Generally, people politely laugh when I tell them I'm going to be an
English
major. My
college counseler says: "Oh, that's be great for being a
docter
or a
lawyer." By now, I just nod... trying to explain is too hard. I've
fought myself over it for seventeen years, trying to define who I am, define
what my
vocation means...
It's gotten to the point where writing, where art, where learning
has become a necessary part of my existence. Giving it up would be as impossible
as given up breathing, and as I mouth that tired cliche I wince, but only
because it is vulgar, but also true. I am not a writer now, I am journeying
to become one. I am not an artist now, though I make pretty pictures and women find me oddly attractive. But I am moving toward that, the end
of understanding and more important the end of creation faster.
And then I read what you write and realize what sorry assemblage
springs forth from my adolescent, gawky fingers. And I shouldn't write you,
but ya'll, everyone, and it depresses the hell out of me, to quote some kid. So I just continue to grow, and hope, and pray
that I'll find a pretty girl who wants a homemaker for a husband.