Some kind of athletic thing was going on this evening on campus, and actual honest-to-god Song Girls or aspiring Song Girls or distaff Song Girls were clustered around the Lyons Center, in various states of warm up.
I don't, actually, want to be a Song Girl. But I'm always fascinated by any subset of a new culture, including the curious support system of semi-pro cheering and musical accompaniment that surrounds every major college football team.
It made me remember an afternoon, the summer of my 14th year. I had just gotten a word processor--my first--and combined with my 8th grade typing class, I was quickly becoming a writing fool. Yet the more I wrote, the more I felt pulled in a hundred directions. I wanted to be a marine biologist. And a private detective. And a newspaper reporter. And possibly a space captain, if faster-than-light interplanetary travel was invented sometime in the next 30 years.
I didn't know which way to go. But hilariously, the one option I didn't think of is the one that is glaringly obvious to me now. Anyone as consumed by her own imagination as I was in my 14th year has only possible future career: Fiction writer.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment