Rooky

One of my biggest dreams (besides becoming a successful novelist) is to be with and to converse with the people who share my same passion, who are struggling with and daydreaming about the very same things as I do, which is becoming a great writer.

All of the legendary writers, who are either dead or very old now, hang in the back of my every thought. It's like they're spirits are apart of this exclusive club, where they all drink coffee, laugh, and share their deepest thoughts on the subject of writing. And there I am, watching them through a foggy window, shivering in the blistering, cold night, wishing, hoping, praying that one day I'll be able to enter that literature heaven, learn from them, debate with them, and also be admired by all my struggles of this steep, up-hill journey they all faced with.

But I have not even really delved into the great world of historical literature yet, partly because I'm lazy and don't really understand a lot of the complicated language (and for that I am ashamed) but mostly it's because I'm terrified. I'm terrified of their perfection and I know that I could never even hope to be as successful and as talented as they were.

Then again, their combined entity keeps pushing me forward, constantly reminding me of my passion: their passion. To write. Not only for the entertainment of the people of the world, but also for ourselves as novelists and writers and philosophers and poets.

But I'm still only a rooky, only discovering my lifelong dream a year ago and being just seventeen.

The feeling of knowing that this is where you belong finally is indescribable. And even when you start to doubt yourself, you find yourself being pulled back in by some unseen force. And then you wrap yourself back into the romanticism of writing, finding yourself even more driven than before, not caring about anything else but getting out all your thoughts, creating worlds untouched in the hopes of someday, somehow, they will find you and accept you, and pat you on the shoulder because you've made it, you've finally made it.

So I continue on my way, my almost-free spirit flitting above me, pulling me forward.

Because as they all have said at one point or another, you don't need to be a genius or a perfect idealist to be a writer, you just have to want it bad enough.

And I do.