For a few months now, I’ve been a little self-deprecating, thinking that if I’m going to call or believe myself “a writer,” then I’m going to have to write and if I’m going to write, then to be at all legitimate, I’d better be writing fiction.

This is absolute rubbish, isn’t it?

Literary careers come in a variety of styles and maybe I’m cut out for something less obvious. Maybe I’d make a brilliant managing editor. Maybe I’d be a stellar personal editor. With a few years under my belt and a little more confidence, perhaps I’d be a good agent.

I don’t know what I want to do, in truth. Part of me still considers teaching, laughably. The point is that, as I keep forgetting, I’m 25 and I have a million doors open to me. It’s just finding the right one to walk through and doing so without the stigma that society or experience would have me adopt.