On writing and pursuing my dreams

No writer is perfect.

No writer is perfect.

No writer is perfect.


I say the words to myself over and over as I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. Everyone else has long gone to bed, nothing but the light of the computer screen in my face remains. I delete my sentence and type something different, only to delete it again. What is happening to me? Am I losing my touch? Anxious at that thought, I stand up and walk to the fridge, open it, take nothing, close it and walk back to my chair. I sit down and lean my elbows on the table, resting my chin in my hands as I continue my staring contest with the blank screen.

 

Many years ago I had a dream. I dreamed that friends and neighbors and family members would spread my name across the country, around the world. People would pick up my book and read it, and those words would have a part in shaping who they are for the rest of their lives. I’ve been changed in that way before, and I want to do the same for others. I want to set people free, to tell my story to people who need to hear it.

 

But like most of life, this dream is haunted by a question: Do I have what it takes? Am I smart enough, wise enough, creative enough to do this for the rest of my life? Will I burn out? What will I do if that happens? Am I brave enough to risk everything for this?


Knowing that writing isn’t the most reliable career, I allowed my passion and dreams to lie dormant. Sure I can write, but I’m not gonna show anybody. Sure I can start a blog, but it’s only just a hobby. Anything greater would be too impractical, too uncertain. But 2 months ago something in my heart woke up, and I fell in love with my first dream all over again – writing, my companion since I was five years old. I want to make my dream come true. So I decided I would study Professional Writing at Taylor University, with a minor in Sociology. It’s what I love. It’s what I want to do with my life.

 

On nights like tonight, however, I doubt. I wonder if the fire will die. I wonder if the stories will keep coming. I wonder if I’ll be able to turn my ideas into words. And on nights like tonight, doing this for the rest of my life feels a little impossible.

 

And that’s exactly why I have to do it.

 

My dear reader and friend: thanks for being here. Thanks for giving me a chance in your world. Thanks for joining the adventure. It’s gonna get wild as hell in here, so hold on tight.

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