Ever since I could talk, I’ve said I was here to write a story, but I never knew what story I was supposed to write until now.
I’ve had this pervasive feeling that I had a pre-set agenda in this life and I had to get it completed. I was always attracted to anything that drew me out of my comfort zone. I yearned for more in life and was in a hurry to grow up fast. I felt so restricted, being a child with such little access to the world.
I went to a private school from the age of twelve. It was in the city of Victoria, Canada, and each day I would drive in with my father on his way to work. It was a typical Catholic private school, very strict, and I wore a uniform. I caused trouble by constantly questioning what the monks taught.
One day, my teacher asked the class what we thought we would become in life. I said I wanted to be a writer. He shook his head patronizingly. “You will never be a writer,” he said with great authority. He told my friend that she would be. That deterred me for a long time, until I learned that I couldn’t rely on what others say.
