No not death (perhaps that too though). I'm talking about after college. After high school, where I will be expected to get up out of my cozy chair, stop living off of Pop Tarts, delaying homework in order to watch Family Feud and make something of my myself. And more importantly, to make money.
Being in a college preparatory high school, college is the unavoidable future that they tend to remind us and nudge us and poke us about more often then I think may be healthy. But it's always there. They want us to be scientists and doctors and to live well, then come back and enlighten the new batch of freshmen of how successful we are. Which is all well and good, if you're into that sort of thing. But I, on the other hand, will not be participating in his celebration of wealth and prosperity.
Because I'm fairly certain that I will be broke. And poor. Not miserable, just poor. I want to be a writer. You know - write my own books for all of you lovely people to read and enjoy, and I shall make a humble sum and live off of that until I write the next thing that decides to make it's way into my head. That was a wonderful dream until my future decided to slap me in the face.
It takes work to publish a book, and I'm aware of that, that's okay. But the thought that even if I did get one published, I'd have to do something on the side? Not so wonderful. I've always wanted to be a writer, and because of money, I can't solely be that. It's a little depressing, if you think about it.
The whole point of having a job is to make money. Right? It doesn't really matter whether you like the work, or you're happy to wake up and do what you love, all that matters is that you're making a generous amount of cash to support whomever you need. But can't we bend the rules just a little? One has to be super talented and skilled to publish a book, I'm sure. So if I don't, will I be living in a cardboard box on the side of the road, instead of asking for change, asking for an agent? Oh dear ...
I thought being an English major would be fun. Until the unhappy reality stated above decided to settle its self into my plan. Now I'm left with not even an idea of what I'd rather do than write, and my guidance councilors asking me the age-old question of what I want to be when I grow up.
Maybe I should just work in the Disney store.