“Any writer worth his salt writes to please himself…It’s a self-exploratory operation that is endless. An exorcism of not necessarily his demon, but of his divine discontent.” – Harper Lee
“Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.” – Gloria Steinem
“Ink, A Drug.” -Vladimir Nabokov
I’ve made things hard for myself. I’ve learned that old cautionary tale that you should always listen to your heart. It’s surprising how much your heart knows. It’s probably even better at math than you are.
My heart decided its course in the fourth grade. That was thirteen years ago. My brain, the stupid thing that it is, thought my silly old heart was a hopeless romantic. “Unless you’re J.K. Rowling, you have no business writing,” it said. “Not just anyone can write. Anyone can, however, learn about chemistry and biology.”
Then why am I more frustrated than I’ve ever been? Why don’t I feel that Biology and I will live happily ever after? We could make it work, sure. We’re compatible. We know each other well. I just don’t think we’re in love. Not the way my heart sees it.
My heart didn’t hit the override button until the beginning of my last year in college. It waited an inconveniently long time to splash some water in my face.
This past year, I've been a dramatically lovelorn creature, wishing my heart could have what it wants. Writing just makes me happier, and I have a sign on my wall that says, “Do More of What Makes You Happy”, so I must obey. It doesn't have to be one or the other, but space is healthy sometimes, and Biology has been crowding me.
I’m fairly positive that being a writer is a type of mental health issue. It can’t be healthy to always be thinking up imaginary scenarios and ignoring the very real pile of homework and studying that wasn't getting any smaller.
In short, my life is a tragedy, and it is all my brain’s fault. But, come August 2018, my heart and I are going on a honeymoon. I can't wait.
Never love with your brain, folks.