So, why do you wanna be a writer?

Furrowed eyebrows. The look of confusion. Lips gently parted. A writer? "What do you mean you want to be a writer?"

I was probably fifteen at that time, answering the bothersome question that every adult thrives in asking confused teenagers: what do you want to be when you grow up?

Simple. I wanted to be a writer. Oh you mean like a journalist or those weather people on TV? No, I casually explained. I want to write articles, organize photo shoots, network with everyone-worth-knowing at galas and premieres and interview famous people. Oh, that. Hmm… but it doesn’t pay the bills (like I was supposed to know that at fifteen). Why don’t you be an accountant instead? Before I could wriggle my way out of the awkward, one-way conversation, I was posed with the typical and awful why-don’t-you-be-a-doctor question*

Why can I not be a doctor? Let’s see. Point one: I cannot stand the sight of open-faced intestines swimming in blood. I’ll either scream or hang myself with a stethoscope or do both. Point two: I might accidentally drop my watch into that poor human’s body while conducting an open heart surgery (ok, I borrowed this from one of those ‘90s slapstick Indian films) because I can be the clumsiest twit on earth.

*footnotes: Indians have a weird obsession with being doctors, probably because of the money and the glamour behind the act of saving lives, but mostly the money. In my group of friends, seven out of eleven people have graduated as doctors. I still, for the life of me, cannot understand this epidemic.

Some people admired me for my confidence. Some didn’t. I remember that one time when my friend broke down in high school because she scored 85% (to overachieving types, this is not an achievement) on her English test and told me that without having fantastic grades to score that medical scholarship, her life would be over.

Over? Are you sure, I asked. There’s so many opportunities out there, I said. 

And then she said this: "You have your writing and I know that you can fall back on that. What about me? What’s gonna happen to me? I have nothing."

To be honest, I felt bad for her and brushed away those tears because I understood that struggle. At 15, it seemed like writing was all I had. Imagine flunking a great scholarship, my life would be over too, right? Writing was my life just as how getting this scholarship was important to her.

Then there were the smirks and knowing grins. You mean you’re gonna be like that Gossip Girl lady who writes about parties and underage drinking? You mean you’re gonna write for those mindless women's magazines that tell girls to wait three days before texting a guy but also telling them that sex on the first date is OK?

Once again, no one got it. But that's okay.