I was swimming in an aquarium of words, words, words.
It was past midnight, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how to arrange them, how to write punchier copy for my article about Arthur Miller’s play, “All My Sons.” Never mind that I had an organic chemistry midterm the next day; that had never stopped me from making sure that the theater and arts articles I wrote for my college newspaper were perfect. I’d be damned if this one would be any different. I thrived on the bylines, the late nights, the pressure to hit the next deadline. Journalism, and writing, undeniably made me feel more alive than learning how to titrate amino acids.
That was ten years ago.