Ihave always been a fairly obedient girl, one who lived in constant fear of “getting in trouble” or ticking someone off. I am the sixth of eight children, and had so many examples to follow and learn from, I rarely had to be directly disciplined at all. I liked being in the background. I never wanted to stand out for making the wrong or embarrassing choice, so I often opted for the path of least resistance.So when it came to going to college, I knew the “right,” “smart” way to do it. I wasn’t going to sit around for Prince Charming, I wasn’t going to pick a “frivolous” degree or something with an unclear career path. I was going to college to train for a job, and with that in mind, I opened up the college catalogue my high school senior year and thought “maybe nursing would be all right.” It looked interesting; there was no question it was an honorable job. No uncomfortable ambiguity, you major in nursing, you become a nurse. The world needed nurses and nurses make money. Guess work done.So I signed up for my freshman classes and started taking Anatomy and other pre-recs and a few other things started falling in place. I’ve heard some people say that college was a wakeup call, that they coasted in high school and had their legs kicked from under them in the first year of college. I pretty much had the opposite experience. I was used to taking advance classes, and when doing general classes in college, I shot to the top. Even though nursing is a fairly competitive major, I got in even without the same advance preparation a lot of people put into deciding to become a nurse.But once I got into my actual nursing classes, the “real work” began. It was an accelerated program, and it was a lot of work. There is no question about that. Though it really wasn’t the academics or subject matter I struggled with, it was the social demands. I had instructors who actually told me after written tests and reports they were “surprised” to discover I actually knew my stuff because I was so quiet in the practical setting. I would stutter and fumble when I felt like everyone’s eyes were on me—as they often were in clinical scenarios and such.Blood, no problem. Knocking on a stranger’s door and introducing myself to a new patient, terrifying.But I was not a quitter. I had decided to become a nurse, so that was what I was going to do.And I DID do it. I graduated. But just the act of “nursing” drained me socially and when I left college, I felt like I had barely experienced much outside of my chosen major. I went to my classes, forced myself though them, and came home and retreated into my real comfort zone—writing and more artistic pursuits, things I always knew I enjoyed on my own, but never wanted to “ruin” by inviting more critical eyes.So that was what happened. I was so “smart” about my college choices that when I finished, I got exactly what I wanted. I was a nurse with no Prince Charming, and no “frivolous” experiences. And that reality hit me in the face when I graduated. I had known I had to be smart about my college choices, but I guess I secretly hoped that serendipity would intervene along the way, and I would get the “unsmart” things—marrying early and pursuing my art while chasing down toddlers.That was what I really wanted, but since I never felt comfortable admitting to it, I got something entirely different. I hit the wall realizing that instead of accomplishing one hard thing, I signed myself up for one hard reality of actually being a nurse.I came home and became the worst kind of statistic. I applied for jobs I didn’t want, barely getting any interviews as it seemed everyone was looking for “experience.” And I just didn’t want to fight anymore. The queen of passive aggressive behavior, I would agree with what my parents said I needed to do to find a job or continue schooling, but give a half-hearted effort hoping I WOULDN’T get them. I fought during nursing school, and without a real love for the profession needed to clear the obstacles, I became exactly what I most feared, directionless and lost.This is where I usually start to tell people about my writing experience, that I finished college with a novel I finished in a closet, and when the reality of becoming a nurse arrived, I tried to retreat to my writing again. But I was now living at home with a different kind of mother, one whose full nest was emptying. Instead of being a “mostly good” girl lost in the crowd of my siblings, I became her number one focus. She zeroed in on my struggles/desires and decided that if I really liked writing, I should take my first novel and show it to someone who really could help.She showed it to a published author in our church ward.And that author (and her critique group) really wanted to be helpful. They were so helpful, I watched my poorbook baby get ripped to pieces and with it, my life seemed to crumble. My last coping mechanism and hiding spot had been snatched from under me.I didn’t want to be a nurse, I didn’t have a Prince Charming, and I was a terrible writer. (TO BE CONTINUED)