I was about 5 or 6 when my mother handed me a pen and my first journal. She told me to write my secrets down, so I wouldn’t have a need to share them with anyone. She then handed me a key that locked my deepest thoughts, and ever since then I’ve been writing. By the time I graduated elementary I’ve written my first short story. As I reminisce I was proud of it. I shared it with my family, and friends. They all thought I had a gift.
By the time I finished middle school I was reading about a world full of drugs, sex, and money. I thought that was the lifestyle to live. As a leader I introduced many of my friends to it. I knew it was just an experience that another person went through and thought about sharing with others, but I guess my thoughts on it inspired some of those friends that was the life to live. I don’t take the blame for it because I know other influential people opened their minds deeper to it while I continued to read and write my teenage years away.
In high school I fell in love with Shakespeare and poetry. I attended a performing arts school, and I experienced writing my own scripts, becoming another character, and exploring a different type of living. I began to read romance novels, and short stories about surviving in the world as a young adult. I believed to have my take on life and I decided to quit reading and writing for a bit because I thought it was childish. Although I told my friends I was going to be a sex therapist writer.
Early years of college I changed my entire dream of just becoming a sex therapist and leaving the writing out. I studied psychology for three years, and I enjoyed the subject a lot. Until I attended one class and thought about how I didn’t want to be a therapist all of my life. I wanted to write.
During those years I pushed conquering all of my dreams. I started off with trying to become a model, then I got bored, so I pursued becoming a bank teller which I enjoyed, but I couldn’t focus because I was pursuing my dreams of becoming a worldwide sex therapist. Once I lost that job and I began to give up on psychology I didn’t know what else to do, but follow my heart and that was to create.
I began to write. I began to paint. I started going on road trips, and I was starting to network. Money started to get low and I began to get scared, so I ventured back into the world, and I was blessed with a job. Now each night I go in I have to pray because its not what I wanted although it was in another dream that I believed was cool. I thought the money would be decent, but I forgot how the people were so…
I’m sitting here in my living room with the heater on and I’m thinking Who Am I Writing For? Why Do I Want A Writers Job? If writing is my passion then wouldn’t I do it for free? Or do I just want the title to say that I’m living my only dream that was given to me. I look for jobs and they all ask for writers that are passionate about other topics. They want writers that will teach. I’m passionate about inspiring others, but thats not good enough to earn money.
The answer to who am I writing for is I’m writing for me, but that sounds selfish when said out loud, so I force myself to change my way thinking and say I’m writing for you. I’m writing to teach. I’m writing to guide others to love themselves. This may not get me far because most people of the world are not aware of self-love, some don’t even believe, so in order to survive should I change my passion, and pursue a new life, a new dream, should I give up the whole idea of writing, and start becoming a robot to the system and fall into the trap of what others believe is living.