When I grow up and graduate from college, heck, even before then, all I want to do is write. Most of what I do with my time is read and write, when I’m not daydreaming about adventures I’d have characters go on. I’m developing characters in my head, slowly making them more and more complex, giving them friends and traits and quirks and fears, making friends with made up people in my head. It gets almost to the point that they don’t feel too made up anymore. I can come up with dramatic readings and storytellings on the spot, and often intertwine these intense plots into real life, confusing and entertaining people to a point of hilarity. I’ll take random everyday objects and use them to advance my plots, saying this an ancient artifact from an old tribe in the heart of the Bermuda triangle, or that is a piece of scrap metal fallen from Jupiter and it means we’re the chosen ones, or even saying a car engine is the roar of the Father Demon and start going on and on about an extreme plan to take him out. I’ve even gone on and on about a bit of rain, saying it was a great and mighty storm with thunder crashes like the roars of a monster and lighting so bright that the sky was ripping itself apart to reveal heaven. One time that I’m particularly proud of, I took a journal around school with me and wrote a field report about the actions of my peers as an outsider. As you can tell, I have a knack for this sort of stuff.
When I grow up, I really want to be an author. I want other people to hear my stories and make friends with my character, marvel at wonders of worlds I came up with. I came up with the idea of wanting to be an author because I always get frustrated at the lack of good books that are on the longer side of things. So I decided that I would have to make some. With that seed of an idea planted in my head, I started to write a lot more, and eventually it came to the point that I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. I still can’t. I want my stories to be known. I want my worlds to be explored. It’s kind of sad to me that these people and places only exist in my head, that nobody else has them, nobody else knows their magic. So really, I want to be an author. I want to make people see different worlds, experience my adventures, meet my characters. I spend so much time reading, why not give back a little and write a book that people will not only read, but enjoy? Because I feel there is no such thing as enough books, I’m going to add to the pile that people have already built up, and I refuse to add rubbish
I know that it’s pration and B) I like cookies so I’m putting them in the name. It sounds catchy to me. Pretty much, I’m going to have different types of coffee, and cookies, and apples too. I’ll also have a book shelf in the room, and people can take books off the shelf and read them if they want. Is my love for books and reading showing yet? I don’t have as much to say about the coffee shop as the all the writing stuff, so I’ll just end the paragraph here. That seems acceptable to me.
I just want to write. In my future, I’m going to do just that; but I’m going to have a coffee shop too, as a backup source of income.