If you're reading this article and expect a heart-warming story about my achievements, you are reading the wrong article.

What you are about to read is my failure. How I fell flat on my face and cried about what a loved one has said to me.

When I came back from a productive day of putting together a literary journal with BFA students, readjusting a stanza from one of my poems on my first chapbook, and finishing a new scene in my story for Advanced Fiction, I felt like I was one step ahead to my dreams. It was mid-spring term before I had to turn everything in. I counted the days when I would present all of my crafts, everything I worked hard on, to wow everyone. I thought I was so ready for this moment that I had to express this to someone: my mom.

I called mom after a great day and told her everything I worked on so far. "Aren't you proud of me?" I asked.

Without a pause she said, "I would've been more happier if you accomplished something."

She continued with when I had to get a job, earn money, and find success without worry. Then she pointed out what I did last summer- nothing. She scolded how I sat around and played on my iPad when I should have written something or done scholarships. Well, she wasn't wrong.

I choked. Why won't she be happy that I'm actually doing something? Do I have to drop everything and change my major to business so you won't be as worried about me?

Does she not believe in me?

Mom knew how to pierce her words into me, it got my blood boiling. But that was the last thing she wanted from me. I had to keep in mind that mom was worried about me and how I was going to handle my future like any mother would. I was, and still am, a careless person who didn't think money or getting a job would be that important. Until I started studying creative writing. I learned that while there are many writing-based jobs for creative writers, they are still considered as artists--they don't get paid as much as doctors or lawyers. Mom knew about my talent in writing but she wasn't sure if my heart was in it, compared to when I started writing.

Before all that, I filmed a web series called "Homesick," about a girl with a mysterious past. During that time, I gave myself a break from school. On the last day of the shoot, I realized how much I missed writing. How much I loved sitting down and creating stories through words. I missed being wowed by how I could put my imagination on a piece of paper. Of course, I was furious. I wanted to prove mom wrong.

Since then, I found myself reading my poetry at a tap house in downtown Ashland: a 45-minute walk from where I live. I filmed a poetry video with a friend then submitted it to a film contest for ISATV. I became an art editor and my poem got published to SOU Student Press' first literary journal Main Squeeze, which is currently in production. Then I did one of the bravest things: I rewrote my proudest story into a story about family and language. I made a chapbook with every poem about my race and self-esteem. Creating chapbooks was pricey but they were worth it. After I finished editing and reworking my stuff, I noticed a voice. That same voice also appeared in each poem of my chapbook. They all had a voice that sounded confident and refreshing on the page. It was called, my voice. Looking through each piece I wrote, I couldn't stop squealing that everything was me on paper.

That moment I felt successful.

After finalizing my stuff, I presented every accomplishment I made to mom. She loved them. Mom couldn't stop grinning from ear to ear when she gushed over my work. Ha. I finally proved her wrong.

I thought this was my first step of becoming a successful writer.

We later conversed more about my chapbook. Mom mentioned about the cost of making books and handing them to family and friends. I tried to retaliate, "I was thinking about selling my chapbooks the next time I make new ones."

She rubbed her temples. "That is not what being successful is. Do you know what being successful means?"

I mumbled. "Yes, I do."

Yes I do, mom. It means acknowledging my achievements. It means learning from these successful adventures and making them into a tool. A tool that will help me branch out to jobs and positions where they need a writer. A writer who can create words and guide people who need motivation in relationships or how they want to be successful. Those same jobs who would willingly pay writers thousands of dollars to write things from books, to cards, to music, to manual books. I may have exaggerated that last part, but it still holds some truth. Being successful not only means working in a job, getting paid, living under a roof, and paying bills on time. Being successful is doing something that I love and getting paid for it. But mom might already know that. She just expected more for my future.

This was not the kind of success story you were looking for. That's OK.

This is just the beginning.