I can never pinpoint the moment when I knew I wanted to be a writer. Maybe it was when I was barely even 3, and I’d sit under the book shelf taunting the woman in charge of play school with my incessant need to connect with words on a page. Or maybe it was when I first experienced the rush of determination course through me as a journalist told my year 6 class how it felt to be a writer. All I know is when thinking of a career, no matter how desirable other careers seem to be, I always find myself back in front of a page ready to bleed out.

However, I’ve never been the perfect writer. I doubt if I can even call myself that yet, the word holds such high status. I have only recently shared my work with the world, and the feeling that accompanied being published in a real life anthology so early in my life was inexplicable.  I finally felt the adrenaline that singers or sports performers constantly speak about when succeeding. The only problem being, I don’t fit in the writing community. I’m not eccentric or overflowing with creativity. I’m just an opinionated teen with too much to say for herself.  This was the reason that I couldn’t muster up the courage of pressing that screaming submit button. Maybe it was the fear of rejection, or even the plaguing idea that I wouldn’t stick to it…nothing seems to be permanent and the fear of me growing out of my passion for writing was too devastating to deal with.

But then I realised that maybe nothing lasts forever, everything that begins must swiftly end. If my writing does come to an end, and blend in with the rest of my good memories, at least when I pay a visit to memory lane it won’t be full of regrets and ‘what ifs’. I will be satisfied with how I attempted to build a foundation that I would happily wake up to for the rest of my life. I’ll let a crinkled smile take over my aging face at the stubborn teen attitude of how I wouldn’t end up like those corporate people who sip coffee just to drag themselves through the day.

Then again, maybe it won’t end. Maybe at the age of 75 I’ll be signing books for people who are just like me right now, wannabe writers who are just regular people. I can’t call it, and if I could know, I wouldn’t choose to. The mystery of my future fuels my growing ambition.