself splitting in two. One part of me here, one part of me there. But it’s better than it usually is–most of the time I feel like I’m tearing in so many different directions.

There’s this anecdote I found online a few years ago. It’s from the poet and writer, Sylvia Plath, and it’s actually a short excerpt from her book, The Bell Jar. The story fictionalizes experiences in her twenties with Esther, an adolescent woman who spends the summer working for a magazine in New York.

From what I’ve heard, it’s a morbid but honest depiction of the pressures of reality. In a sense, it’s about growing up and navigating the balance of identity and society. I still haven’t read it all, but this part has stuck most with me.

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked.

One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out.

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

“The Bell Jar;” (Plath, 1963)

There was a time I wanted to be an author, then a singer, then a famous soccer player, and after, a basketball star. Then back to singer, then again, author and poet. There may have been a nun in there somewhere.

For a time, there was the art lawyer, and following that, a copywriter. A filmmaker, even. Now, I’m a journalist. I still have the pineapple farmer and cave dweller dreams I keep in the back of my head.

All of these were diced and seasoned together with how I viewed myself, how others wanted to see me, how I wanted them to see me.

That balance of finding yourself through identity and society, it’s hard. It drove Esther, and by extension, Plath, to insanity.

Every day, there are moments when I question what I’m doing. I’ve lived in my uncle’s guest house for almost seven months. For half of those months, I was fighting anxiety and my bank account in coffee shops. I’m surrounded by people who are constantly asking–what do you plan to do?

And to be honest, I’m almost surprised they expect a coherent answer at this point. There’s never been one thing I wanted to do except write and write well. I know I can get overly deep and romantic with this stuff but that’s the gold-plated fact.

What I can tell people is with every experience, I get closer to what I want, at least for a profession. Each job I find myself in narrows the selection down bit by bit.

I chuckle with the fig tree analogy–somehow I’m nibbling on each one before I choose it. It’s not the most efficient way to choose, but I don’t think I would want it any other way.

As for the more upcoming future, I’ve narrowed it down to a few branches, ripe with fruit. Now I just need to pick one of them–a branch I mean. Sure there are still five to ten fruits per branch, but it’s better than sitting under a tree with thousands of figs dangling before me.

But I am getting hungry, and it’s getting time I pick one.