I feel like this is the point in my life, where I’m supposed to have some inkling of what I want to do with my future, but I really don’t have any idea. To clarify:
Nirvana picking ideas for her future; a mini novella
Me: weeeeeeell, I want to be a psychologist.
Brain: no no no, you want to be a crazy cat lady who lives in a mansion till you’re eighty.
Me: Okay, what about trying to narrow down the subjects you want to take?
Brain: no no no, I have no clear idea!…Let’s take everything! Every subject!…It’ll come handy one point or another!….yay okay glad that’s cool
Me: You have no idea? Like really?
Brain: you know what I really want to be? A BEAUTIFUL SIREN WHO SINGS ON ROCKS AND LURES SAILORS TO THEIR DEATHS
You get the idea? Jokes aside, I want to write.
Except I can’t, because I’m not the next J.K Rowling and John Green and there’s nothing to say that this as my entire career will kick off.
Because yes, I want to be a writer. I want to be able to walk into a bookshop and see someone picking up my book (ha! Not happening). I want to be able to say “Yes, I am a writer” and not a confused human being who has no idea what to do with her future and writes fic on ff.net.
But at the same time, if I really were to be a writer, I don’t know how I would cope. I have awesome parents who actually want to write, and agreed to help me publish. I don’t have the whole “I had to struggle to write in a household which didn’t know about what I really wanted to be” thing going on. They gave me everything for it. Except, even despite all that and the pen (or laptop, whatever you prefer) practically shoved into my hands, I really don’t know.
Because I live in a country where most people are conservative, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable saying “Yes, I wrote that.” There’s no industry for writers here, and I feel like there’s an invisible barrier which no author really crosses – either it’s children books, or an adult one. It has to be something with our country, but as much as I love writing stories about my culture, I don’t know if I want to write Pakistani stories all my life. You don’t walk across Young Adult writers across the street.
Annnd, as well as I’m fine with putting something up and flinging it out to the world on the internet, I’m not sure what a real book would really mean. I’m young and puny and insignificant. And I know that at some point three years later and I might cringe at what I’ve written and not be happy with it. (Hey, forget the might, I know I’m going to cringe at my slobbering mess of prose, all nighters, and words squeezed between like fifteen assignments.) I won’t be happy with it and there’s something that is so terrifying about a book in print. It’s a real actual live book that I can hold and open!!1!! And it has words! That I’ve written! I don’t know, just how “permanent” it is. I am a bean who can’t cope with that.
But at the same time…do I really want to wait a few more years (more like 3287489347) till I’m confident?