If you’re into the humanities or the arts, you probably know it’s tough not being STEM-oriented in the tech hub that is Silicon Valley. What I heard repeatedly as I grew up, from strangers to friends alike, was that careers in the humanities and arts weren’t lucrative.
The problem was that I loved, and still love, writing. Ever since I was a wee little elementary schooler, I have loved to write: I stapled together papers, scribbled unicorn stories on the pages and brought my very own “books” to class for my friends to read.
However, it became increasingly clear that the people around me saw writing as a hobby. My peers chattered away about how they were going to become software engineers and surgeons. I couldn’t escape this expectation even in the stories I loved so much. The “broke and struggling artist” was a common trope in the media, and even though these characters are often given happy endings, I knew reality was not so gentle.
But I wasn’t fond of math and its rigidity, and I outright disliked computer science. I liked playing computer games, especially ones with interesting storylines to follow, but I wasn’t at all interested in programming them.
“Maybe you can become a doctor,” my teachers suggested. “Writing can be a side hobby.”
Human anatomy and illnesses at least sounded more interesting than coding, and doctors have a reputation for having stable incomes. So, I enrolled in Biology Honors in my freshman year of high school, and then Chemistry Honors my sophomore year. I struggled immensely through those classes, averaging C’s and D’s on my tests.
“Grind it out,” my friends said. “Make hella bank first, and then retire and do what you want.”
So, I took AP Biology for my junior year. Big mistake. I finished AP Biology that year with a C, so all that work to keep my grades up hadn’t even been worth it. Everyone knew that colleges only wanted A-students.
In the summer before my senior year, I gave up and turned back to writing. After all, my grades were screwed. Instead of looking for health science summer camps, I enrolled in a writing camp.
To my surprise, that writing camp was taught by accomplished poets, playwrights, directors and published authors. My instructors had graduated from all sorts of colleges — from famous universities to tiny schools — and had varying degrees of experience. Some of them were young and freshly graduated, while others were on the verge of retirement after a successful writing career.
More importantly, they were happy — happy to be writing and sharing their love for writing with student writers like me. Watching these writers, completely free from the Bay Area STEM academic bubble, finally made it click for me that writing was a viable path. It had always been. If they could follow their dreams and be happy, why couldn’t I?
This year, I’m enrolling in Scripps College as an English major with a focus on Creative Writing. My view on reality hasn’t shifted. I know that writing isn’t the most lucrative of jobs and that the road to pursuing my dreams will be difficult and long. But I know now that I don’t have to wait or “grind it out” to be happy. I can be happy now.
