How I Sold Myself Short of My Dream

For as long as I can remember, books have been an integral force in my life. I still remember when my Uncle Bo took me to Barnes & Noble for the first time and helped me pick out my first chapter book, Robin Hood. I remember feeling something I can only describe as pure magic when I watched the 1996 film about a book-obsessed girl named Matilda and saw myself up on the screen. (The story of how I made Matilda my entire personality and attempted to read Charles Dickens and other classics in second grade so I could *be* Matilda is one I’ll save for another day.)

My point is, my life has long been marked by books and the people that wrote them.

Like many, I went through countless phases as a kid when answering the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” A professional ballerina, marine biologist, and dolphin trainer were in heavy rotation, naturally. Author was also heavy in the rotation in my elementary school years when I was enthralled with Peter and The Starcatchers, Percy Jackson, and The Chronicles of Narnia, among many others.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped saying I wanted to be an author when I grew up.

With the middle school years come many things – self awareness, inner criticism, an endless amount of insecurity. Your teachers start talking to you about career paths and career readiness and what sort of classes you need to take in order to pursue your career, as if we know anything at the ripe age of 12, much less what we want to do for the rest of our lives.

Somewhere in those years, the thought of being an author became so impractical, so far fetched, so out of reach. It wasn’t something that normal people did. It was reserved for a special breed of individuals that didn’t include me.

I had always loved my English Literature classes, and I knew I had a knack for writing. I would choose to write an essay or paper over taking a test any day of the week. And yet, I had convinced myself I couldn’t pursue it seriously. It wasn’t a sudden realization; it was a slow change in my brain, a river languidly wearing down rock until one day, there’s a deep, chasmic canyon.

When I entered high school, I got involved in yearbook, which also included journalism classes, and suddenly being a journalist or writing for a magazine seemed to be a career that was within reach. Being a journalist is so much more attainable than being a novelist, right?

So with my newfound career path, I launched myself into the realm of journalism, of writing the facts, of writing nonfiction. When I began my college journalism classes, it was an odd dichotomy of loving the actual writing of stories but hating pretty much everything else that went along with it. I am naturally an introvert, and the task of interviewing and talking to total strangers was extremely draining. It whittled my energy to nothing and drove me to severe bouts of anxiety.

I hated interviewing strangers and digging into people’s business, so writing for a newspaper or other serious journalism outlet was out of the question.

I hated being on camera, so broadcast journalism was also out.

The only potential career I wanted to pursue was writing or editing for a magazine, and even that seemed far fetched. (Ironically enough, I work for a magazine and media company now!)

In college, I eventually expanded my horizons to advertising and public relations and ended up getting a project management and communications job for a nonprofit right out of college. My job was also a contrariety of loving the mission of the organization but feeling exhausted by the job itself. Something always felt off, until I eventually convinced myself I could write a book. Ever since, my nights and weekends have been filled with writing the stories floating around in my head.

As I think back on my journey now, I want to kick myself. My college had a professional writing program, friends. Professional writing! This included classes like “Writing the Novel” – are we serious? But somewhere in my adolescence, I had convinced myself that I would never make it as an author, so I never even considered majoring in professional writing. Oh, how I wish I could go back and tell high school Allie that she could do it. If I’d majored in professional writing, how many books might I have written by now? Five? Ten? Where would I be now? I try not to linger on the thought too long…but it still eases itself into the crevices of my mind more often than I’d like to admit.

Don’t get me wrong – I started writing my first book at 26, which is, by many standards, very young. I know some people don’t convince themselves to pick up a pen until their 40s, 50s, or 60s, but I still beat myself up for not opting for an English lit or professional writing major in college, knowing I would have so much more industry knowledge and experience under my belt.

As I’ve been reflecting on my journey recently, it’s been interesting to look back and try to figure out when it was I convinced myself I couldn’t achieve my dream of becoming an author. I distinctly remember a bright eyed and bushy tailed, book obsessed, elementary school book nerd who would proudly declare that she wanted to be an author (or a ballerina…or a dolphin trainer). But looking back, I realized that after my middle school years, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to become an author; it was that it wasn't even an option in my mind anymore.

I’m grateful to have started pursuing this dream at 26, to have not let 10, 20, or 30 more years slip away. I’m grateful to have people in my life (read: my husband, my parents, my siblings) that have always said I could be whatever I wanted to be. I’m grateful that even early in this author journey, I can look back and be grateful for where I’ve come, even when it’s so much easier to think about where I want to go.

Vera Wang didn’t enter the fashion sphere until she was 40. Julia Child published her first cookbook at 50. Bob Ross didn’t paint full time until he was 41. It’s never too late to pursue your dream—but the first step is not selling yourself short.