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I remember being about eight or nine years old and dreaming of being a writer and a poet. I'd create these poems and submit them to the children's section of our local paper. My mom would tell me that I would have notebooks upon notebooks filled with poems, short stories, and ideas for novels. Thinking back, I think I can even recall where in my room I kept all these notebooks. My parents would keep the clippings of written work that would be published in the ‘kids’ section, which I assure you were not particularly brilliant, but they were all unfettered and unbound creative work. Looking back now, I can’t help but feel a bit jealous of my childhood self, thinking about how easily all the words and ideas flowed out from my mind onto the very many pages.
I’m at the point in my degree where the only thing my friends and I could only ever talk about are our contemplations for the future. We’re all freaking out about it but lately I can’t help feeling as though I’m falling behind on all my peers. If only one had a crystal ball to peer into…