P&P

Chapter Twenty-One

I had stayed at Charlotte's apartment in Oakland for over a month when it was finally time for me to return home and figure out just what it was that I wanted to do with my life. My English Lit major wasn't exactly working out for me, not only because the novels for the course were completely...boring, but also because there wasn't much you could do with a degree in that course.

I knew of a lot of my friends who were going into nursing programs and staying in town, so I thought, why not? When I told my father this, however, he wasn't having it.

"Lizzie, do you remember what happened when you donated blood last year?" He asked me. Oh, and I did. It was something I was still trying to forget about. "You puked in the box where the blood bags were being kept and fainted in the parking lot."

Not exactly my finest hour.

"So what if I'm a little squeamish?" I said, blowing him off. "I'm sure it'll pass. If billions of people in the world can do it, then why can't I?" But my father, caring about me as much as he does, was still not going to relent in the idea of me becoming a nurse.

"Because you don't want to." He told me sternly. "I'm not paying for your college courses just so you can end up unhappy in a safe job that you'll hate. You've always had big dreams, ever since you were little. What's stopping you from doing something you really want to do?"

"I guess...they're not really my dreams anymore." I told him honestly. Or at least, I thought I was being honest. "I don't know what I want to do with my life." When I was a kid, I idolized Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City. I wanted to get paid to write about my feelings in 150 word columns about anything and everything and nothing. In my eyes, it was the perfect occupation.

Maybe deep down, it still was.

"Don't lie to this old man." My father said firmly. "There has been many a night when I'd come downstairs for a glass of milk and hear you typing away on your laptop. You've still been writing."

My eyes widened from this revelation. There have been some nights when a particular nagging feeling wouldn't allow me to sleep until I got out of bed and typed it out of my system. Jane knew about this, of course, as I told her everything. And until Darcy's interruption of my pro and con list, I was on the brink of admitting to myself that writing was what I wanted to do.

Side Note: there may or may not be pages upon pages on my laptop that go on and on about William Darcy in a very unflattering matter.

"I like to think I know all three of my daughters very well," My father continued. "But I know that I know you the best." This made me smile, if only for a second. "You're scared, Elizabeth. Snap out of it. Stand up and start telling people that this is what you want to do so you can get the proper encouragement you need to pursue this dream."

My father was right. As usual.

The weeks passed by slowly but surely, and during this time the only thing I did was reflect. I hadn't even bothered to look at the nursing program the University had on the website, and decided to take my father's advice. I changed my major to Journalism and added a minor in Creative Writing. There wasn't an online course for this, but the class was only held once a week at the University.

"Alright class, let's begin for the day." The professor said as she made her way to the front of the classroom, a glare covering her glasses as she walked passed a window, and then another, before reaching her desk. She didn't even appear to be taken aback. We were in one of the small classrooms in the University. There were only about thirty desks, twenty of which were filled by a student, and the walls were bare. The board had read 'Professor Dessen' before she even walked into the classroom.