Posted in Thoughts, Travel

Being Half Asian in Korea


Half-Asians have a spider sense for other half-Asians.

It’s hard to describe what, exactly, makes someone “look” half-Asian. I’ve met halfies with pale skin and dark skin, straight black hair and curly light-brown hair and everything in between. Yet, somehow, we can always find each other in a crowd.

That’s why, when a skinny girl with long brown hair sat in the first row of my third-grade English class during my first week as a teacher, I knew she was like me.

I did my introduction lesson, explaining that I was half American and half Chinese (a gross oversimplification, but easy enough for the kids to grasp). In every class, without fail, this part of my presentation was met with astonished interjections and expressions of disbelief (“OOOAAAAA, TEACHER!!! SO COOL!!”) When I explained that I was American, the girl in the front nearly jumped out of her seat in excitement.

At the end of the class, she ran up to me.

“My dad’s American too!” she said in perfect albeit high-pitched English.

“That’s so cool!” I said, bending down slightly so I was at her height. It occurred to me that this little girl was the only person in school I didn’t have to water-down my words for. My Korean co-teachers often went on about how clearly I spoke English (“Just like our textbook CD’s!”) and I wondered if they knew that that wasn’t how I normally spoke.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“My name’s Hailey,” she said.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Hailey,” I said. She smiled and waved, then bowed for good measure, before running off to her friends.

She was the only biracial kid I’d seen in the school. She seemed well-adjusted enough, talking easily in Korean with the other kids.

I realized that I might have been the only other half-white-half-Asian person she’d ever met. This seemed even more likely when my co-teacher came up to me a few days later and said:

“Hailey is always very excited to see you. I can understand her feelings.”

“I’m excited too,” I said, sweating a little when I realized that I’d inevitably and involuntarily become somewhat of a biracial role model for this girl. I just wasn’t sure if:

a) she needed one in the first place

b) I was good enough to be the kind of role model she deserved

But, while I still had a lot to figure out, I’d definitely learned a thing or two about being half-white-half-Asian in my 22 (23 in Korean age, kill me now) years of life. Now that I was in Korea, I was gaining a more nuanced understanding of my race every day.

Top Things I’ve Learned About Being Biracial in Korea


  1. People don’t stare at you

“People will stare at you,” they told me. My Korean teacher told me. My interviewer told me. My friends told me.

Except… no one really does.

I live in an area of Seoul with very few foreigners, so foreigners are kind of like unicorns. But most of the time it seems like the Koreans here could not care less about my foreigner status.

Even when I twisted my ankle while trying to cross a stream and nearly tumbled three feet down into wet water and rocks, letting out an undignified squeal, none of the Koreans around me so much as glanced in my direction.

After years of being told how white I looked by other Asian people, this is still surprising to me. I hadn’t been worried, because I’d never really fit in anywhere my entire life. People in America never actually stared at me in the street, but I’d heard more than once at school from a near-stranger “Oh, I’ve seen you around campus. You look very… unique.”

I know that I do. Even among half-white-half-Asian people, there’s no one who really looks like me. But I got over my angst about that somewhere in high school. It’s a part of my reality and my identity. Being different is nothing new for me, so I was ready for the stares.

But they never came.

Maybe I look “Asian enough” from a distance. Whatever it is, I’ll admit that, at times, it’s nice to blend in.

2. People overestimate your Asian-ness

It was 7pm on a Tuesday. My friends and I had stopped by a bakery that smelled like literal heaven. I was with two people: Veronica (who is white) and Nadea (who is black). None of us are particularly good at Korean. I have two semesters of college Korean under my belt, while Nadea has a year of self-study and Veronica has been diligently working through the Korean alphabet for a month.

Nadea approached the vendor and tried to ask if the bread on the menu was sweet.

The woman blinked slowly and stared at Nadea, expression unchanged. The classic Korean I-don’t-know-what-you’re-saying-so-I-will-stare-at-you-until-you-do-something-else look. Nadea repeated the question with slightly different wording, only to be met with the same look.

