As I've gotten older, I've learned to listen to myself and what my inner me is saying. However, way back when, even during college and slightly beyond, I didn't know how to heed the call within me. I spent more time worrying about what other people would think of my decisions, instead of concentrating on what the decision was and how it would affect me. Had I actually listened to the voices in my head, my path today might be very different. Then again, it might not. I have no way of knowing.
A friend sent this lovely little throwback from 1995 (I think). She found it in our college yearbook, and yes, there's me, on the far right, in the front row. (I must be in the front row! Thanks, Bob Uecker!)
I remember that sweater well...it was a perfect mix of neutrals, blues, and reds, but the thread was quite scratchy, and the fit? It didn't fit well. At all. Of course, nothing in college fit me well. It was a time of wearing too-big clothing and hiding every curve of my body. And to top it all off, I think I look like I need to be resuscitated.
But back to the issue. In this stunning picture, I'm pushed together with a group of individuals who made up the English Composition Board Peer Tutors: students who helped others make their writing better. Huh. Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Don't The Plot Sisters and I do that every two weeks? Don't I work with writers to do the same over at Literary Mama? Why yes, yes I do.
So don't you wonder what happened between 1995 and 2012, when I decided to turn my life around and get back to writing? What made me veer off course?
The answer is simple: I listened to everyone else. I decided that being able to support myself with a career in science was a better idea than having a career that I was passionate about. I thought that the ability to write was not worthy of a career, in fact, and that it would be far nobler to become a scientist. I thought that my parents would be much more proud of a daughter who added MD or PhD to her name than one that put MFA at the end of it.
But I can't blame anyone but myself. No one held a gun to my head and said, Apply to medical and graduate school, or else. Only I can take the blame for where I've ended up.
And even though, as I look at this picture, I'm reminded again of all the goals I had with respect to writing, I realize that because I took a more convoluted path to get where I am, I've enriched my writing background. I've added so many more experiences to the mix. I've met more people from different circumstances and sprinkled in more spice and variety. It's something I'd do again, if I had the chance (I think I've said this before). But it is good to be reminded that the path we've chosen started somewhere.
A friend sent this lovely little throwback from 1995 (I think). She found it in our college yearbook, and yes, there's me, on the far right, in the front row. (I must be in the front row! Thanks, Bob Uecker!)
I remember that sweater well...it was a perfect mix of neutrals, blues, and reds, but the thread was quite scratchy, and the fit? It didn't fit well. At all. Of course, nothing in college fit me well. It was a time of wearing too-big clothing and hiding every curve of my body. And to top it all off, I think I look like I need to be resuscitated.
But back to the issue. In this stunning picture, I'm pushed together with a group of individuals who made up the English Composition Board Peer Tutors: students who helped others make their writing better. Huh. Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Don't The Plot Sisters and I do that every two weeks? Don't I work with writers to do the same over at Literary Mama? Why yes, yes I do.
So don't you wonder what happened between 1995 and 2012, when I decided to turn my life around and get back to writing? What made me veer off course?
The answer is simple: I listened to everyone else. I decided that being able to support myself with a career in science was a better idea than having a career that I was passionate about. I thought that the ability to write was not worthy of a career, in fact, and that it would be far nobler to become a scientist. I thought that my parents would be much more proud of a daughter who added MD or PhD to her name than one that put MFA at the end of it.
But I can't blame anyone but myself. No one held a gun to my head and said, Apply to medical and graduate school, or else. Only I can take the blame for where I've ended up.
And even though, as I look at this picture, I'm reminded again of all the goals I had with respect to writing, I realize that because I took a more convoluted path to get where I am, I've enriched my writing background. I've added so many more experiences to the mix. I've met more people from different circumstances and sprinkled in more spice and variety. It's something I'd do again, if I had the chance (I think I've said this before). But it is good to be reminded that the path we've chosen started somewhere.
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