What do you want to be when you grow up?
I have heard this question so many times before. And every time I was able to answer it confidently. A writer, an actress, an event planner, a cake designer, a hotel manager, a drama teacher, a preacher,a psychologist.
And this list goes on and on and on.
As you can deduct, I have grown a lot in my time and so have my interests. But since I was able to read, all I ever wanted to do was write. I wanted to write stories and books and even poems once I started to understand them. I wanted to feel a pen in my hand or my fingers running over a keyboard. I loved to see how the words grew as my story unfolded. I always dreamed of living in an old house looking over some beautiful view, whether it be of city lights or the ocean, I did not care.
Yet soon enough I realized that this dream would always be just that: a dream.
A writer is someone who is able to create a new word or put into words that which people g to hear or to see or to feel and I am definitely NOT that person. I can’t even put into words that which I feel. I can’t even capture that which already exists. How then am I supposed to be the person that creates a whole new world for people to escape to?
What do I want to be when I grow up?
I used to be dream of all that I could be in the far future in which that question would be answered. Yet here I sit: the future staring me in the face, screaming this question at me and I have no idea what I am supposed to say.
What am I supposed to be when I grow up when I can’t even do the only thing that I am mildly good at?