If you’ve been reading my blog for even a few posts, you know I’m impulsive. When I get an idea into my head I go for it immediately. The longest I stop to think about it is three days, and even that feels like way too long. I did not get the same patience and thoughtfulness my brother did. I’m all for living in the moment, but sometimes I take it to too much of an extreme. I am fully aware of this. That said…I really thought I was going to be a doctor. When I didn’t get accepted to med school, I didn’t think it was a big deal because getting accepted is a one in a million chance, no matter how great your grades are. I thought I would do a BSc and go from there; reapply. But then I started thinking…what if this is God telling me not to do it? And you know, when I thought that, I felt so relieved. Doesn’t that mean something? Just because I am fascinated by the workings of the human body and by the way disease and sickness develops, evolves, and affects us, doesn’t mean I should be a doctor.
On Sunday I was talking to a woman who doesn’t know me at all. She doesn’t know what I like to do or what my interests are. There was no reason for her to start talking to me about my future, or about university and what to study. There was no reason for her to say, “All that matters is that you follow your passion.” There was no way she could have known that I didn’t even have to think about what that is. All she knew is that I teared up and put on my sunglasses to hide the fact that I was crying.
If the thought of being a writer makes me so happy and desperate and hungry, I have to assume it means something, right? If it makes me so happy that I start crying profusely in front of some random stranger, doesn’t that mean something? It’s the one thing I have never seriously considered because it seems unbelievable to me that I could actually make my living with something I love so much. I’m afraid to even think it’s possible. But what if that’s what I’m meant to do? “Follow your passion.” There was no consideration. There was no thought. The answer is so obvious and natural to me that she hadn’t even finished the sentence before writing popped into my head.
I bribe myself to get through schoolwork with writing-related things. Finish this unit of math, write for ten minutes. I think about it all the time. I think about plots and characters and descriptions and words and how to bend them all day long, every day. I daydream and I always have a journal and a pen with me. My room is filled to overflowing because I have a whole bookstore of books – and a whole stationery store of journals, binders, notebooks, and leaves of paper. I have a freaking feather quill in my pen cup (which is actually a candle holder, but anyway) and two pots of ink in my drawer. At night when I get into bed I put the following on my desk beside me: Bible, devotional, pen, and journal to make notes in if inspiration strikes at 2 am (which it does).
What do every single one of my school notebooks and binders from the past seven years have in common? At some point or points they have a note about a novel in progress, a poem, or even whole chapters of fiction scattered throughout. (To all my teachers, I’d like to take this moment to apologize for occasionally pretending to take notes, do homework, or make notes on sheet music when actually I was writing about pirates or something.)
I’m not going to do the typical me thing and say, “I’m going to be a writer.” Whether or not I say that doesn’t change the fact that I am a writer. I write. Whatever else I may do, be, or become in life, two things are sure: I am a lover of Jesus, and I am a writer. As for the rest…there’s a road, I’m on a bus, and it’s taking me somewhere.