Growing Up
Growing up, I never imagined myself sitting in an office listening to disgruntled students take out their misguided frustrations on me. Actually, I never really pictured myself working. At least by the way it is typically defined. Since I was in the fifth grade, I knew I was going to be a writer. I actually had that thought up until probably, a few days after I graduated with my Bachelor’s in English with a minor in Creative Writing. That’s when I realized that type of work didn’t exist. At least for me. At least for where I found myself living. Other people moved to New York. Other people got those opportunities.
I had to work to live, so I did.
With encouragement from my family, I applied to an MFA program, and received a personal phone call from the director, welcoming me as their first accepted applicant for the upcoming academic year.
I put it off.
Two years later, I got tired of all the working.
The graduate program let me come anyway, two years later. So, I went. There, I met very smart people. Artsy people. Brooding writers, who smoked cigarettes and drank coffee and only craft beers and red wine. I also met a few people who would become my friends. Everyone, a good writer. Once again, I see the thick competition.
I graduated from the MFA program two years later, went back to my job and had hopes of continuing to write, write, write.
Life has a way of getting in the way, or at least I let it. Three years later, I’m sitting here at another job writing about writing, and kicking myself in the ass for letting things slip away.
I had to work to live, so I did.
With encouragement from my family, I applied to an MFA program, and received a personal phone call from the director, welcoming me as their first accepted applicant for the upcoming academic year.
I put it off.
Two years later, I got tired of all the working.
The graduate program let me come anyway, two years later. So, I went. There, I met very smart people. Artsy people. Brooding writers, who smoked cigarettes and drank coffee and only craft beers and red wine. I also met a few people who would become my friends. Everyone, a good writer. Once again, I see the thick competition.
I graduated from the MFA program two years later, went back to my job and had hopes of continuing to write, write, write.
Life has a way of getting in the way, or at least I let it. Three years later, I’m sitting here at another job writing about writing, and kicking myself in the ass for letting things slip away.