One chilly October morning in Buffalo, New York, I awoke with an idea for a story. A novel, even. I’d been working all night on a hydrology assignment and my entire brain felt as if it had been packed in ice before I finally fell, defeated and exhausted, into my bed. I remember pulling the blankets up around me and whimpering myself to sleep. I was in engineering school, but for the life of me I had no idea why. This wasn’t what I wanted to do, this wasn’t who I wanted to be. I was 21, and knew that I had my whole life ahead of me, but I was under the impression that I was going to have to have my whole life figured out before I graduated from college.
12 years later, I think I finally understand what I’m meant to do.
I enjoy writing. No, that’s not accurate. I don’t just enjoy it, I love the fucking shit out of it. It may be one of the things that I am truly good at in this world. And when I sit down, and the words come freely from the tips of my fingers, it is quite possibly the only time that I am truly free. And I do NaNoWriMo not to bang out a novel in a month, but to get together with my fellow writers and collectively gripe about something that we all love to do slowly killing us because of the quest that we chose to embark on.