This post left anonymously
A few years ago (I’m 19 now) I started to write seriously and was very good at it.
I had other interest’s too at that time (which were diametricaly opposed to writing – as maths) , but somehow everything fell back into second plan. It didn’t bother me. Writing was very enjoyable for me, almost orgasmic. It was just fun at first, but later on I really thought I’ve found my life calling. I risked for it my good grades and for two years I hadn’t have a good nap. But it all worked out. I was excellent at school and was getting real good in what I thought was ‘my real profession’. A few educated and well read people thought I had talent, so I expected great things.
But after one teacher I highly respected and who was an expert on that field, told me that not only what I gave him wasn’t good but that I ought to quit right now, I was very shaken. I gave him before some of my poems, but he was never satisfied or excited about them. He admitted that one of them was good only after it won a big competition.
This didn’t bother me much at that time because I still wrote just for fun and had other plans for my future. But the prose I gave him that time was a result of very hard work and it was my autentic work in which I’ve put everything I could give at that time. But he thought it was a work of a beginer, and everything was wrong with it – he hated the style, and the story, everything. He wanted me to go back to the style and the themes a wrote about when I was much younger. After this I felt like I not only didn’t better myself, but got worse. But I didn’t reply anything to him, I was just very shocked, and later I got depressed.
It was my final year of highschool, and after he said I sucked at what I loved most in the world, he urged me to study Literature at college because he thought I could become a good librarian – not even a proffesor, but a librarian. Other people I respected told me he was an ******* and that he was just jealous. But he always praised me for my good grades and was generally nice. He was one of my favourite professors, his lectures were interesting, even though he was somewhat a religious fanatic, and lectured with open loathing writers that didn’t share his religious beliefs. I’m not religious, but his fanatic outlook on the world only mildly bothered me. I thought he found something that wasn’t in concord with his beliefs in my work, but I couldn’t tell what. Maybe I’m just no good, I thought.
That thought became more persistent, I was very agitated, and writing became painful to me. You must understand, I was in love with writing. I refused to let it go. I carried on with my plan to become a great writer. When the time came to chose a profession I looked for a one which was related to what I was already doing and which would supply enough time for me to write. That was clearly Literature. But I began to question myself. I was no longer sure this was the right path for me, but I hung to it from habit.
A did great on my final exams and was accepted in every college. I could have studied medicine, which was a well paid, secure, respectable and exciting job. But I decided anyways to go with Literature. I was remembering the days I first felt real passion. It was about writing and it gave my life a purpose. But writing was now very difficult for me, I overlooked that.
I just feel I could have made something better of myself – as a doctor I would have money and the respect of others. I feel helpless with the subject I’ve chosen. I chose it only because I thought I would make a name of myself by writing, but I just can’t write anymore. It sickens me. Book’s sicken me. I could have made something better of myself. I can’t change school’s, I have no money.
I now think myself very young and foolish. Please help me by advice.
I apologize for any and all spelling mistakes, I’m not a native speaker of English.
Since writing this post Anonymous may have helped people, but has not within the last 4 days.
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