Then, the woman turned to me.

What is she saying?” she asked me in Korean.

I froze. “Ummm… she…. uhhh….”

I fumbled for words, making another attempt at phrasing Nadea’s question differently, only to be hit with more questions in Korean, still directed at me. I wanted to scream “What makes you think I have any idea how to say this?!

We got the bread eventually. Nadea was satisfied. I was a bit flustered.

3. People Underestimate Your Asian-ness

“You’re very good at using chopsticks,” my co-teacher, Seung-Jin, said at lunch. “Did you practice a lot?”

“Umm…” I covered my mouth and finished chewing my jap-chae, “I didn’t really… practice?”


“So you tried for the first time in Korea?” she gasped.

“No, I mean, I used chopsticks in America.”


“I mean, not for like, pizza and stuff. Just for Asian food. My grandmother taught me.”

I remembered sitting at a table in my grandmother’s house with a cup of dried beans on my left and an empty cup on my life. My grandmother put a pair of chopsticks in front of me and told me to move all the beans to the empty cup. While excruciating at the time, I’m forever grateful to her for this lesson.

“My grandmother is Japanese,” I reminded Seung-Jin.

“Ah, right,” she said. Because it was easy to forget that about me, I supposed.

4. People Make Weird Comments About You


I don’t mean offensive, I just mean… weird. Such as:

Is that your real hair color? Umm, yes. But it’s so dark. … I’m sorry about that?

Are you wearing colored lenses? No. Your eyes are so interesting. They’re brown. Yes yes but a lighter brown.

My favorite comment came when sitting at a restaurant with a Korean guy who quickly made his way to my “blocked numbers” list:

“Your nose is beautiful,” he said.

I paused before the ddeokbokki on my chopsticks could reach my lips.

“My nose?” I said, conscious of how oily my nose probably was and uncomfortable with him scrutinizing it so intensely.

“Yes. Many Korean people want your nose.”

“It’s my mom’s nose,” I said slowly. “It’s a Chinese nose.” Had he really never seen a Chinese person before? Maybe it was different seeing the nose slapped on a face with “white” bone structure.


“It’s beautiful,” he said. He brought up my nose seemingly every ten minutes. I started to wonder if he had a nose fetish. I didn’t meet him again.

5. Some People Will Never Accept You

“And who knows a word starting with ‘D’?” I asked my third-graders.

Hailey raised her hand and stood up. “Doll,” she said confidently.

The boys behind her started snickering. “Oeguk-in” they said. Foreigner.

She looked down at the floor and said nothing. My co-teacher looked at the boys disapprovingly and handed them extra sheets of homework as punishment. For the next few minutes, Hailey stared at her desk, shoulders hunched over.

I wanted to yell at the boys, to tell them that Hailey was just as Korean as them, that insulting her was insulting me.

More than that, I wanted to tell Hailey not to listen to them.

I wanted to tell her that for years, wherever I went, people on both sides of my heritage also told me I didn’t belong, that I wasn’t welcome. I wanted to tell her that I’d spent nights crying because I thought I’d never be “enough” for anyone.

But I’d learned, day by day, that no one else could tell me who I was. I’d learned that being an outsider is a privilege because belonging nowhere is also belonging everywhere once you stop caring what people think. I’d learned how special and beautiful I was, how blessed I was to be part of two worlds, to be unique, to have this kind of empathy for outcasts and willingness to explore new cultures.

But, in the end I said nothing.

It wasn’t my place to discipline the kids in a language I could barely speak, and I couldn’t embarrass Hailey in the middle of class.

Class ended and the kids ran out. I saw Hailey eating lunch with her friends, laughing and looking like nothing had happened.

But I knew that she hadn’t forgotten what the boys said and she probably never would. I knew that she’d save every one of those comments somewhere dark and deep inside of her. I knew that her life was going to get harder as she got older, but I also knew that she would be okay, that she would love herself and find people who loved her not as Korean or American but as Hailey.

I hoped that one day, with or without me in her life, she would understand the words I never said.

Posted in Thoughts, Travel

How Can You Make Friends in Your Second Language?

Very late PSA: I’m going to Seoul as an English teacher with EPIK next week…

…and sometimes I wonder how I’m going to make friends with my elementary Korean skills.

After all, so much of our personalities is conveyed through our words. As a writer and English teacher, the very foundation of my career is diction and syntax. It’s a skill that I’ve honed for my entire life and a tool that I use to convey the many shades of Kylie that I have to offer.

A HUGE part of my personality is my ability make jokes or dish out sass like free chicken samples at a food court Panda Express.

I can make people laugh in other languages, too.

Just… not always for the reasons I intended.

FLASHBACK: Kylie’s Last Korean Lesson (via Skype)

Kylie: So I tried to make Korean seaweed soup for my dad, but it came out really watery. I went to H-Mart and there were too many kinds of seaweed so I just picked one. (Shows teacher a picture of the seaweed aisle at H-Mart).

Teacher: (begins laughing hysterically)

Kylie: … What?

Teacher: (continues to laugh hysterically)

Kylie: WHAT, teacher, WHAT?

Teacher: THAT’S the seaweed you used?!

Kylie: It’s wrong?

Teacher: (slams forehead on desk, still laughing hysterically)


Teacher: (starts crying laughing)


Teacher: Kylie-Ssi, those are seaweed sheets for kimbap and rice. (Pastes two pictures into our shared google doc)

What I used:


What I was supposed to use:


Kylie: …. no wonder it came out looking like sludge.

Teacher: (dies of laughter. RIP I need a new Korean teacher now)


… My point is, I am unable to express a vital part of my personality in Korean, at least for now.

So, up until I become fluent in Korean, will the only people in Korea who truly know me for who I am be English-speaking foreigners? Will everyone else only know a watered-down, baby-talking version of me?

At first, my answer was a resounding “YES” that motivated me to study Korean even harder.

But then, I thought about the interactions I’ve had with my students and foreign friends of different English-language abilities.

There’s Eugenia, in my beginner English class. I don’t know her nuanced thoughts on American politics and race relations, but I know that she’s punctual and dedicated despite being the lowest-level student in the class. I know that she’s got a funny side, because she saw me on the train after class and sat across from me, staring aggressively, until we finally made eye contact and laughed together when I jumped in surprise.

Then there’s Jonathan, another beginner student who can’t really pronounce the letters “s” or “z” but sits at his table 5 minutes before class and plays scales on a black violin.

Are my interactions with these people less meaningful because they’re limited by language? Are they less “real” than the interactions I have with native English speakers? Are the things we share with each other actually watered-down and inauthentic?

I think that perhaps, when we don’t speak each others’ languages as well as we might like to, what we see is not a lesser part of each other but a different part. Perhaps we see a facet of someone that we might have overlooked when distracted by all the vacuous words so often tossed in the air. There’s a sort of innocence, or maybe honesty, to paring down our words to the bare minimum. There’s nothing to hide behind.



Posted in Thoughts

I graduated hooray

A wild Kylie crawls out from a cave, even paler than before (which is really a feat, since she was already a bed sheet, so just imagine that her skin is literally translucent), hair untamed (not that hard to imagine), clothes tattered and squinting in the blinding sun, holding something triumphantly above her head, baby-Simba-the-opening-scene-of-the-Lion-King style. The object in her arms is blinding white, reflecting the sun. Upon closer inspection it appears to be… 320 typed pages?

“I FINISHED IT!” she screams, voice weak from a year of disuse. “I FINISHED MY THESIS!”

My dear friend Joanie and I at our honors ceremony where they rewarded us with a few yards of pretty rope for sacrificing a year of our lives to our theses.

(clears throat)

So that’s where I’ve been the past year.

