Son, when you grow up, you can be anything
you want.
Anything?
Well,
of course. Any kind of doctor.
Your
parents didn't tell you to study hard and become a doctor because they wanted
you to take care of them when they grow old. They wanted you to become a doctor
because it would mean security and stability.
Screw stability, you said. I love writing.
And perhaps you'll be successful
as a writer. Perhaps you won't be – success is subjective, anyhow. So long as
you're happy and doing what you love, you convince yourself that it's worth it.
You put up with the dingy apartment, and you learn to cope with sleep
deprivation. You find ways to postpone paying the rent, and you take all the
odd jobs you can fit.
True, you
may very well be the happiest person alive. But it can be hard for the people
around you to understand that.
I just want
to be happy, Dad.
**
"So I
take it you want to be a writer. Well, what are you interested in?"
"I
like writing fiction," he responded.
"I
see." He paused.
"Good luck."
"Good luck."
**
