"I want to be a writer, I want to write."I say. I breathe out the words in the slow, but firm warm air of the car. "But there's no jobs there! Writing is a wonderful hobby, but only a handful of people can support themselves that way full-time." My mother once encouraged all of my hobbies. But I'm growing older. High school is in the fall and college is simply a blink away. "Most writers have a full time job and write on the side. Like my friend, Jen Cavailary." I met Jen Cavilary. I liked her. I liked her alot. But her work wasn't what I wanted to write. Jen Cavilary writes murder mysteries, that are probably only sold in the paperback section of a used bookstore in her own small hometown. I don't want to write like that. My dreamalways consisted of cites and Barnes & Nobles, and the New York Times bestseller. I wanted to write something that was succesful and meant something to someone. I wanted a book that introduced something to the world wheter it was a known but unsaid truth, A beauty of my own creation, or simply my own brand of humor. Just to add something good to the world, and do it on my own, with no one's help but Webster's. That's the trouble with life. It's the one thing I can't write a happy ending to. The one thing not controlled by me and enclosed within a cover and created by a pen, is life. It's always been hard for me, a mental escapist to face real life. I would much rather live inside the pale, blue lined spaces in my head.
"What about genetics?" My mother asks. "I've never had any interest in science." I say. Science and Mathmatics are subjects that I have done my best to eliminate from my future.But I always loved history. I always loved hearing about people, who had been misted slightly by time. It's easy to love and admire someone until you know them personally.
Book characters, you know them intimatly but there's always a wall between you. I'm not sure which part attraches me. The intimacy I feel for these people, or my distance from them which blinds me to their faults. In life I don't have that wall that blinds me to people's faults. They are there,an equal part of all of them. But big enough for me to notice.
"You need to go into a field with jobs." My mother emphasises. "So I'm a waste because my hobbies don't have money attached to them?" I say.
I believe my great fault is cynisism. I demonize reality. I believe in ugly sharp truth and nothing else. All cynic's hearts have been pierced by thorns. But there's always a soft, vibrant red rose attached. A dream. A want. And we cling as hard as we can to that one perfect rose, even as it cut us. Even when it's ripped from our fingers. Especially when it's ripped through our fingers.
"I didn't say that." My mother says. "I just think you need to be more realistic."