I am not a graduate student. This causes my parents to turn beet-red with shame (or so they tell me from across the ocean), even though supporting me during grad school was not an option they were willing to entertain.
I am not a bestselling author. I hear you can’t become one overnight, and that it is especially difficult if you’re 22, have two novel-like husks sleeping inside your computer, no connections, plenty of writer’s block and stress, but I am probably just making excuses.
I am not in possession of a coveted, incredibly lucrative job-contract. It doesn’t matter that I’ve just graduated and have no experience. I do have a job that pays my bills and allows me to interact with people I like, mainly English professors, and to save enough energy for carefully slogging through those two novel-like husks and various essays on the side. I guess that makes me into a giant bum who’s wasting her equally coveted Duke education, whaddya know.
I am not good enough. Well, perhaps I am good enough for some people, but not for the people who matter. And certainly not for les parents terribles. Bah.