I always have had a passion for writing. Ever since I was a little girl, I would create my own whimsical fables and re-enact them with my friends, or put words to the amateur illustrations that I once believed were sheer works of art. Armed with crayon in hand and a mind that races with a million thoughts per second, naïve and raw talent oozed from my little fingertips. As I grew older, other ambitions clouded my vision, and I began to veer away from the very talents I was blessed to possess and destined to use.
You see, writing and I have had a love-hate relationship since my late teenage years. What once became an energetic and enthusiastic pastime abruptly became a tormenting, necessary evil, forced upon me so abrasively that it was difficult to fathom the once true affection I had for written banter. A high school career of competitive Honors courses and the challenge of striving to continuously one-up the elite team of Asians in my class thrust a commitment to excellence in writing frivolous seven page essays on horses in fields and eerie depictions of hell and damnation. My love for writing wavered like a leaf in the autumn breeze, solely afloat by my own belief in my ability. I figured college would save my soul’s passion, bring it near and dear to my heart once again. Alas, I was still that naïve six year with crayon in hand and thoughts circling in my head.
My college years were full of writing. Some moments of passion and enthusiasm; other experiences of disappointment and mediocrity. I sold my craft for cheap thrills, pennies on the dollar, never realizing that my gift was worth so much more than the hoots and the hollers of the fans who were my following, blissfully abusing my talent at their every whim. True, I allowed it to occur. I allowed the abuse of my skills, the degradation of my worth…but this was when I hated my once sincere love. It may sound dramatic, but you have no idea how many nights I wondered when it would all come to an end, when my followers, my abusers, would fail to befriend me, if I forbid the exploitation of my tortured love.
College nearly ended me. It nearly ended my unyielding relationship with this writer’s journey. My passion befouled amongst the shadows of the followers that used to chant my name, shower me with praises, champion my skills. No longer in the “in-crowd,” I’d been faced with reality. Real life has a way of kicking you in the pants and extracting the sheer and excruciating pain that is the loss of your dreams.
Fast forward to two weeks ago, now with a toddler and a mortgage to bear singlehandedly, my current position, though seemingly promising, took a turn for the worst. It’s true…no one believes in you the way that you do, even when the results and the revenues prove otherwise. And sometimes, it takes another’s disbelief to convince you of your true greatness, and in my case, to bring me back to my first love, the genuine passion I have to write about my own interests with my original style. Finally, no one to tell me what to write or how to write it. No need to reiterate another’s words, I can now be the original ADP. So I write, to share my dreams with you, and hope that through my thoughts and my words, you have the courage to live your beautiful dreams too.