High-fiving a million angels

My brain is way too full of pop culture references.

Anyway. I had high hopes for November. I was thinking about doing NaNoWriMo before I realized that me writing novel would be a complete disaster.  So instead, I’m challenging myself with the much-less-ambitious-but-still-awesome NaBloPoMo (National Blog Post Month). Rules are simple: one post per day. Don’t worry, I won’t cheat by posting weird quotes or pictures of sandwiches. Those are simply fun extras.

I wanted to kick-off my blogging adventure with my first ever video post, but since I’ve been living like a cave person for four days, I will spare you that horrifying image for now.

Instead, I will enlighten you with a tale of how I almost became a writer and then (spoiler alert) didn’t.

I was a super shy kid. I constantly had my nose buried in a book and preferred to live in my own little fantasy world. In 3rd grade, I fell in love with writing. My early hunger for books and way-above-average reading level prompted me to choose “poetic novelist” as my future profession.

My 3rd grade teacher was Mrs. Prendergast whom I loving called “pretend gas” which isn’t really funny unless you’re 8 and have untreated ADHD.

I started out as her favorite student. I was a smart cookie, polite, and she always read my poems to the class. Then one day, the boy I was in love with heard me calling her “pretend gas” in the hall and threatened to tattle on me. I begged him not to, even offered my best pogs in exchange for his silence, but he refused.

From that day on, I was no longer Mrs. Prendergast’s favorite. That honor went to Nicole Madggggziak (I can’t spell Polish names), who also ended up stealing the heart of the boy I loved. I would call her a bitch, but she’s probably one of the nicest people in the world, so I could only blame myself.

At the end of the year, Mrs. Prendergast gave out awards to all of her students. These awards predicted our future professions. The dumb kids got things like “comedian”, “football player”, and “GOP majority leader”. I had high hopes for my award.

But first, Mrs. Prendergast presented Nicole with the most esteemed award: “President of the USA”. Now how the hell was I gonna beat that? The only jobs better than that are space cowboy and anything involving seeing Rachel McAdams naked.

I was the last one she announced. I got “writer”. I should have been proud, but she presented it as an after-thought and made me feel like I would never be a Nicole Magakdiak.

From that day forward, I decided I had too much promise to simply be a writer and would instead pursue a career that would surely put Nicole Madagascar’s to shame.

After 14 years, I’m falling back in love with writing and think some of the most amazing, creative people in the world are writers and will be proud to one day count myself among them.

Take that, Prendergast.

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