"Thanks for taking me out mom and dad," I said, beaming at my parents while my brother and sister looked on at the table at my favorite steakhouse. "I know it took me awhile, but I finally figured it out. I am going to be..."
It was nearing the end of my sophomore year of college at the University of Toledo. For the first year and a half, I had decided not to declare a major because, well, I didn't know what I was going to college for. But I had a bunch of basic classes to take and figured I'd take some time to figure out what it was I wanted to do for the rest of my life.
I've always been good at writing, but didn't know what I could do with a degree in English besides teach, which I knew I didn't want to do. So I floated around for awhile hoping the answer would eventually come to me.
And it did in the form of Ed Whipple's Introduction to Journalism course.
I. Loved. That. Class. Maybe it was the way my 113-year-old teacher sarcastically taught the class or maybe it was because the subject matter was simply fascinating. Plus, being the lover of words that I am, I reveled in the way words could be misconstrued if you used them the wrong way ("High Photographer Shoots At Crowd" headline about a photographer on a very tall building taking photos of the people below, anyone?)
At the end of each class period, I'd go to a common area and start on my homework for that class, ignoring the fact that I had other homework due days sooner. I loved weaving the facts into a story and coming up with creative story leads so much that after a few weeks of class, I made the decision and added "Communication with a focus in journalism" next to my English major declaration. I knew I wouldn't touch it again until I accepted my diploma for the dual degree.
And since my parents were paying for my education, I thought they should be the first to know. So I asked them if they wanted to go to dinner because I had a big announcement to make.
"I know it took me awhile, but I finally figured it out. I am going to be...a writer," I said, anxiously waiting to see their immediate reaction to the news.
They laughed. A lot.
"You needed to take us out to dinner to tell us that?" my mom managed to sputter through her laughter. "Come on, Erika. We knew that already. You've always been a writer. Did you think we were going to be surprised or something?"
"That's what I'm paying for?" my dad good-naturedly ribbed. "For you to do something you've been doing since you were little?"
"Well I didn't think that Life As A Fish (the "book" I wrote in first grade about my brother turning into a fish somehow and discovering - shockingly, apparently - that a fish's life is boring) was destined to be a bestseller, but maybe something else I write could be," I said defensively.
"I have no doubt that it will," my mom said, turning serious with a nod of agreement from my dad. "You're so talented, honey. We already knew you would be a writer. You already are one."
Looking from one to the other, it was obvious that they were serious and not even the slightest bit surprised at what I had thought would be a huge revelation. It doesn't happen very often, but it was that moment that I just knew that this decision was the absolute right one, even if it was an obvious decision.
"Well, fine, then," I said, stabbing my steak. "Don't be surprised at my news. I'm just going to take satisfaction that at least I got a good meal out of it!"
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