thank you

To everyone who commented, to everyone who shared their experiences and gave their advice: thank you.

I'm going to sound like a complete sap when I admit that I was genuinely moved, almost to tears actually, by the responses I got (especially a certain epic email). Reading through all of your advice helped me massively and, over the course of the weekend, I came to my descision.

I started to write my Masters application for the millionth time, I started and I stopped, I got out my calculator and figured out my finances, I looked at possible job options, I deleted everything that I'd just written, I stared at the screen feeling like an utter failure. The words wouldn't come - the abstract ideas, the late night speeches that I gave so many times, the ideals and the plans I'd used to have everyone else convinced - they just wouldn't stay on the page. Slippery and elusive I couldn't hold on to them for long enough to pin them down. I got up, I wandered, I scribbled in the leatherbound book where my snippets of fiction reside, I wrote some dialogue about a cat with no ears, I poured myself a glass of wine.

The itches wouldn't go away and by now it was dark, the house was empty, nobody was answering their phone. I was too worked up to sleep, too antsy to read - my eyes kept skipping words and lines, splicing sentences together and muddling the prose. So I did something that a couple of months ago would have been hell: I worked out. I pushed myself and lost myself. I really thought, for the first time in a good while about what I wanted. I weighed up my options and saw myself in five years, I heard the future me speak, I saw her light up and beam with pride when she explained to a stranger what it was that she did with her days.

And so I showered off, quickly, not wanting to lose the thread of insight, scared to shatter the fragile and perfect plan. I sat down at my computer and the words flowed. For two hours I typed. I explained what I wanted to get out of my life and what I wanted to give. I gave the reasons that I would not only enjoy my work but also that I would excel at it. In two hours it was done. The entire thing. There was no hesitation, no doubt or uncertainty just the sweet feeling of purpose and the sensation of weight lifting from my chest and the final inhalation of breath.

I'm going to teach.

More than that: I'm going to get my Masters.

More than that: I'm going to write fiction.

I realised that I can do everything that I want to do, I don't have to sacrifice a single part of it. When it really came down to it the reason I wanted to do the Masters was not to get a job at the end of it. I love to write but I love it too much to sterilise it. I love the creation of characters and the weaving of worlds not writing a piece pushing a drug. The reason I wanted to take the masters was beacuse I wanted the knowledge and the skills, I wanted to read the material and write the essays. And so I don't have to do it full time, I don't have to do it in a college and I don't have to take it now. The Open University offers the course and I have the next fourty summers to work on it. I have the next fourty summers to rent a cottage in the highlands and hole up with my laptop and a wireless internet connection. I have the next fourty summers to tell the stories that swirl in my mind.

When I thought about not teaching it frightened me. Already it felt like opportunity lost and I'm too young to start regretting things. So many of you said that I have all the time in the world, that I don't have to decide what to do with the rest of my life right now, so I'm not going to. I'm going to do what feels right to me now and if, in the future, something else feels more right then I'll do that instead.

Once I'd made my decision and sent my application into the ether to be judged and (oh my god please) accepted I, of course, rang my Mother. When I told her there was an audible rush of breath - I could see her closing her eyes at the other end of the phone and slowly unfurrowing her brow.

"Oh, thank God."

She'd been waiting for me to come to the decision on my own. Standing by and relentlessly firing pros and cons at me. Telling me not to worry about the money, telling me not to worry about the lack of jobs, telling me how much hard work teaching would be, telling me what I good writer I am, what a good teacher I would be. She'd kept quiet while I theorised about finances, working hours, what I'd get out of it, whether the sacrifices were worth it. When I finally told her what I'd decided - and my reasons for it - she said that she'd never been prouder, that she knew I'd come to the right path on my own, that she was so happy I'd finally stopped listening to other people and decided on what was truly best for me.

I feel good today. I feel light and bright and frighteningly happy. I feel like a weight has lifted.

Now I just need to get on to a course.