During my final semester of college, I was writing all the time. My course load consisted of two poetry classes, a fiction class, and honors thesis. Every week, I had to put out at least two poems, one for each of my poetry classes. I also had short fiction assignments or a larger short story I was writing, as well as working on my thesis. Not everything I produced turned out to be any good, but I was writing. When I wasn't writing, I was reading. I was up to my eyes in words, and I was not sinking. I swam along, treading through prose and poetry alike.

In May, I graduated with an English degree and a minor in Creative Writing. Since then, I have barely dipped my toes into the pool of words in which I used to submerge myself. Instead, I spent the last six months dripping dry while worrying about making ends meet.

My life post-graduation has had very little to do with the skills I gained in school: books read -- two, poems written -- one third, stories and essays written -- zero.

I have instead filled my hours with activities I am capable of with or without my degree: children babysat -- 11, episodes of "Chopped" viewed -- 75, marching-band-related rehearsals -- somewhere between 85 and 90.

It has been too long since I have soaked in our language, let my fingers prune up around a pen. People ask, generally very nicely, about what I plan on doing with my degree. I clam up. I try to spout off the prepared list of careers for which I might be qualified. It isn't convincing. They try to throw me a life preserver asking, "Do you plan on teaching?" I don't. I try to keep my head above water, make them believe I made a good choice in studying literature, but it is difficult to persuade others when I don't buy it myself.

That's how I feel most of the time, like the once-friendly waters of mythology courses and semesters of poetry have left me gasping for air out in the real world of electric bills and parking tickets. However, I do stand by my decision to study English. I tried to switch my major once to something more reasonable, and all I did was wish I was learning about grammar or Keats or the Penobscot legend of the Corn Mother. I chose to spend four years and thousands of dollars in scholarships and loans to learn more about something I love. I have only ever wanted to make others feel the way I feel when I read my favorite stories.

So this is it. This is me getting back into the water. I might be out of practice, but I dive in head first, let it burn my nose as I slip under for a moment. Then I break the surface and remind myself, it doesn't always have to be a butterfly or a breaststroke. Sometimes it is OK to just lie back and float.