My creative writing teacher is saying some head turning things about the work I'm turning in. 'Makes me feel all kinds of good. Pardon me if this sounds arrogant--I didn't need to be told that I can write. I think I know that I can do that. The question in my head is always, Can I do it if I have to? If I don't want to? And if I don't have any good ideas when I sit down? And I think the answer is becoming yes.
A few days ago I told Gary that the last time I enjoyed a class this much was when I took a Children's Lit class last fall. He squinted at me and asked, "Why are you an elementary education major?"
"Because I like teaching well enough to do it full time. I love kids and I enjoy the classroom. Because it makes sense and it means that I can take some pressure off you."
"So why aren't you an English major? You could teach it on a high school or college level, right?"
"I could. And I'd love to do that, but English majors are a dime a dozen and I'm worried about finding work."
"You could substitute teach until something comes open somewhere couldn't you?"
"Then why don't you go where your passion leads you?"
"It could be an expensive mistake."
I'd rather teach people about words, about books, and about writing. There. I've said what I've been circling for a year and a half. But it's just not that simple. I went down this path because I want to contribute to the household income and enable Gary to work less. Not to acquire more debt and not so there can be a second person in this house with a college degree that isn't paying for itself. I need to be practical. I must be practical.
Sigh. Why can't I stay on the path? Because of words . . . Because I like them almost as much as I do puppies . . .