The English Major's Tale of Woe

While the majority of millennial-age college students are dedicating four (or more) years to the studies of business, medical science, psychology, or some other career-confirmed pathway to success, there are a select, questionably sane few who choose to take the road less traveled and major in an area of the liberal arts. While I may inadvertently defame my own career path in the process of writing this, I in no way regret the choice to join the elusive cult of English majors. In fact, I love that I chose a major that requires centuries-long hours in the library writing 10-page essays on why the color yellow in Crime and Punishment is a symbol of Raskolnikov's struggle with the conflict between morality and mental illness. Exhilarating stuff, right? But in all honesty, choosing to become an English major was one of the easiest (and most rewarding) decisions I've ever made.

As a child who would rather sit in a corner reading Jane Eyre than play Capture the Flag with the rest of the neighborhood kids, I was always singled out as a little weird. And while I am an extrovert in most areas, I also happen to love the solitary aspect of the written word. I have a rather idealistic view of the world and I honestly believe in the good in everyone. So maybe that's the reason I am so easily able to lose myself in a novel for days on end. Or perhaps it is why I enjoy writing poetry and short stories that no one but myself ever reads. Everything I read or write is for myself


Therefore, becoming an English major was the obvious choice. Choosing what I wanted to accomplish with that major, however, wasn't so easy. I knew from the beginning that I would be forever bombarded with questions like, "English Major? So you want to teach?" and "Oh...English. How are you going to make a career out of that?" But I've always been the type of person who does exactly what she wants, when she wants, regardless of the thoughts of others. (Not exactly the best character trait to possess but, I digress). Because the field of English is stereotypically designated to prim librarians or those crazy cat-lady literature professors, I've decided to take a less conventional route and work my way into editing and publishing. I can very well picture myself sitting in a corner-office reading the manuscript of an up and coming author, deciding whether or not his or her work has the potential of becoming the next Great American Novel. Books have staying power despite how technology-dependent our society has become. There is no greater feeling than cracking the spine of a freshly printed novel and smelling the crisp, acidic smell of the pages. Novels, poems, magazines, blogs, news articles, and short stories all have one thing in common: their ability to transport the thoughts of the reader somewhere else. And I so desperately want to become a part of that process. 


Plus, I figure that if I have to correct grammar for a living, I'll have something solid to blame my coffee addiction on. So there's that.

So while others may not understand my choice to major in an area with no direct path to prosperity, I will have my reward. Because as Winston Churchill once said
"Success is not final, failure is not fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts."