I get mixed reactions when I tell people that I'm applying to graduate ancient history programs. Some are sincerely excited for me, some are surprised, and many give me blank stares as they try to figure out if they heard me correctly.
Their reactions aren't wholly unexpected though, considering the fact that I spent the majority of my lifetime pursuing everything music. I dedicated a daily chunk of life from age 12-19 to the piano, violin, flute, CD players, church musicians, and every other miscellaneous class and training my time could afford. It was so much fun and I knew I was good at it because of all the validation I received.
But as life always goes, ten-year plans as a 15 year-old rarely ever remain unchanged. Who would've thought that I'd end up being a college graduate applying to ancient history departments?
The point of the matter is, they're right when they say that your teen years are the most formative years. Because now I am constantly engaged in this inner struggle between pursuing music or academia. Of course I've asked myself, why not do both? Pursuing one doesn't exclude the other. Philosophically speaking, that's certainly possible and certainly very appealing.
But then I take my head out of the clouds and imagine life more realistically. Earning a doctorate in Greco-Roman history is not like getting a 9-5 job with free evenings and weekends. I'd imagine lectures, seminars, meetings, and TONS of reading, not to mention the ridiculous amounts of language acquisition. And I don't know how other students do it, but when I write, I need to completely lose myself in another world in order to write logically and effectively.
How does that leave time and, more importantly, the right atmosphere for doing things like songwriting, music lessons, improving technique, and listening? Creating takes place on a whole other plane and you need to be completely immersed. Ask any artist and they'll tell you how much dedication is required to create something good and satisfactory.
I guess when I think of my personal goals, I want to be single-focused and pursue one thing to the best of my ability. But there's always that strange feeling of regret and uncertainty that I shouldn't have given up the other path. And I get easily swayed. After a particularly stirring artistic performance, whether it be music, writing, art, or dance, my artistic side gets seemingly reawakened. Then the next day I discover another incredible book by Martin Goodman on Jewish society in the Roman empire and am ready to dive headlong into the academic world. Of course, I haven't given up on one or the other entirely. But I've come to the conclusion that I can only be dedicated to one or else be mediocre in both.
