I've always been a writer; I just never wanted to admit it. When I was two, I would scribble on any piece of paper I could find and then animate a full story from the doodles--always changing the details every time I told it. I wrote my first short story at six for a Mother's Day gift. My mother always said I would be the next Toni Morrison but I always shrugged her off, never believing it would be true. For a long time, I thought I wanted to be a psychologist because I have this insatiable need to help people. So, when it was time to declare a major in college, I chose behavioral science, against my mom's protests, and was determined to prove her wrong. However, when I entered college and did a year and a half of psychology classes, I knew it was wrong for me. It wasn't what I loved. So, I went back to the drawing board and tried to figure out what I was truly passionate about. I took many electives and eventually came back to writing. To make sure I was truly invested in writing, I took a few English and Literature classes my University had to offer. I loved and exceled in them.
I went all-in with writing. I wrote a manuscript. I realized it was crap and tossed it out. I wrote another one. Decided to get it agented. That ended up in an epic fail. I wrote another manuscript. This was accepted by an agent and I am now agented by a fantastic agent that is interested in both my manuscripts plus one that I am working on now. I now am on a road to being published: going through edits, feeling the pangs of fear every day that passes and I don't hear anything from my agent, and waiting for a deal.
I decided to write about my emotional road trip. Maybe it will help, inspire, or lead someone else to their passion. Plus, I think this is a great forum to release the bouts of inspiration and the short stories I write often, but don't want to finish.
Welcome to my relapse.