Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must”, then build your life in accordance with this necessity.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

Beautiful words. Too bad I don’t live by them.

Last spring, I so audaciously declared that “I want to be a writer.” Yet here I am, more than two months into the fall semester and busier than ever reporting, working, studying news and psychology, tutoring–but not writing. How can I dare to say I love something or am passionate about something when I never even take the time to do it?

But isn’t it always like this? Why is it that we put the things we truly love on hold? I keep telling my friends whom I haven’t spent time with in a while, “Oh, we’ll hang out when things slow down for me!” But when will that be? I have spent the past two months doing things out of mere obligation, mostly because there are so many things I HAVE to do in order to graduate with my degree in telecommunication. (A degree meant for those who want to be reporters, but I don’t want to be a reporter anymore. Oops.) But, dang it, why haven’t I done the things I truly WANT to do? Perhaps it’s just part of growing up. Maybe maturity is realizing that you must delay gratification. Or is this just a lie we’ve been told all our lives?

Maybe truly growing up means being brave enough to do what you love instead of what people tell you to love.

So here I am, writing. I need to commit to it every day. This is a start.