When I was six, I dreamed of becoming a teacher – I wanted people to pay attention to me and what I have to say. I thought, what better way of commanding the interest of a crowd than being in front of children who have no choice but to listen to you. And then I met the subject called Introduction to Algebra, which, try as I might, could not hold my interest for more than five minutes. All my dreams of being a teacher went down the drain.

So I decided I wanted to be a writer instead… I’m good with words, I have a lot to say about a lot of things, and I most certainly have a good command of the language (at least, that’s what I believe). I began writing pseudo-novels and short stories, trying to become an accomplished author before I hit twenty. Now I am twenty-three and my novels still haven’t seen the light of day. What I have now, however, are a bunch of magazine articles, a handful of literary pieces, and trying-to-be-witty status updates on social networking sites.

I’m not sure if being a writer is better than being a teacher. I don’t how many people have read what I have written or would want to pay attention to what I want or have to say. I guess I don’t care anymore and I don’t want to think about it.

I’ll just write for the fun of it.

Join me, if you please, as I figure out the workings of my over-thinking mind.