This is the story of a girl who loved to write.
She loved to write so much that she started a diary in the first grade, trying to use words she didn’t know how to spell yet.
She loved to write so much that in the fourth grade, she wrote a story about a mother and her daughter who moved around to avoid paying rent. Her teacher was so impressed that she gave her special computer hours (on an old Apple, this was around 1990) to type up her story during lunch time.
She loved to write so much that in the sixth grade, she wrote a 600-word Halloween story that her teacher read in front of the whole class. She was so proud.
She wrote a little less during high school, at least she didn’t write anything amazing for school but still found a way to write Star Wars fan fiction and learn English in chat rooms.
She seemed to have a knack for writing, because after high school she never really had problems with written assignments. Friends and school colleagues would ask her for editing. She passed a French literature course having written only two of the four assigned essays, ending up with an 85. She still wonders how that happened.
She loved to write so much that when she discovered literary studies in English, she didn’t want to stop. She did it for six years, only to realize that the writing she would spend her life doing would be read by only a handful of people.
She then decided to leave academia to try her luck as a writer who would write stuff that normal people would actually read. Stuff that matters, stuff that’s interesting, stuff that will be read, stuff that touches people. Stuff that helps sell things or bring more clicks on a website, too. She seems to be good at those things.
But now the girl is at a crossroad. Does she keep on trying to write, scraping for clients and competing for the rare jobs she feels qualified for, or does she go back to school to learn how to write better?
To be continued.