Corey Thibodeaux

I never aspired to be a writer.

In the summer of 2007, I stumbled into the college counselor’s office wearing a plain white t-shirt to plan out my freshman schedule. She asked me about my dream career – a question I had never considered because I didn’t think you could make dreams come true.

I thought of the talking heads I watched every day on ESPN. I looked through the list of majors.

Journalism it was.

I became a sportswriter in college. By junior year, my passion for sports journalism was equivalent to a full-time job covering the No. 1 NCAA basketball team in the nation. No pay. My grades suffered. I wrote stories that made people cry. I wrote pieces that should have been sent straight to the incinerator. I stood next to Kobe once. I wore a sweater vest sometimes.

Writing is not so hard when you commit yourself to the craft. So I did. It was the beginning of an illustrious sportswriting career.

In my dreams.

I was laid off twice by age 23 as the newspaper industry crumbled under the weight of each step. I cut cable to save money. I stopped watching ESPN.

The corporate world embraced me with open arms. Better hours, better benefits, stability. A blessing in disguise, I tell myself.

Today, I am a copywriter for a health system. I’m happy. The people around me seem to be happy. There isn’t much more to know about a person than that.

Who sleeps to dream, anyway?

“Corey’s eyes are like a jungle.

When he smiles, it’s like the radio.

He whispers songs into my window

In words that nobody knows.”