Shannon Garvey

The August before my senior year of college, when others in my program of study were applying to medical school or interning in cognition labs, I was working as a barista at a bookstore cafe.

I was eight months away from graduating with a degree in neuroscience and behavior, but I had this secret I didn't know what to do with.

I wanted to be a writer.

So I was spending all my time at the bookstore, even when I wasn't working.

I was getting introduced to the music of Leonard Cohen.

Somebody lent me their copy of Just Kids by Patti Smith.

People were saying things in earnest around me like, you've got to read the Russians.

And do you want to join our Ulysses book group?

I was wearing all these little corduroy skirts and tights with holes in them and black turtlenecks, and I even got bangs.

And it was all just so romantic to me, every moment, every cappuccino I made, every book that I scanned, and every conversation that I was now a part of.

But I was 21, and I was really freaked out about this double life.

Who was I to want to be a writer, I thought.

What did I really think that I had to say?

And beyond that, I didn't really understand the logistics of this being a writer business.

Like, how does one make money?

And how long could I realistically work at this cafe?

What was going to happen after I graduated?

I was worried that all these things I was feeling at the bookstore were going to disappear like a mirage once my bangs grew out and everyone realized I was an imposter.

So I was looking for a sign, and I was looking for a push, and I was looking for them everywhere.

So one night I'm working.