One of the perks of being a creative writing major is that your thesis gets to be a creative project instead of a year-long analysis of Renaissance literature or a detailed report of your experiments poking C. elegans under a microscope. My thesis was a fantasy novel about a boy who takes a train to purgatory. I’m in the process of querying agents who will potentially try to help me publish it.

Here’s actual footage of agents rejecting me:

begging gif

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t spend ALL of my free time writing. You can really only write for so many hours in a day before you forget how to speak English. The thing about creative writing is that, as fun as it can be, it’s mentally draining. I didn’t exactly curl up in bed after a long day of class and say “You know what I feel like doing? Winding down by cranking out 3,000 words of an emotionally-charged murder scene which I will have to research extensively.” So I made time for other things. You know, for inspiration.

I started the year by flying into Atlanta early for International Student Orientation, where I hung out with my amazing and brilliant freshmen mentees.

Not pictured: my other wonderful mentee, Natalia.

I did lots of fun things with my friends, including but not limited to: attending Braves games, riding tandem bikes in the rain, eating too much Korean BBQ, playing tipsy twister, and hosting a Halloween party.

Halloween at The Castle of Dreams, feat. Snow White, a minion, Minnie Mouse, and a gross tub that we used to bob for apples.

My fantastic roommates, Giang and Sarah, made our apartment (otherwise known as the Castle of Dreams) feel like home. IMG_3474

For spring break, my friends and I drove to Gatlinberg, TN, for some hiking and general tomfoolery. This was our destination mostly because I informed them that I am an actual vampire who hates the beach, so we opted out of the more “traditional” spring break cities because I have the best friends ever.

Giang I stole your picture and I’m not sorry

I can honestly say my senior year was my favorite year of college. This was mostly because I focused my energy on things that truly mattered to me and people who care about me. But now…



Except not really.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all my travels, it’s that real love doesn’t fade across time zones. People who are truly meant to be in your life will always be there, no matter how far away you are, what sort of trauma you’re trudging through, or what forces are trying desperately to pull you apart.

It sucks not having hugs on demand, but I never lose sight of how lucky I am to have people who love me all around the world. My time at Emory isn’t “over” because I’ll carry every part of it with me every day. Graduation is not an endpoint for me, because I believe that nothing ever truly ends.

… Did you like that last bit?

(Yes, Kylie, that was lovely)

Well great! Because that’s actually a quote from a story of mine that is being published in a few short weeks!

(I’m really good at subtle transitions, as you can see)

One of my short stories is being published in the spring edition of The Puritan, an online literary magazine based in Toronto. This is exciting because it’s the first time anyone has PAID ME for my writing. I’ll send out another blog post when that gets published soon, but I wanted to get this out first rather than writing one SUPER MEGA BLOG POST ABOUT EVERYTHING.

Another thing I did this year is a lengthy analysis of Mulan (yes, the Disney film) for my English class. If you’re interested in what Mulan has to do with racism, feminism, orientalism, etc. then take a look!

Until next time!



Posted in Thoughts

How Youtubers Are Buying the Best Seller List

Zoe Sugg

Zoe Sugg, an English internet celebrity known for her makeup tutorials and funfetti cupcake recipes, published her debut novel, Girl Online, in 2014. The YA romance discussing cyber-bullying and mental health sold 78,109 copies in its first week on shelves, more than any debut novel since 1998. Sugg’s name appeared on both the New York Times and Amazon Best Seller Lists. The only problem?

Sugg didn’t write the book, and the whole world knows it. 

Sugg hired a ghost writer named Siobhan Curham to write Girl Online, and hid this information until after publication. Her novel’s success was practically guaranteed by Sugg’s platform of 5,000,000 (now 9,000,000) subscribers to her Youtube channel.

Sugg is not the first and certainly not the only celebrity who knows their name will sell products and capitalizes on the loyalty of their fan base. But as a writer, I take issue with the practice of purchasing a spot on the Best Seller List, a goal that some people spend their lives trying to achieve.

