That's it. I just want to write. I hate to fulfill the saying, those who can't do, teach. But I can't help it. If I could write full-time and make enough to support my family, I'd recycle my teaching degree and never look back. I hope that doesn't mean I'm going to be a crappy teacher.
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
-Langston Hughes, "Harlem"
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