I spent four years studying psychology. For every minute of those four years I knew exactly where I was going. I would get good grades, I would complete my honours year, go on to post-graduate study, and become a clinical psychologist.
Then I graduated with a Bachelor of Psychology with Honours.
Suddenly, my life wasn’t so clear.
I loved the study of psychology, the knowledge I gained. Just not the practice.
In typical fashion for a 20-something just out of university, I spent the next few months having an existential crisis. Who was I? What did I want? What was I going to do for the rest of my life?
I worked in my retail job, enjoying the freedom and money that came with my emancipation from academia and tried to answer these burning questions.
Then one day I was sent to work in a small store for a few months, where I would be alone for hours every day. And I got bored, as one does with very little to do, and no-one to talk to.
So, one day I picked up a pen and a notepad, and just started writing. After two months, I had 20 000 words written. Words that I have since re-written and revised countless times, as I figured out the story I was trying to tell.
And once again, things became clear.
The written word has always been my passion. I could read long before the other kids my age, and was reading at an adult level before I started high school. Books were, and are still, my best friends.
From a very young age I have always had an extremely active fantasy life. For as long as I could remember, if I wasn’t reading before bed, I was creating stories in my head to fall asleep. I could create characters, worlds, story lines. Sometimes based on my favourite tv shows, books, movies, and even songs. Sometimes based on the events in my life.
It wasn’t something that I ever shared with anyone else. Even as a child I knew it wasn’t something that everyone did, that most other people didn’t spend their time creating alternate realities inside their heads. At times I’ve actually worried that this was something pathological, that there was something wrong with me. But now I realise that just isn’t true.
I have always wanted to write.
And that is the truth. I want to write stories, like the ones that have kept me company all my life.
Until recently, I didn’t realise that this was an option. It just never occurred to me that I could be a writer. I wasn’t good enough. It’s not practical. Writing isn’t a real job. These were just a few of the thousand different reasons why I should ignore my dream, to squash so thoroughly that I almost forgot it was there.
But not anymore.
I am going to write. I will try to make a career out of it, but mostly I am going to write because it makes me happy.
And that what this blog is about. Sharing my thoughts, my story as a future author, and simply writing for fun (without the pressure of a story burning inside of my brain, desperate to be let out).
This blog is for me, and for people like me.
Readers. Writers. Bibliophiles. Dreamers.