When the internet first caught wind of the fact that Sugg didn’t write her novel independently, she tweeted: “Everyone needs help when they try something new. The story and the characters of Girl Online are mine.”

And there lies the fatal flaw in the logic of every celebrity who needs some “help” writing their book: the ideas are mine, so it doesn’t matter if I have some help with the writing part.

story ideas blog

On the left is a note on my phone of the many story ideas I have throughout the day. Some of these have panned out into great stories, some were fleeting ideas that I haven’t touched since.

I have 23 of these notes saved on my phone.

In short, I have a lot of ideas.

And I’m not afraid to post them on the internet because I know that these ideas by themselves are worthless. Coming up with ideas is the easy part. I’d even say it’s the fun part of writing. Seeing a story play out like a movie in your head, dreaming of who plays the main character in the film adaptation, fantasizing about the gray rain and flickering streetlights in the dramatic fight scene at the climax of the story…

None of those things make you a writer.

What makes you a writer is the painstaking process of translating those cinematic ideas onto paper in a way that makes your readers see the same look of despair in your main character’s eyes when his brother dies, and feel the wet pavement scrape his knees when he falls to the ground. It’s the task of describing the indescribable, trying to put words to things that you know transcend all words.

What makes you a writer is spending all summer on a draft, staying up until 2am and typing while your roommate sleeps, then burning the draft and starting from scratch the next day.

What makes you a writer is the influx of rejection letters from publishers and the will to keep sending out your stories to be spit on and tossed back to you in crumpled paper balls. It’s the waiting game that gnaws at your stomach until you can’t eat anymore because you’re always waiting for a letter in the mail, an email, constantly refreshing to see if your submission status has changed from “Received” to “In-Progress” to “Rejected.”

Whether Sugg’s ghostwriter wanted acknowledgment for her work or not is irrelevant. Curham’s distaste for fame doesn’t make Sugg any more deserving of the money she made or her spot on the Best Seller List. It only means that two people were complacent in an inherently deceptive money-making scheme.

I’m not arguing that Sugg is a bad person. In fact, using her fame to teach young people about bullying and mental health is admirable. She deserves every single one of her near-9-million Youtube subscribers because her videos are fun, entertaining, and uplifting. Even I subscribe to her and watch her videos. I appreciate all that she’s done to break down the stigma surrounding panic attacks and anxiety, and how her bright disposition never fails to make me smile.

But I know that her fame doesn’t make her flawless, and even though I like her, I will not blindly defend her. 

Being famous for one skill does not entitle you to fame in all other areas of life, and does not make it moral for you to bypass all the hard work that someone without your fame would have to put in to get the same results.

Fame is self-perpetuating, after all. Take J.K. Rowling for example. Rowling’s novel, The Cuckoo’s Calling, was published under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith in 2013, selling only 1,500 copies in the U.K. and 1,800 in the U.S.

Then an anonymous twitter user outed Rowling, and The Cuckoo’s Calling shot to #1 on Amazon Kindle, the Apple Bookstore, Barnes and Noble, and Nook Best Seller Lists once people realized the Galbraith was actually Rowling.

My point is that once you’re famous, that fame is inescapable. Any product with Sugg’s name on it will sell. That doesn’t make it immoral for her to benefit from her fame by pursuing new projects, but it becomes immoral when she thinks that her fame is an excuse to skip the hard work that comes with writing a novel because she can afford to pay someone to do it for her

Though her intentions may have been good, by taking credit for a novel which is not hers, Sugg teaches her young audience that if you’re not good at something, paying someone else to do it for you and pretending that you did it yourself is the next best thing. She teaches them that skills such as writing, which people spend lifetimes trying to master, can be outsourced without consequence, and that having good ideas is enough to succeed, never mind having the drive to actually execute them.

 The sequel to Girl Online will be released in October this year, supposedly without the help of a ghost writer. Rather, Sugg says that her editor, Amy Alward, has been coming to her house “every week for the past four months… we essentially spend the day bashing heads and writing the book together.”

