An Introduction

When I turned 18 I thought, and this is not a lie, “Cool, now I can vote and move away from Anaconda*.” Twenty-one brought the unmistakable joy of buying booze with a real ID and without feeling panicky about it.

And now 23…what does that even mean? So many ages come with inherent significance and meaning without any effort on part of the individual, but 23 just sticks out as a meaningless era between legal drinking, and cheaper insurance.

Okay, so maybe I’m being sardonic. But I have my reasons. College is over. I’m single. Broke. About 20 pounds overweight. I need new glasses. My hair is calling for a full retreat from my scalp. Prescriptions cost too much. Gas costs too much. I think I’m developing some sort of gastronomical issue. I may be a hypochondriac. And my sleep patterns are dreadfully erratic.

This was not what I pictured as my life at 23, but oh my, it is.

What do you do when you wake up one morning, just shy of 23, chunky yet having malnutrition, with the taste of Marqués de Cáceres Crianza Rioja 2003 wine still bitter in your mouth, and a mild case of depression? What if the greatest compliment you had ever received began to ring untrue? I don’t know the answers either, but I plan on finding out.

Starting Jan. 15, my birthday, I will begin daily postings here (and occasionally on YouTube) as a way to chronicle the next year of my life as I search for the answers to the following:

• Out of college…now what?
• Single…now what?
• Two years to write a complete draft of a novel as per promise to dying relative (made three years ago)…how hard can that be?

And probably the most important question:

• What do I really want in life?

For some reason I always thought what I wanted was to be a published, professional writer. Then, I found out how easy it is to be this. You go to journalism school for four years, work moderately hard, graduate, and apply to a newspaper. Done. Pro. Dream discovered. I never realized until now that there were more layers to be exposed, such as what kind of writer one wishes to be, or where one wants to write. I always thought you just wrote stuff somewhere. Wrong. It’s complicated.

So, for those of you who haven’t quite figured it out, I am having a mid-mid-life crisis. Out of boredom, stupidity, or both, I am asking you to come join me on my quest to find answers in my life, and maybe figure out just who the hell Duganz at 23 really is.

*Clarifying: Anaconda is a small town in Montana where I grew up. Hated. And am happy to be free of.