Previously.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” My first answer to this was: author. I was probably 8 years old, maybe even younger. I used to take notebook paper, and write out dialogue and draw pictures to go along with the story. Then I’d tear all the pages out, and staple them together. I was always so proud of my work.

When I was 12, I had a mentor in school, and I told them I wanted to write books. I’ll always remember how they said they’d be the first in line to buy them.

The stories I’d write as a child were not complex or well written. I remember having a story, kind of similar to the Warrior series about cats, but mine had horses living in the desert. One detail I’ll never forget is I had the horses holding water glasses, which I think when I wrote that, I knew it didn’t make sense. But I didn’t care and went with it anyway. Then I had another story about a girl who sat on a tree branch to watch the sunset every evening. And another about a man accidentally shooting his young son, and the older daughter leaving to live at a boarding school or something. These were written on my family’s computer, so a few years ago, I made it a point to back them up to my laptop. Not that I think they are masterpieces, but it’s fun to look back on from time to time.

As I got a bit older, I started to abandon the idea of being a writer to make a living. I thought maybe I’d be a horse trainer, or a psychologist, or even an accountant. I even started researching being a mixologist or bartender (I definitely do not have the right personality for that though, I mainly got the idea from the sims 3: late night). And currently, out of all of those things, I’m closest to being a psychologist. I only need about 2 more semesters before I graduate with my BS, and then from there, maybe I’ll get a masters? I don’t plan to do that anytime soon, though. Maybe down the line sometime. So I won’t technically be a psychologist, but I’ll soon be working in the field of psychology in some capacity.

Every once and awhile, I do think back on my original dream of being an author. I fantasize about how wonderfully peaceful that could be. I could have a little house somewhere, and I could spend months holed up there alone, just writing. But realistically, I would have to establish another career first in order to be able to financially support that life.

As an adult, I have tried to write some short stories for fun. However, I’ve noticed a common theme of giving the characters sad, boring lives, where they hate their jobs and don’t know what to do. Which is a direct reflection of my current state of mind. I did write one, though, that I actually liked. It needed some work, but the bones of it could actually be interesting. It was about a woman who was reincarnated, and when she ran into her family from her past life, she recognized their eyes, but didn’t know why. By the end, she realizes that her eyes are the same as theirs. Which it’s then implied that she was the mother and wife to these characters. It was only like 10 pages that I had written a couple years ago, but I think I could develop that further. Or maybe that’s super cheesy and silly. I don’t know.

Writing can be very difficult. I am enticed by the premise of creating my own world, and being able to manipulate storylines into exactly as I deem fit. But when it’s actually time to write, it can be hard to fill in the details, and make it meaningful. That’s when I lose motivation, and decide to toss it aside. I’ve been thinking about this more and more lately. I would love to write at least one story that I’m proud of, even if it’s only ever one in my whole lifetime. Just one piece of work that I can be proud to share and stand behind. That would be cool. I’ll keep contemplating potential ideas, and see if I can come up with anything worth pursuing.

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