I remember when I first decided to be a writer. Most everyone thought I was crazy, or stupid, or throwing away my intelligence.

I remember that I could count on one hand how many people thought I could finish my book, and there were still fingers leftover on that hand.

I remember the look of shock and confusion on the faces of those I told my hopes of becoming an author.

I remember the few that would read the rough chapters at the beginning of my book, when I had no idea what I was doing and just shooting blindly in the dark, hoping to hit my target when I didn’t even know what the target was. I remember them saying it was good.

I remember being told I would be a "bum because writing is an unrealistic profession,” and that when I didn’t make it and was homeless, I could sleep on her living room floor.

I remember replying with, “I’d rather be on the street than in your house.”

I remember carrying around my white binder, falling apart and only held together with duct tape, with college ruled pages covered in chicken scratch written in black pen falling out because the holes were ripping from being flipped through so many times.

I remember debating on throwing the entire thing out the window of the yellow school bus because I thought there was no point to writing it when barely anyone had faith in me.

I remember seeing the picture in the back cover of the binder and thinking that it didn’t matter how many people didn’t think I could. All that mattered were the few people that knew I would. I slipped the binder back into my bag.

I remember slowly gaining support in my writing. People asking me how it was going. People wanting to hear about the plot line. People helping me figure out if something made sense or not.

I remember the number of people supporting me slowly exceeding those that doubted me. I remember people that once doubted me finally supporting me.

I remember getting the “Witty Writer Award” at school, and realizing that people really did have faith in me, even those that once thought I was crazy for trying to be a writer.

I remember going to college and being worried that I would have to work just as hard to have people believe in me, and then learning that I didn’t have to prove anything. They already had faith in me.

I remember the day I finished my book. I remember staring at the end for five minutes and not being able to entirely believe that it was done. I remember a weight being lifted off my shoulders because I was one step closer to accomplishing my dream of becoming a writer.

As I sit here remembering all these things, I realize that I’m glad I didn’t throw the binder out of the bus window. I’m glad I didn’t give up when I was told I would be a bum.

I may still wind up being a bum. Who knows? Maybe my book won’t be published, but ultimately, that doesn’t matter to me anymore. Even if it doesn’t get published, at least I followed my dream and my passion, because if I didn’t, I have a fear that I would never be happy with where I end up in life.

So thank you to those who never thought I could finish my book, because you gave me the determination to prove you wrong.

But most of all, thank you to those that always knew I would, because without you, I wouldn’t have finished it. But most of all, without you, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. And I think that is the most important thing.

Sincerely,

Deann (or D, depending on who you are.)