The thing about my dad is that he's career military, and groomed his children to pursue careers in medicine and business. My sister and I had no problem in following, and except for a period where we wanted be ninja turtles, it was the general rule of our home. Unfortunately for my dad, I learned how to read, and not long after I decided that I wanted to be a writer. When I expressed my interest, my dad immediately began to lecture.
I fully expected it, and subsequently prepared myself. Somehow my parents have this magical ability to segue into anything during a lecture. During a recent argument with my mom she likened being in the car when I'm driving to being in a car during a hurricane, and five minutes later she had somehow managed to end up on my organizational skills.*
So while my dad started to harp on how I should focus on swimming, I prepared myself for wherever he would swing the sonversation. I remember vaguely how being a professional athlete would be more rewarding, and all of a sudden I heard, "You know, Shakespeare is no success story." Like a newborn fawn just entering the world, I was completely bewildered as he talked about how professional writers were simply failures at another, clearly more respectable job. For the rest of the day I just kind of hazed my way through my classes, particularly in English. To this day I imagined that I looked like a cartoon, with my hair sticking up and an exclamation mark above my head, and my eyes the size of dinner plates.
*I don't have any
