I dreamt last night that I had taken some sort of aptitude test, in which I’d stated my career of choice as writing. At a graduation luncheon, announcements were made as to who would be doing what. Except for me and my friend, who were supposed to see the teacher afterward to discuss our futures.
My friend had submitted too many possible occupations and had therefore made a mess of the test results. She resolved to consider her choices more carefully and winnow them down.
I was told that my test result didn’t support my only choice and was therefore inconclusive. Apparently the results meant that it was unclear what I should be except that I should not be a writer.
I was crestfallen. I had been so cocky. I already knew what I was going to be—the test was a mere formality in my judgment. I began to gather my belongings and was wondering what was next, when I came to a realization—it didn’t matter what that test or that teacher or anyone thought. Nobody could tell me I couldn’t be a writer. Only I had that power.
Then I got pissed and adopted a rebellious attitude. My heart was racing as I walked out of the building (that vaguely resembled my high school gym). I would show them! What right did they have to decide for me? None whatsoever.
So it was important for me to write today, as it is every day, because I am a writer. And not just in my dreams.