When I was fifteen, I did well in english classes except for finishing short stories. My stories never ended and my assignments were always pages longer than my classmates. During one of those projects, I had six pages of unfinished story instead of the assigned three. We had to read our stories out loud, and I begged not to read mine even if it affected my grade because I didn't want the class groaning at me for boring them to death. Teacher said that was a no-go and I had to read them all. By page four, I expected everyone to be asleep but they were all staring at me. They weren't talking or secretly eating smuggled food. All eyes were on me, and when I read my last page, half the class's hands went up. They pelted me with questions about what was going to happen or who ended up with who. I felt amazing, especially since they had only asked a total of two questions during the other fifteen projects. For the first time I thought, "Wouldn't this be nice to do for a living?"
Unfortunately, I never finished that story and I was told repeatedly that writing was the dumbest career possible. It took me ten years to stop caring and go for it.