On Wednesdays mornings, I'm in school working my way to my career. When the bell rings at 2:45 p.m., I'm off to work at the Chicago Tribune offices in the Loop.
This is my place of business. Writing is what I live to do.
The rocking of the train as I'm on my way to success makes me shake in my Nike's. The cool breeze that hits me as I walk in the door to sign in at the security desk makes me feel like I'm working for the President.
Many journalists here are on important business calls when I walk through the door of the newsroom. They are too busy to know who I am. Perhaps, I am nameless young girl.
Still, I get excited by the dust left behind from my pencil and by hearing the nonstop tapping on keyboards. I know I'm destined to be great.
Out on Michigan Avenue, when I finally get to conduct an interview, I feel like the new kid at school. It doesn't always feel right to talk to strangers just to get the bleeding right of a "just good enough" story.
My path to success is already set because the Chicago Tribune keeps putting me in check.
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