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When I was younger, I used to write in riddles and I used to write in rhymes. I thought that by doing so, that I might capture the attention of my reader. I never anticipated I’d be writing for a specific audience; I wrote the way I felt in my heart and soul to be true, not realizing or accepting the fact that while patience might be common, intellect is not. Perhaps the true meaning behind my words might never be revealed, instead blinded by the manner in which they were written.
I used to write in sketchbooks with plain white pages; always in blue ink, and always in very tiny handwriting. There was no rhyme or rhythm to my writing, just random thoughts and accounts of the days events, filled with cryptic references, painting a picture akin to a ghost into a fog.
I had documented a substantial amount of my life during the early 1990’s, though as it turns out, it was a complete and total waste of my time. I wish I had spent my time more wisely, taking more pictures and taking my writing more seriously.
When we are young, we have a very different view about how the world really works. I always knew I wanted to be a writer, but some dreams appear to be abstract. In a world full of people with very concrete goals, becoming a writer is something that seems obscure and unusual to most. I believed to become a writer, one would have to write at least one book, and typical of being young and naive, I thought that my cryptic journal entries would one day could parlay into a national bestseller.
Never could I have imagined at such a young and unworldly age that becoming a writer would be a multi-step process; twists and turns, setbacks, and disappointments, made more fleeting by being forced to work in various and unrelated career paths. It is difficult to relate to those around me who attended college and universities with a clear, tangible goal in mind, for which their education was specifically tailored for.
Whenever someone asks me what I do for a living, I cringe. It is difficult to explain what a writer actually does, though the end product remains the same; written words, either printed on paper, or through some electronic medium, written for the consumption, entertainment, and/or enlightenment of the reader. The process from inspiration to finished product is immensely complicated, and even more difficult to explain.
From a very early age, my parents encouraged me to seek a career in something considered by most to be prestigious. Their dream was for their only child to become a business man. When I started my first year in college and wrote against capitalism, their back-up plan was for me to become a doctor. So I studied anatomy, physiology, and emergency medicine, but outside interests and curiosities made me question what I wanted to study. My true passion was writing. I can clearly remember my father lecturing me about how, as he put it, “you will never make a single dime by writing.”
He was wrong.
As time went on, it became clear that I was someone who might never posses a true calling. In other words, I was a multipotentialite, following my dreams and interests both vocationally and in life. The obvious career for me was to be a writer, photographer, and website designer; while not always considered prestigious or glamorous, it is the one business venture that has always been something I have been passionate about.
The header image was created using Canva; the font used is called Sacramento.
The Story Of My Life, And Other Ramblings | Gifted | What Writing Has Taught Me About Life | Thomas Slatin On How He Finds Inspiration | 130 Journal Writing Prompts | Discouragement | Why Some Of Us Don’t Have One True Calling