Why I thought I wanted to be an author:

For years, even as a child, I entertained the thought of getting published. It was always this burning desire that ate away at me like maggots devouring the flesh of the deceased. It didn't help that growing up with an overly anxious father, who although unhappy himself wanted everything for me as his daughter. “You should write a children's book,” Dad would reflect over his daily paper. “I'm telling you. Authors make big money with them.” My father didn't seem to grasp that I never once thought of myself as making a living as an author. I would dream about getting published and having a million people read my work, but it never dawned on me as an actual possiblity. I look at the way my life is now and chide myself for being so naïve those many years ago. I often shift constantly back and forth in my head, with the ever persistent: what if's. What if I am good enough to be published? What if I have my own publishing company someday? What if I make it big? Then, I stop myself before I get too carried away. For me, it is entirely too easy to segue into an abyss of self pity, discouragement, and the fear of failure before even starting something.

I thought I wanted to be an author, because:

(1.) I love to write.
(2.) I would have something to educate the masses about.
(3.) I would...

There it is: the big glaring question mark, the searing lime green numbers of the alarm clock keeping my insomniac mind reeling all night- why did I want to be an author, exactly? At this point, some of you may zero back in on my list above and pronounce that I should be an author because “I love to write,” or maybe not, maybe you're thinking: “Anonymous, no one ever said you HAD to be a writer.” And you wouldn't be wrong, but you also wouldn't be right, either. It's not just being hailed as one of the world's next great American novelists that makes me get starry eyed, it's not the prospect of fame nor is it the long dead voice of my father urging me to write a children's book, over and over like a scratched cd skipping in my head. It's... okay, well maybe it's a lot of things. Maybe initially I thought I wanted to be a writer for all of the stereotypical reasons I just listed, maybe my dad's wishes for me are clouding my mind. Maybe any number of reasons

I thought to myself, idly flipping(albeit skimming) the recent installation of Young Adult fiction in my library, I never want to be like writers nowadays. I got this sick feeling of dread writhing in my gut, I grew sweaty and breathless at the prospect of if, pending my future dream of being an author, I churned out my work to the masses just to make end's meet. That's not who I am though. We as human beings have existed on this planet for thousands of years. Look at the prophetic vision of Shakespeare, the pithy expressive poetry of Emily Dickens, the dark, morbid literature of Poe, they all had something in common: a thirst for words, a lust for their characters and above all they fleshed out their personalities and survived through writing just because they wanted to- it was what they loved, quite simply. What happened to being an author? When did it become so hell bent on being famous? I thought I wanted to be an author merely because I wanted people to enjoy my work and take something from it and vice versa. Now I'm not so sure. In fact, I may be just satisfied doing what I love best. I don't need to be published to call my self a 'writer'. Isn't that what I'm doing right now? I can write a children's book, Dad, but that doesn't mean the world necessarily has to see it. I can write a children's book for my own kids and read it to them at night. I don't need a hard pressed paperback or something in soft cover spanning the shelves of a book store to fuel my sense of self-sufficiency, and you shouldn't either.