She writes the way you only wish you could.

My writing is failing me.

My professors tell me I need to meet with them.

Why? Because I don't know how to write. My writing fails me.

& guess what Month it is? It's November. November where Nanowriting comes into play. That crazy idea of writing that everyone should try to write a novel in a month.

I'm trying again this year. I know I'm going to fail. But that's okay. It's just a motivator.

I'm just trying to be a librarian. A writer. I'm afraid that I won't get to do either one because I'm going to keep failing both. Failing at achieving my degree because I can't do enough of good quality academic writing in order to pass. Hell I don't care if I get "C's in every single class. I don't care, as long as I get that degree and it's enough to get me into grad school.

As for my writing, I don't care if I get a small agent, who gets me a small publishing deal, with a limited print run. I just want to be in print. To hold it in my hands. I don't care anymore about being famous. About being bestselling. Those are pipe dreams. Sometimes I don't care about even getting published. Why, because before anything, before anyone. My writing is for me.

When in those moments of solitude that I have during the day, washing the dishes, walking from class, watering the plants, I don't think of my future. I don't dream of a husband, or a boyfriend. I don't think of getting married. What I think about are my characters, and their thoughts. How their life is treating them, and where should the book go, and why do they act the way they act, and who broke their hearts to turn them into the people they are in my novels. The people they are for the decisions they make and don't make.

This is what I dream, and this is where I fail. And I fail, just my characters do because of where I come from. I wasn't meant to get this far. According to statistics, the highest education I was supposed to get due to the fact of me being a first generation to Immigrant born parents both drop outs, one from high school, one from seventh grade, I'm supposed to have 2 years past high school education, and then work for the rest of my life, and that's it.

What's not so funny is that the majority of my cousins who come from the same immigrant born background as I do, did get that. High school graduation, some college, and a job. No degree, no career, no chance to move up much more in the class system beyond their parents.

What no one counted on were my words, my ambitions, my bibliophile aspects, my ability. So I made it past that dreaded stastistic mark, good for me, woohoo, now welcome to the world of failure. Gone are the praises that I had a unique voice in which I wrote the way that only other people wish they could. In this new world, this new education which is supposed to be good for me is a barrier that I can't get through.

Other kids grew up with advantages I never knew. Parents who had time to enrolled them in extracurricular activities, nourishment of piano, violin, art, technology, motors, and what did I have? I had parents who work too much for money that was never enough, and I was an only child.

After everything, after my childhood came to an end, all I had were an ineffectual school system, a friend who moved away and I missed so much, more than she could know. (Don't worry, there's a happy ending, she came back to me, and she's still with me today. Funny, how those who are truly you're best friends have a way of returning to you, no matter how many years of absence in between.) After that, all I had were books, and a librarian who took an interest in the girl who came early to school and hid out at the library to get away from the chilliness of the morning. That's when I started reading. She's still one of the few who I owe most to where I am today, and I never thank her, I can't remember saying goodbye.

So now that I'm failing. That my writings are failing me, that I'm failing my parents, my professors, my sisters, that I'm failing the life and responsibilities I made for myself in order to achieved my goals, all I have to comfort me are my books, and I will hold them as I meet with my professors who tell me that what I do, what I write is incorrect. That my writing is not up to par. I will hold my books, and I will remember that I, at least had the blessing of doing something that my elders could never and will never do, that I at least stepped into a university's professor office as a student, that I made it in one way or another to place where many others couldn't, even if I am failing as the writer I am.

But I fail as a writer, and really it was only a matter of time before I reach the point where I could only go so far. Even a failing writer is still a writer.