I think I’m starting to finally figure things out. I have to finish two more years of college to get my degree, and I’ve changed majors too many times: From Journalism to Recreation and Leisure Studies, then Psychology and now English. I’ve been all over the place, doing a lot of soul-searching in between, along with plenty of trial and error. It’s taken three years, but I finally figured it out. I want to major in English to become a writer once I graduate. I don’t care if I’m writing directions on computer software, or creating articles, blogs, essays, books or scripts – it doesn’t matter so long as I’m writing for a living. That’s all that matters to me. It’s what I’m good at, and I know I can make a living out of it.
For year’s I’ve pushed aside this urge to write, to create, thinking I wasn’t good enough, that it wasn’t for me. What? Did I think I was Faulkner? I wrote in high school, mostly short stories, and plenty of articles for the school and local paper. I wrote stories for my family and friends, little stories they would read in their free time. But when I got to college, I was led to believe it a futile journey – the one of the writer. The market for writers in the real world was slim or barely existent, I had been led to believe. So naturally I started off college majoring in something practical, where I could write and still make a living – Journalism. I could learn to write like a journalist, writing stories and doing research, conducting interviews. It seemed like a lot of fun, and I could be someone who could actually get paid to write for a living and not have to be a novelist or short story writer and rely on the consumer to buy my product.
Then something amazing happened. My grades were less than stellar that first semester. Journalism grades were fine, but it didn’t interest me enough to pursue for four years. I soon changed majors to Recreation and Leisure Studies where I would work with people who had disabilities, a concentration in that major called Therapeutic Recreation. I did that for a year and a half, that major, working summer jobs that would boost my resume, before transferring to another college. There I would start off studying Psychology – as it, in some ways, pertained to my previous major. I had also taken a Psychology course or two, having done pretty well in the courses.
But my grades as a Psychology major were terrible, absolutely awful. I was placed on academic probation. It was late in the game, but I was pretty sure I’d never pass Statistics, which was crucial to completing the course of study for a Psychology degree. So I went to my advisor. They noticed the only A’s I had gotten in college were in English classes, writing and literature courses, I mean. This late in my college career, I thought it was time to just pick something, get my degree and get out of there and start my adult life and working career. I was ready to move out and start things. I was more than ready. It was time to graduate. So I chose to major in English. It was tough explaining this move to my family, but after spending the summer reading poetry and writing and thinking about writing and reading, it made sense. I was a right-brained creative, a person who needed art, breathed art and lived it and reveled in it. Art was part of my life.
It made sense to study English, to make the move. I’ve always been a writer at the very core of myself, and it is time to embrace that. I’m glad to have made the change. Now I have a few more courses to complete before graduating next year: There is the 400-level seminar class, required by all English majors. I have to also take a Shakespeare class, a class in the Romantics, and a creative writing class. All of which seem like a lot of fun. But I’m glad to have finally figured this out. All that is left is to graduate and move on. The college thing was fun, but it has run its course.