It’s a step in the right direction, though I can’t help but think of all the aspiring writers who don’t have the luxury of an in-house editor and guaranteed book deal. Any other writer would be forced to write their novel independently, and if a publisher didn’t like it, they’d receive a terse rejection email and that would be the end of it. No editor holding their hand, correcting their grammar, offering chapter-by-chapter critiques. The same process that every other writer in the world has to suffer through. Minus, of course, the built-in platform of devoted readers waiting for a sequel to a beloved book that their favorite “author” didn’t actually write.

Now Zoe Sugg’s younger brother and fellow Youtube celebrity Joe Sugg is releasing a graphic novel in September titled Username: Evie.

Unlike his sister, Sugg readily admits that he did not work independently on the novel, crediting a team of 4 other people who worked on writing, lettering, colors, and drawing. So what did Sugg himself do? The “story/characters,” he says.

As you may have guessed,” Sugg continues on Twitter, “Graphic novels aren’t a one man job. If I did it all on my own it wouldn’t be out until 2070 and would be rubbish.”

If that’s the case, Joe, then why is your name the only one on the cover? And for the love of God, stop referring to it as “my book.”

Subscribing makes me smile! 🙂 Hit the green “follow” button on the right.


Twitter: @KylieYamashiro

Instagram: kylieleebaker

Posted in Thoughts

What is your dream?

Yesterday I came back to work, ready to unpack, sweep, and possibly spray another round of bedbug spray over my suite before the students came back on the bus, only to find that my keys were locked in the office and no one could let me in. I sat by the front desk and started reading (I’m halfway through I Know This Much is True) when a coworker sat next to me and said, “Kylie, what is your dream?”

Traveling is also pretty high up there on the list of dreams

I think writers, by definition, are big dreamers. I spend more time inside my imagination than outside of it. I’m also a massive and unapologetic optimist, so I can only imagine the brightest future for myself and everyone around me.

But I also know that life never goes exactly how you expect it to. As much as I like to make lists and plan everything down to the last nanosecond, I also know that learning to accept surprises gracefully and without (too much) complaining is the only way to be happy. So my dream isn’t as specific as living in California with a K-Pop star husband and a permanent spot on the New York Times Best Seller List.

“My dream is to be happy,” I said, “and to solve more problems in the world than I create.”


The latter part of my dream is a quote from a Vlogbrothers video that I can’t seem to find, but I think this should be everyone’s goal in life.

I remember an episode of Arthur from when I was little where Binky Barnes wished that he’d never been born, so one fairy-godmother-like character showed him what the world would be like if he didn’t exist. She showed him all the trash in the park that was blowing around in the wind because he was always the one who picked it up. I’m sure there were much more profound differences in the non-Binky-Barnes world, but I can’t remember them. But the message stuck with me:

Above all else, I hope to live and impact the people around me in such a way that, had I never been born, the world would be a slightly darker place.


If I can find a way to do that, I’ll call my life a success.

Posted in Thoughts

What if I never “make it”?

Courtesy of flickr user Christian Haugen
Courtesy of flickr user Christian Haugen

Imagine that you’re 20 years old, starting your third year of college as a Creative Writing Major, and justifying your $30,000 loans to your parents with daydreams of making the New York Times Best Seller List.

You know the statistics. You know that most books never sell more than 200 copies. Still, you imagine the day when your book sales explode and suddenly CNN wants to interview you, Steven Spielberg wants to option the movie rights, and the royalties not only save you from a lifetime of debt but let you buy your own bigger-than-a-closet apartment in New York and a house on Cape Cod for your parents. Even when the guy who took you to the symphony last week won’t answer his phone, even when you take your Chinese final with a 102 degree fever, you exude hope from this beautiful, foolish aspiration.

After all, you’re still young. You have at least 50 years of good mental capacity left, and odds are you can crank out some half-decent prose by then. You’ve published a story or two in some magazines with a decent circulation. You have a pretty face that can probably sell books. Teachers praise your work. Rejection letters hardly phase you because you know still have so much time.

