I love to write. I have always loved to write, and I have no doubt in my mind that I always will. Sometimes something, it doesn't matter what, will give me an idea. Like flint sparking over a pile of timber, my mind flames up. It dances around ideas, possibilities, and all I know is that I have to get a pen. Paper isn't as important... I'll write on my arm if I can't find any. The essential thing here is time. How long will it be before I forget it?

This feeling of pressing urgency is what I live for. It's so euphoric, this exhilaration. But all the while, something is in the back of my mind. The knowledge that I can't do this forever.

I might want to be a doctor. Or maybe I could be an interior designer. Something, ANYTHING. With my good grades, my possibilities are nearly limitless. Except for one thing. I can't be a writer. The one thing I so desperately want is cut off from me. And why? Because I'm so gosh darn sensible, that's why. The likelihood of me publishing a book at such a young age is unlikely, no matter how good it may be. I would need to get a literary agent, an editor, a publisher, and sure, I'll try. But I probably won't succeed. I've accepted that, and have been able to convince myself that it's not a big deal. But it's those times when an idea's got me fixated and after jotting it all down, I can't help but smile... it's times like those that I stop smiling because no matter how good my idea is, chances are it won't be published.

I stumbled on Teen Ink this morning and I don't really know what to make of it. Will it help me to get published seriously? Or am I just one entry among millions, as unlikely to see my name in print as to find a purple grain of sand hidden in an entire beach.

I still don't fully understand any of it, but even though my common sense is telling me that it is never to be, I can't shake the need for my work to get out there. I won't give up, but I need to decide for myself if it really isn't to be. To be or not to be... a writer.