Imagine my panic when I realized this was not something I wanted to do with my life. Imagine how my poor mother felt when I told her, her dreams of having a doctor for a daughter would not become a reality. Imagine the tears and the screaming, the exasperated look on her face and the earth shattering words that can just destroy a dutiful daughter that aimed at nothing other than pleasing her mother, "I'm so disappointed in you." Now take all of that wasted imagery, and throw it out the window.
This is how it went:
Me: Mom, I have to tell you something. Before I tell you, you have to promise to let me finish. You need to know that I really thought it over and I know this is the right thing to do.
My Mom: Oh GOD! You aren't getting married. You are too young.
Me: Wait, What?
My Mom: GEEZE! I knew I shouldn't have let you go to that school. You were too young.
Me: What are you talking about? No! I'm not getting married.
My Mom: Well, what is it?
Me: I don't want to be a doctor.
My Mom: Oh, what are you going to do then?
That earth shattering conversation I spent weeks planning in my head, preparing for the worst case scenario... never happened. She just wanted to know what my plans were. A funny thing happened when I told her what the next thing I had planned was going to be... I was going to major in Political Science. I distinctly remember my mother saying, "Wow... so you want to be broke." I remember smiling and telling her, "NO! I want to change the world! Instead of working on patients without healthcare I'll be able to change the policies that enable them from getting the treatment they need." I was very, very optimistic. It was what I was meant to do. My intro to government teacher told me I would make a fine politician. I was bright and had a work ethic that matched no one he had ever met before. He thought I was wonderfully talented. My ability to write was unlike anyone he had ever seen, and I could argue my way around just about anything. I graduated with a Bachelors of Arts in Political Science and History from Texas Tech University after about 5 years (thanks to the complete change... AND double major).
In order to be in politics I had it in my head that I should become a lawyer. I did the research, looked at the math and came up with the plan. 40-50% of representatives and senators are lawyers. All I had to do was go to law school. To be competitive I needed to get my Masters in political science. It would really prepare me for the work I had in law school and make me more desirable to potential law schools. I did the work, put in the time, it wasn't all to difficult, until I hit a road block. I decided to take a course offered by a former judge and a current faculty member of the local law school. I had it in my brain that this was the most amazing opportunity ever. I could prove to them that I was smart, and dedicated and everything my intro to government teacher thought I was. I could show them that I had what it took and they could guide me in my quest to law school. Oh boy, was I ever more wrong?
I found myself getting irritated throughout the class. Annoyed that questions would turn into more questions and there were never any solid answers. The sliminess of their responses grated me. You would formulate a response and everything would make sense and there really was never a way to argue around it... however they were able to do just that. I hated law. I hated how they were able to twist my words. I purposely began to annoy them. I would state that they needed to expand the death penalty to include other heinous crimes. Did I mean it? I don't know. Part of me at the time did--well expanded enough to include professors who purposefully destroyed their students. I would find every opportunity to catch them in their responses. I took meticulous notes. I would find them contradicting themselves and made a point to press them on it. However with the tag team duo they were, it became impossible. I decided that law wasn't really the path for me. Several of my friends who were attorneys said this was standard practice. I couldn't imagine myself ever being like this. It was annoying. It was boring. It wasn't... me.
The most enjoyable class I ever had was in my sophmore year of college. I took an upper level fiction class. I heard the professor who was teaching it was amazing. He was. He was everything I had hoped for and more. The class was based on works of Stephen King. I know right? Very cool. I loved reading everything he ever wrote. I remember "sneaking" King's books from my mother when I was 10 or 11, only to find out in later years that she had deliberately left them in my path. My favorite short story by King, "Here there be Tygers," had me wishing my evil 4th grade language arts teacher would take an unscheduled walk to the boys washroom.
I wrote a story about aliens--I think. We were supposed to choose aspects of King's writing style and apply them to our own creative works. I was so nervous. I had never let anyone read my stuff before. College history or political science papers didn't count. At this time, it was the intro stuff and they didn't have to be creative. We didn't have to come up with our own theories or anything original. This class forced me to hand over something that was just... me.
I remember feeling like I was going to faint. The feeling that the world was closing in on you and you were sitting there exposed in your undies was overwhelming. I remember everyone passing their projects up to the front of the class. Me being the dutiful over-achiever I was at the time, always sat in the front row. I handed him the stack, leaving mine in my plastic portfolio. It was clearly marked with my name, the date, the title of my work, and finally the professor and the room number. He could clearly see it was my project. He noticed I had neglected to hand it to him, and reached for it. I promptly slammed my hand down on the desk, blocking his access. "Isn't that for me?" He asked. "Uh, yeah. Maybe." I replied. Everyone was staring. The loud noise of my hand smacking the desk had brought their attention straight towards me. "You have to let go some time." He said. Looking at me, with this weird look of understanding. "I know." I answered back. He repeated his prior statement, quieter looking intensely at me, "You have to let go some time." I promptly removed my hand, and he quickly grabbed it and placed it at the bottom of the pile. I was terrified. I had this idea that I was going to get it back bleeding. His corrections would destroy me. The red ink of death would signal I wasn't good enough. He wouldn't be critiquing my understanding of someone else's work. He would be critiquing... me.
I remember that like it was yesterday. I was terrified of what he would think about my work. I was terrified someone would hate what I wrote and I was embarrassed. The personal aspects of my story mixed with the fictional characters and the places, the worlds I weaved together would result in a big fat F.
I was wrong. The feeling I had when I got my paper back was unlike anything I had ever felt before in my life. I was praised for my creativity even though my structure and technical abilities needed work. I remember reading the review sheet thinking wow, he thinks I can do it? At the end of the paper he wrote, "Have you ever thought about becoming a writer?" I secretly did. I wanted to make up the stories that I so frequently ran to as a child, the ones I read that helped me escape my own reality. I never pictured myself as one of the characters bound in the pages of my favorite book, I always pictured myself as the woman behind the computer screen. I wanted to create worlds that kids, teens, adults, could escape to. I wanted to give them, what these authors gave... me.
I recently had a conversation with my mother. Similar to the one I had when I told her I wanted to be a politician. Here is how it went:
Me: Mom, I need to talk to you. It's really important. I need to finish before you say anything. I need you to really think about what I am saying before you get upset. It was a really big decision, and I think it's for the best.
My Mom: I'm really busy, what is it? I'm looking for dining room furniture on Craigslist!
Me: Mom, I'm done.
My Mom: Done with what?
Me: My education. I'm not getting my PhD or going to law school.
My Mom: Well, what are your plans now?
Me: I want to be a writer. I think I could be good at it. I love it. I've written a lot in the past couple months. I'm almost done with my first book.
My son: MiMi, I read it. It's REALLY funny.
My Mom: It's about time.
I was actually stunned. I never thought that she would take it so well. I should have known better. She has always supported everything I did, or stayed quiet when they weren't the best decisions. My son's ability to understand the importance of her acceptance was amazing. I knew he supported me, and I just hoped she would to. She looked up at me, and finally said, "So you want to be broke."
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