But in the back of your mind, there’s still a massive storm cloud hovering at the fringes: what if you don’t make it? What if one day you wake up and you’re 40, only a handful of people have ever read your work, suddenly you’re no longer young and time seems a lot less infinite than it did before?

You look at disgruntled semi-famous writers in their late 30’s and feel sorry for them but keep your distance because their bitter attitudes clash with your shiny optimism. But deep down you know that in 20 years you might be just like them, and statistically, you probably will be. Dreams of becoming famous both drive you and haunt you. The foundation of your happiness is an irrational hope, and you wonder what will happen when it’s gone.

But you’re determined. You write stories every night and hate them by morning, then re-write them, re-name all the characters, change the setting from rural Japan to a New York train car and find that you still hate it. A few stories survive, and you send them to every magazine you can find, using all your ink to print manuscripts, all your saliva to seal envelopes. You drop them in the mailbox and begin the game of waiting six months for someone in a tiny office across the country to mail you back a quick and impersonal rejection slip on a half a sheet of paper.

But you’re still determined not to fail, so you research how books become best-sellers. Every website tells you that a platform is paramount, so you start a blog. The blatant self-promotion makes you cringe because like most writers, you’re a bookworm, and like most bookworms, you prefer to stay in the shadows. You wanted to sell your writing, not yourself, but you now understand that the publishing world is a business, and you are a brand.

You’ve maxed out on federal student loans, so you apply for private ones. By the time you graduate, you’ll owe well over $50,000. You consider teaching English abroad, even though you hate teaching, but it’s all you’re qualified for. You research part-time jobs to see what will pay the most and give you the most time to write. Any job is just a way to kill time until your debut novel comes out and pays off all your loans.

Your parents support you, but you can tell from the way they look at you that they’re worried. They don’t want you to be like them, arguing over which bills to pay late while their daughter sits at the top of the stairs and listens. They don’t want you to have a child who worries if she can afford to go back to college for her senior year. They say they just want you to be happy, but you know it’s hard to be happy when you might lose your house at any moment.

You stay up until 3:00am writing your novel because it’s the only consistent source of happiness in your life, but every day it seems more pointless. You’re better off selling short stories or making Youtube videos to build your platform. No one will read your first novel because no one knows you, and no one cares who you are.

You decide to become a translator. You even get the “Declaration of Major” form from the Chinese department and check the blasphemous box saying “Cancel My Previous Major.” You’ll switch legal documents from Spanish to English to Chinese and back again, making enough to pay off your loans in 5 years instead of 15. You think of your post-graduation apartment, this time not the size of a large port-o-potty but a small bedroom with hot water and free parking. You imagine buying your first car and taking vacations to Thailand, drinking Mango juice on the beach.

You also imagine your characters, like insects trapped in amber, frozen in their journeys on the day you closed the word document and never opened it again. You see yourself at age 30, looking away as you pass every book store, hating the author’s names printed on the dust jackets. Even though you stop writing, your novel plays out like a movie in your dreams. Storm clouds still rumble in your brain, but this time the question is different. They no longer ask, “What if you don’t make it?” but “What if you do?

You throw the “Declaration of Major” form in the recycling bin.

You realize that if a 2055 version of you got in a time machine and appeared in your bedroom to say, “No one but your Mom will buy your books. Critics will say your first novel is better as toilet paper than reading material,” you would still write. While you would love for the world to read your stories, you don’t write for other people. You write because you simply cannot imagine a life in which you are not a writer.

This realization is liberating. The daunting question of “Will I ever make it?” becomes irrelevant when you realize that fame is a byproduct, not a cause, of happiness.

It’s 1:00am. You sit back down at your computer and vow to never abandon your characters again. You have another cup of coffee and continue writing, delirious with hope.

This blog post/story/article is hypothetical. Details do not necessarily reflect my own experiences.