I spent much of my childhood laying in bed, scratching unfinished stories into notepads. I’d read them to my parents. They’d listen and smile.
People would ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I’d hold my pencil to my chest and say, “A writer.”
But then I got older. And I read a short story written by one of my high school classmates. It was good. Really really good. It was the first time I remember thinking, “I can’t do that. I can’t write like her.”
People would ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I’d hide my pencil behind my back and say, “I’m not sure.”
I graduated and went to college. A place where being a published author was a cute kid’s dream, but not realistic as an adult.
I’d stare at the pencil on my desk and say, “Maybe a teacher.”
Then I went to Africa and words piled high in my chest. A great flood of words. A story that needed telling. So I picked up the pencil and let them spill onto the page. And afterward, I felt good. I felt like that little girl laying in her bed. A little girl with stories to find.
People would ask, “What will you do when you graduate?”
I’d blink at the pencil in my hand and say, “Oh. Right. I’m going to teach.”
But the stories wouldn’t leave. I had to get them out. So I did. I wrote them. I wrote them and wrote them and wrote them. When I told people what I was doing, I’d occasionally run into a curious look.
That’s….nice, their looks would say.
Those looks reminded me of that girl’s short story in high school. The one I wasn’t talented enough to write.
But the stories still came. Despite my fears. Despite my doubts. They came. And somewhere in the middle of all that writing, I stopped caring that I wasn’t the best. That this might not be realistic or practical. The joy of putting words on paper drowned all that other stuff out.
So now, when people ask, “What do you do now that you’re all grown up?”
I clutch my pencil to my chest and say, “I write.”
Let’s Talk: What stops you from chasing your dreams? What do you want to be when you grow up?