I was the most immature 16 year old on the planet. I blush now to read my diary then. It sounds like a twelve year old’s thoughts.  I had no plans for the future when I was 16.  I was interested in Right Now, or maybe, Five Minutes From Now.

After reading all of the entries from my sixteenth year, I can extrapolate two parts of ‘future me’ from the text.  One, I loved to write stories then as much as I do now.  The diary pages, when not talking about boys, are full of references to stories I am working on.  Two, the reason I never seriously entertained thoughts of being a writer: I never finished a single one of those stories.

My boyfriend often wonders why my parents and teachers never encouraged me to become a writer.  The diary entries make it obvious, I never wanted to be one.  I don’t remember ever showing any of my stories to anyone either, so how would anyone know I was writing them? And besides all that,  I couldn’t spell, and I was a terrible student.  My 16th year was full of ‘D’s.

I can’t answer the question: Does my life now look like what I imagined it to be when I was 16? Apparently, at 16 I wasn’t concerned with anything beyond ‘tommarro.’

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P.S. I won the bet.

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Daily Prompt: Sweet Sixteen 
When you were 16, what did you think your life would look like? Does it look like that? Is that a good thing?