I’m very sick. Really, I even went to the doctor and everything, which if you know me, you realize it’s kind of a big deal if I break down and go to the doctor.
I went to Goddard this morning because it’s cheap and I didn’t have anything else to do and I figured that actually finding out what was wrong with me was probably more important than going to class when I may or may not have the flu. So I woke up kind of early and went to Goddard, trusty book in tow, because I know how Goddard works.
It was the most amazing two and a half hours I’ve spent in the last semester because I actually got to read.
I was an early reader and I never really settled for that ridiculous children’s book thing. I liked chapter books. Books with substance and characters and settings and complex motifs. In other words, I was a writer from birth. As a child, I very much liked deconstructing the written word and finding something deeper in them. Analyzing word choice has always been one of my favorite things to do, which probably explains why I find Dickens and Faulkner terribly dull.
When I came to college, I was saddened to have any of the rare free time I had sucked up by studying or sleeping. I missed my words, whether I was reading them or writing them. When I had breaks, I devoured books like they were going to be taken from me forever. Going nine months out of the year with no entertaining fiction was like torture to me.
More than I missed reading, I missed writing. I had gained quite a following online and in certain fandoms that will remain unnamed. I loved shaping the characters that someone else had created and making my own story lines from their meticulously crafted worlds. When you’re studying to be a doctor, the time to write is nonexistent, and I accepted the fact that I would never write again.
When grades came in at the end of my first semester, it became painfully clear that I needed to pick a better major. I tried my hand at literature, because of my love for analysis, but I discovered that my analysis didn’t always agree with my professor’s analysis, which was kind of necessary for success in those classes.
Through a friend, I learned about the Professional Writing program in the College of Journalism, and I less than jumped at the opportunity, but tried it for lack of a better idea. What I found in my Writing for Mass Media class was a home. We were learning mechanics that had always come so naturally to me I didn’t even realize there were rules. We were editing, writing, making mistakes, learning about the business, and reading stories that we weren’t required to write ten page papers over.
So now I’m doing what I love. It probably won’t make me any money whatsoever, but I’ll deal. Maybe I’ll even get lucky and sell a novel or two. For now, thanks for reading.
Maybe I’ll sign something for you one day.