I’ve known I wanted to write ever since I was a kid. I can remember the first short story I wrote. A group of teenagers, on a distant planet destined to walk for the entirety of their lives. Looking back it sounds pretty silly, but I was only in the sixth grade.

Now that I’m two (oh god nearly three) years out of college, I’m struggling to make it as a “real writer.” What even is a real writer? It’s funny how writers define themselves. Some believe they’ve earned the title the minute they put pen to paper (or should I say finger to key). Others won’t give themselves the title until they’ve sold their first work. Personally, I’ve never been able to make my mind up. Some days I’m confident in my conviction. I am a writer! Other days I feel like a desperate wanna-be desperately dreaming of the day I could win an Oscar for best original screenplay (ridiculous, this I know.) On those days it’s harder to feel any larger than a spec on the bottom of a shoe.

The truth is, I’m trying to enjoy the ride but with such an uncertain future looming just ahead, it’s hard to stay positive at all times. Perhaps the reason I’ve hit so many roadblocks is my own fault. During and after college I bounced around between disciplines in writing including non-fiction, short stories, flash and I even attempted a novel (unfinished, of course.) I’ve only recently nestled into the cozy realization that screenwriting is where my true passion resides. I mean, who doesn’t love the movies? Sometimes it’s hard to completely realize that taking in a flick is considered research and homework! However, with the dreamy state I find myself in there’s no doubt the rational (more like rotten… shut up brain) part of my brain is already reminding me of the hurdles I’ll have to overcome. Rejection is like asking and being turned down by the ugliest pizza-faced kid in school for the Sadie-Hawkins dance. It’s uncomfortable, risky and sometimes downright depressing to launch a part of yourself out into the word-sphere for judgment only to be knocked back on your ass so hard you feel like you can’t sit for a week. If I’ve learned one thing it’s that a professional life of writing is not for the faint of heart.

Though most of the time I feel like a battered forgotten punching bag hanging lonely in the basement, for me there is no other option. No, I’ve never considered going back to school for a business degree and settling down in a cubicle for a quiet life. In fact I seem to talk myself into crazier ideas each day instead of into a safe and stable life. Recently I convinced myself to pack up and move to Los Angeles. Thanks brain, thanks. This is my journey and it’s wild, depressing, teeth chattering, spontaneous and exhilarating. Maybe one day I’ll be able to kick back in my big leather chair, like Stephen King, with a dog at my feet and talk about my rise to success. How, sure it was tough in the beginning, but I knew it would always materialize. Yeah… that sounds nice.