I'm going to be totally honest:

I was an English major who didn't love writing.

A part of me believes that I picked my major solely based on comfort. I knew the subject well, I was good at writing in high school, the content didn't challenge me much, and after staying Undecided for a year I was ready to pick just about anything in order to graduate on time. With the clock ticking down that first year, I became increasingly nervous about my indecision and seemingly directionless life. At the end of my freshman year, I declared my majors as Creative Writing and Literary Studies (the official title of my majors, but for short, let's call it English). Hearing every other freshman that I knew give details about their passion for their majors and outline their plans after college, I assumed something was wrong with me. Nothing interested me the way it was supposed to. Nothing sparked that unending love and devotion to a subject that college education is supposed to bring its students, leaving us graduating "doing what we love so it doesn't feel like work." I chose English because I wanted out of college as soon as possible, and this was the easiest way for me to get there.

Joke's on me, apparently.

Growing up, I read tons of novels. I remember staying up until 3 a.m. some nights reading "Pretty Little Liars", unable to sleep from the sheer excitement and teeth-chattering fear of their twisted cliffhangers. I remember reading mangas like "InuYasha," "Fruits Basket," and "Peach Girl," able to complete one volume easily in a couple of hours, swiftly moving on to the next. I remember enjoying books for school, despite most students griping about the tedium and dullness they inspired.

Unlike many English major's background, I wasn't one of those kids who wrote stories in their journals at night. I could never keep a diary going for more than three nights straight. Writing felt okay, and I often enjoyed writing papers in high school, but I never imagined it was my special hobby. Reading fantastical stories spurred my imagination on, but every time I attempted to write my own, they fell short and I lost interest. I can't do this, I would think to myself. I'm not good enough.

Little did I know that my vague interest of writing transformed into my favorite part of college. The words, the analyzing, the rhythm, the punctuality, the impact, the importance - all of it became more and more endearing to me. I love studying how language works. I love studying history through fictional novels. I love writing MLA formal essays (when I'm not under pressure writing a final paper that needs to be 12 or so pages long). I love writing poetry. I love writing Creative Nonfiction. I love experimenting with format and style. I love helping people turn their spoken thoughts into eloquently written phrases. There hasn't been an English class I've taken where I didn't get something out of it. I learned so much more than how to read and write well; I learned how to analyze, deduce, close-read, comprehend, theorize, imagine, observe, appreciate, revise, empathize, create, contribute. The English major has given me far more knowledge and skills than people give it credit for.

For the past two years, increasingly I've been struggling with the prospect of life after college. I've only known school work. What is one to do with their education if they don't have a passion, a plan, a conceivable interest in a full-time job that will live up to their major and abilities? I didn't think I would want to write as a profession. I kept fighting it, thinking I wasn't good enough, denying writing as something I would enjoy as a job, or brushing it off as an unattainable field.

Over this Winter break, I finally felt a change in myself, one that I was long overdue for: passion. As someone who tries to find the absolute best option for everything, I usually throw away plenty of great ones, casting them aside on the off-chance I might be able to attain better/the best. Thinking about my upcoming Senior Writing Project, searching future jobs, and talking it out with friends and family, something clicked within me that said, Write.

After that moment, I made plans to pick up a blogging schedule again. I jotted down lists of possible topics for my projects. I promised myself to actively submit work to literary journals. I searched job sites for open positions in writing, freelance or not. I researched professional blogging, authoring ebooks, websites hiring writers, anythings having to do with what I love. Even if I don't make any money off of anything I write, I have to write. Even if my main job isn't primarily writing personal essays, poems, blogs, or formal essays, I would find a way to keep writing them.

That is how I got here, friends. This is where I start.