From the moment I was born, I was earmarked for verbal geekdom. My parents, both history Ph.D.s, read War and Peace over my crib. They allotted all toy money toward books, and occasionally to traveling to places they had read about in those books. Instead of getting Barbies for Christmas, I ripped through wrapping paper to discover a hardback copy of Arabian Nights. Not that I don't love the book, but it wasn't a smash hit at 4th grade slumber parties. With this kind of stunted upbringing, I was either going to become a book-hating grownup or a book-writing grownup.

True to form, I went to college and majored in English. I had it all planned out. I would write my first (and of course) hugely successful novel while still in school, and then go on to enjoy a brilliant lifelong career as a writer. I imagined how fabulous it would be to send my first manuscript, crisp and virginal, to an agent my junior year. Naturally, given the caliber of my genius, she would find an eager publisher within a few months. Reflecting on the situation, I decided that the book would come out just after graduation. That way, I would be free for my book tour that fall. Clearly, my book would be an immediate bestseller and garner raves from the likes of Michiko Kakutani.

Another upside to publishing in July was that I would never have to get a real job. No cubicles, no commutes, and definitely no microwave lunches for me. I felt the Nobel Prize-winning literature rolling around in my head; work was for lesser intellects than mine.

College was great, and junior year came and went sooner than I expected. No book. No manuscript, even—just pages of poetry in battered journals, story starts on my laptop, and notebooks of half-thought-out scribbled ideas. Oh well, I reasoned, I'll finish this undefined "it" over the summer, turn "it" into something magnificent, and finish "it" just in time for senior year.

I forgot to add into the equation that I would have a summer job and a boyfriend. The summer tangoed by quickly between my paid job and my taking-care-of-the-boyfriend job. Three months were up, and I was in the bookstore again, flipping through used books, trying to find copies with the least amount of green highlighter and marginal notes before classes started two days later.

Without taking note of the time passing, I had a glorious senior year. But then it was over, and I watched myself in the mirror as I zipped up the ugly polyester mumu that was my graduation gown and perched the cap on my head. It was time to hang the diploma. And still no brilliant manuscript. I shrugged. After all, I wouldn't have wanted my senior year to be any different than it was. I had had a great time! The words were still caged in my head, ready to come out on my command. I was still a genius, I thought to myself. Then, after two weeks of copiously celebrating my graduation, I realized that rent was due.

After examining my cave-like bank account, I realized I needed a rent-paying, food-affording job. A gracious friend got me an interview at her company, and the job didn't look that bad. During the interview, I noticed that every movable object had the company logo emblazoned on it: staplers, cups, shirts, pencils, chairs, folders. Everything was branded—everything belonged to The Corporation. I joked to myself that maybe I would end up belonging to the company, and tossed the observation off. I didn't belong here; this was what I had to do to pay rent until I won the Pulitzer. As for what I actually had to do, well, the job had all the necessary characteristics of a sellout job: a) minimal training or experience required, b) indecipherable buildings randomly arranged into a "campus," and most importantly, c) cubicles and fluorescent lighting. The job also successfully meets the Rule of K's for Sellout Jobs: a true sellout job must offer the big K ($50K or up per year) and the little K (401(k)/stock and retirement options). This job offered me lots of big Ks and a decent little k.

I realized, once I looked at the package I was being offered, that I was scared about living as an adult and having to pay for all my own stuff. I was afraid of taking a chance on my writing, but more afraid of not being able to pay rent. I signed on the dotted line. I sold out.

And the company immortalized my selling out by taking my picture. I looked blankly at the camera for my security badge photo, and entered my license plate and employee number into a database to get my glaringly bright parking pass which is plastered on my car for all to see. I perused the racks for responsible-looking heels. I started hefting myself out of bed for my smog-filled commute, leaving the house every morning with the requisite commuter coffee mug attached to my hand.

After a week I was fully trained for my job, which is neither stressful or demanding. I put out small fires or just sat with my brainwaves steadily nonactive and pretend to move my mouse around. I have a lot of time to think about my selling out, which hits home every time I fill out my timecard. When I click "save," a little pop-up window boings on to my screen, reading, "Your time has been successfully saved." Truth is, I haven't saved any time, just wasted it.

Nevertheless, I don't regret my cowardice in selling out. It was the best thing I ever could have done for my writing, because I come home at night after noting ideas all day and pour myself into my stories. In the months since graduation, I have found myself wanting to write. For the first time, it's not thinking about what could happen after I write—not being a writer, or a famous writer, or a contributor to a worthy magazine. I just want to write. And while I see now that my unbelievably cocky expectations were unrealistic and foolish, I am finally working on pieces that are worth submitting.