When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a story teller. I’d weave extra tales from story prompts at school and treasured school journal time. I wanted to write, but I wasn’t very good at it. I entered competitions in play writing and got the equivalent of a “C”. I hated myself over it. At 16, my family went to a get together. First to arrive, a family friend asked me what I wanted to be when I got older, and what I wanted to do in college. 

When I responded that I wanted to be a writer and that I wanted to major in creative writing, my father chuckled. He made jabs, saying how terrible my grades were, and saying I would never make any money as a writer. In this instance, what he said was particularly cruel, and I ran into the bathroom crying. 

My parents friend followed me, telling me that if I believed in myself, then i would achieve my dreams. 

Years later, I’m a senior in college, studying something practical. And yet here I am. Writing a blog, trying to write a book, and hoping for the best. So did I give up on that dream?

I don’t know. Maybe I’ll keep doing this forever, trying to write a book, trying to be good at something, and maybe I’ll never achieve that. Or maybe I’ll manage it. I don’t really know. All I know is that I have to keep trying. 

Giving up isn’t an option. I love what I am doing now, I enjoy it and I am passionate about it. Politics makes me happy.

But writing is still important to me. 

So what, I compromised. Have you?

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