Ever since I was old enough to talk, I’ve been telling stories. My parents once hid a tape recorder in my room to catch me telling stories to myself at night, making up whole worlds and plots as I lied there in the dark. When I was older, I directed my brother in elaborate productions of some of those stories, staged for my parents’ benefit or simply for the fun of it. But when I got older still, I realized that there’s not all that much room in the world for people who want only to tell stories. I narrowed my dreams down into things that would result in real jobs, like law and medicine — and for a brief while, marine biology. I tried to disconnect from what made me myself.

People I know and trust tried to steer me back on the right path. My parents encouraged me to do what I loved. My high school writing teachers told me to follow my dreams, believed in me enough to convince me that I might have a chance of succeeding. I trusted them, and along the way I learned to trust myself. And then, a few weeks ago, I went to discuss my options post-graduation with my academic advisor, who felt the need to give me the real lowdown on how the world works.

“I’d be doing you a disservice if I told you that you could succeed in making a living as a writer,” she said. “It just wouldn’t be right. You should look at your other options. It won’t happen for you.”

So this is for all the well-meaning advisors and relatives who want to educate me on the unreality of my dreams: I already know.

I know that very few people make their living solely as writers. I know that entrance into the world of published fiction has a lot less to do with the quality of the writing in question than it should. I know that every third person I meet tells me, “Oh, you’re writing a novel? I’m going to do that someday” as though it’s the simplest and easiest thing in the world. Before you open your mouth, consider this: I already know.

I’ve already thought through everything you’re about to tell me, and I’ve decided to stay the course anyway. I’ve decided that I’m going to force the publishing world to make room for me, that I’m going to carve out a space for my voice and my stories. I’ve decided that I’m going to submit my writing to publishers and magazines and contests, and let the whole world tell me no until I find someone who’s going to tell me yes. I’m going to collect rejection letters from every major publisher in the United States. And I’m going to keep going.

I understand the impulse to give advice, but I didn’t go to my academic advisor for her to tell me how stupid and thoughtless I’ve been without ever encountering a piece of my writing. I went to ask her how to improve my chances of reaching my goal, and the fact that she couldn’t – or wouldn’t – tell me means that I’m just going to go and ask someone else. I’m tired of people treating me with the utmost condescension for daring to do something I love.

I have passion for many things in life. I’ll be passionate about the job I eventually end up doing. But that job won’t define me. My hobbies won’t define me, either. But being a writer will. It always has.

And nothing anyone – even an advisor – tells me is going to change that.