As a teenager, I thought being a journalist would be a good way to make a living writing--and telling stories. So in 1993 I left the 70-degree confines of my hometown, San Diego, for Northwestern's considerably more frigid journalism program.

Within the first week, I was pegged as a free spirit, an artsy hipster counter-culture type of gal. I blame my jeans, which were torn with holes in the knees, and my profession of love for the band Pearl Jam. Plus, I owned eight CDs and sometimes referenced the Beatles.

Consequently, after writing one satirical piece in The Daily Northwestern, poking fun of Hallmark's marketing to Gen X-ers, I was asked to be one of the entertainment editors. I wrote about music, pop culture, and always with a savage tongue. One piece I did about the modeling industry remains a favorite. As someone who is 6'2", it was finally a chance to explore a world in which I had only one fleeting experience--but which people asked me about all the time growing up ("Are you a model? Do you play basketball? How tall? How tall?"). At the time of my brush with modeling, I was 15, and an executive asked me to parade around back and forth for a host of talent scouts. They loudly commented on my appearance with a visible air of disappointment--my cheeks were too fat, my gums showed too much when I smiled, was I maybe too tall?

After graduation, I landed an internship at The Washington Post, working for the Style section, known for their wonderful feature writing. While I learned many things and am incredibly grateful for the experience, it was probably also one of the more unhappy times in my life. I put way too much pressure on myself and had difficulty enjoying anything. All I could feel was impossible expectations (mostly my own) and the very high level of competition. Sure, I did well during my summer there, and upon the advice of my editor, I was able to get extended working Metro, because as he said, "Any good features writer knows how to cover news."

Part of covering news during that time happened to be the Marv Albert trial, an experience that certainly was like no other in my life. The guy to my left was from The New York Times and the woman to the right was from Entertainment Tonight. Both whispered to me, asking whether I had caught the quote from Marv's second biting victim up on the witness stand. It was surreal. (As I write that word, it seems so ridiculous to use. Everything seems small in the shadow of today's massive death and destruction.)

The internship was also difficult because I felt pretty much ripped away from my boyfriend--Mike--of almost two years. We were very much in love. Unfortunately, while I grew intensively needy, he withdrew. It was a bad combination. At the same time, I was working at the paper until 2 in the morning trying to make every word I wrote perfect, moving, compelling and brilliant. At one point, Mike and I broke up, only to get back together when I called him and read the heartfelt birthday card that I had planned on sending along with a pillow--for him to hug when I wasn't around.

I'm glad we did get back together. In September, it'll be one year of being married. He's a great guy and my best friend. Overall, he makes life a lot more sexy, interesting and fun. He does a lot of neat things including touring around the country playing bass and guitar. This Thursday he was supposed to fly to New York to play a big festival. Somehow, I don't think that's going to happen. I don't think anybody's in the mood for music right now.

In a nutshell, I left the D.C. internship at the Post, chock full of superstar intern clips. Good Housekeeping even wanted to buy the rights to one of my stories. The most prestigious newspaper to call me up and offer me a job writing news (which I felt I needed to do to be a good features reporter) was The Des Moines Register in Iowa. Non-newspaper people might only imagine cows wandering around but it is considered nationally to be a pretty good paper. Anyway, I made a lot of friends and learned many things about the way a city runs. Unfortunately, it was also marked by nights of crying and late-night conversations with Mike.

I'll never forget that year. I'll never forget breaking the news of the death of a young father and his child to their next-door neighbors in order to get a quote. Or Christmas day, where following the advice of my editor, I spent the afternoon knocking on doors after what police thought was a suicide turned out to be a murder. "Ask neighbors if they knew the guy," my editor said. "Find out what he was like."

I'm glad that I know how to write. And I'm truly grateful for all of these experiences. But over the course of this year and a half (and with other internships spent writing at The Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel, The Village Voice in New York and Illinois Entertainer), I found that many aspects of reporting for newspapers simply exhaust me--spiritually, emotionally, ethically and creatively. The details would take more than 2-3 pages. I eventually want to get back to the point where I am writing for me again--where I don't have to censor things. This may take a little while. That's okay. I'm enjoying my life and learning about life in the process.

After the Register, I was inspired to find a job in Chicago--a non-newspaper one--and also in the city where Mike was living. I got a gig as a writer for NU Medical School's alumni magazine, writing stories about doctors for doctors. During this job, Mike and I conceived our plot to take a two-week road trip across the country, camping in the Grand Canyon, seeing friends on the way, and wedding in Vegas. It was a good way to go; we sent postcards to our friends and had a party with all our favorite bands when we got back to town.

Right at about the same time I got married, I found a new job at a dot-com consulting firm. In five months there, I made pretty good money, learned a lot about the Web world, and in some ways, was able to get a real insider's view to many of the marketing strategies that I had criticized in my earlier youth. I have to say, the experience only reinforced most of my beliefs about the negative effects of America's advertising-driven culture.

Before the economy completely crashed and the company (once employing 10,000 people) went bankrupt, I jumped ship back to Northwestern in April 2001 as a senior writer/editor in the development division. It is a nice job--good quality of life. Part of it includes ghostwriting for President Henry Bienen, which can be a challenging task at times. I also write targeted publications to help inspire people to donate money to the university to support its educational goals. I feel pretty good about it overall--but I often still do long for the day when I can do writing that is, as you said in class, "in my own voice." I know that I have it in me (undoubtedly), but as a professional writer I've learned to subjugate it so often, that it can be difficult to find.

My family is also very important to me and has definitely shaped my voice over the years. But right now, that is a little bit hard, too. My parents just went through a divorce after 30 years of marriage and it is pretty awful. I've always been close to both. My father is an intelligent man, arrogant and brash, and also blind and disfigured, having been shot twice in the face in Vietnam. My mother is a very sensitive, funny person. She met him after he was shot. Everyone asks that.

Tonight with the World Trade Center horrors happening, it was the first time I really felt I could and should be honest with my father. "Do you even care if mom lives or dies?" I asked him on the phone, knowing that it was a ridiculous, angry question that a 6-year-old might come up with. But it was how I've been feeling these past several months, and it was the first time I really cried all day--for everything that had happened and everything that had been lost. "I do," he said. "More than you'll ever know." In a day when there was no closure, only horror, it was a small, but very good thing to hear.

Recently, I just applied and was accepted into the Master of Education program at Northwestern, which will take me about 3 to 4 years to complete on my part-time plan. I am doing this because I think teaching would be something I could learn from, be good at, and be fulfilled by in a way that professional writing often does not provide. I also think, in certain respects, it will free me to own and use my personal voice again--completely--as a writer.

This is what brings me to storytelling now. On a practical note, it fulfills a public speaking requirement. On an impractical one, it will probably help fulfill me.