My future is currently unwritten, but I’m content


My course selection form from eighth grade, with Writing for Publication in the final elective.

I like writing.

That should be obvious, due to the fact that I write story after story for this website, but I didn’t realize it right away. 

I’ve never considered myself a writer. Not only because I’m underqualified for such a title, but also because I don’t necessarily have a passion for it. As a kid, I had a few google docs of cringe-worthy, unfinished ‘books’ that will never see the light of day—because I’ve since deleted them—but I never took it seriously. I didn’t want to be an author when I grew up; I simply let my imagination run wild through grammar errors, impractical fonts, and countless plot holes.

Then suddenly I was in eighth grade, holding the course selection paper for next year in my hand without a clue of what to write down. In history class, we watched a half-hour video of descriptions of every elective, but it was not enough to aid me in my decisions for the next year. 

So, I FaceTimed an equally-stressed friend, Addie, and we found the video on YouTube and rewatched the whole thing. Writing for Publication sounded pretty interesting to us, despite not having an overwhelming adoration or even an aptitude for writing. I don’t recall what drew us to the class, but it was enough for me to scribble it down with a smiley face next to it in the second elective slot on my orange paper.

Now here I am, one semester and two months in, and still diffident about my writing ability. I’ve spent far too many late nights struggling to find even the smallest spark of inspiration, and I’ve wasted far too many words complaining about having to write a story in one night after immense procrastination.

I should probably love writing with my entire being. I want to be able to put every ounce of my soul into a piece of writing and be proud of it. I should plan on being a journalist, or an author, or literally any job that entails writing as a primary facet. 

In an abrupt turn of events, my aspirations towards psychology didn’t change but rather shifted to a bullet point on a list instead of the entire plan itself.

When I was ten, I decided I was going to go into the psychology field. I came to ‘dress as a job’ day with a notepad and a pencil, asking my friends, “And how did that make you feel?”. My unwavering determination and definitive decision for my future impressed adults, but as I grew older I began adding “I think” and “maybe” to every sentence regarding my future. “I might change my mind, who knows,” I mentioned. But I never did. I still find psychology fascinating; my interest started with my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Turcotte, teaching me the basics of the nervous system. In an abrupt turn of events, my aspirations towards psychology didn’t change, but rather it shifted to a bullet point on a list instead of the entire plan itself. 

I do know that no matter what happens, I want to be happy. Whatever career path I end up on, I want to have a passion for it. I can see myself sitting in an office, belonging to Dr. Peirce, with some version of the stereotypical couch and chair therapy session set-up. I can see myself in an aesthetically-decorated classroom, hopefully leaving a positive imprint on malleable young minds. I can see myself in a coffee shop, sipping on a latte whilst typing away on my laptop, headphones on, focused solely on my writing.

Right now I’ll continue to make mistakes and write cheesy columns that I’ll cringe at in the future, because before I know it, the goals and aspirations, once years away, will be right in front of me.