You should start a blog, Andrew told me on our honeymoon, as we sat on armchairs in the Caribbean sun, our sandy toes and elbows touching. If you want to be a writer, you have to start a blog.
That’s the thing though— what if I’m not supposed to be a writer? If I was, wouldn’t someone have found me? Wouldn’t my Creative Writing professor in college have thought twice before telling me I should pursue something other than writing? Wouldn’t some editor have passed me on the street, pulled me into an alley and told me that honey, you are the next thing and you need to write your story?
What if, I remember thinking, I have nothing to say?
We aren’t born with labels telling us what we’re made for, and in this country, no one’s telling us what we have to become. So how are you ever supposed to know?
A few days later, when we were back in the United States, I sat by a pond, watching a flock of geese waddle back and forth, into the water, out of it, quacking at and running after each other. Make me a goose, I thought. Geese don’t sit around wondering what they should do and overthinking how they should do it and if they’ll be any good at it. They just are.