Once upon a time, I had The Dream. You know the one. It’s when you wake up to find out your book is a bestseller, studios are falling over themselves to bid on the movie rights, and you live happily ever after, smoking caviar cigarettes from the beach of your own island nation.
Or some variation thereof.
But if you’ve had The Dream, you’ve probably had the Other Dream, too. It probably happened when you were younger. In grade school, or maybe junior high. It’s the one where you write a thing and … people really like it. You get a “nice story” note from someone that you’ve never met. And you feel happy. The End.
I don’t have The Dream anymore. It never really went how it was supposed to, anyway. It would inevitably deflate into something really strange, like delivering mail from the back of a dolphin, or fighting mermaid crime.
Somewhere along the line, I gave it up. But that’s not a sad thing, or a plea for attention. I’m just focused on something different now. I have a job, and I don’t want another one. I want a hobby that makes me feel good.
I want to write because I think it’s the key to finally finding my tribe. I write to get my demons out into the sunlight, where they have less power to do as they wish. I write because … I want to. Because I’ve wanted to for a very long time, and never had the courage to see it through. That changes now.
I had the Other Dream last night, and that fuzzy feeling has clung to me all day like a nice, warm dryer sheet.
So hello. I am a writer, and this is my journal as I go on that journey.
Caviar cigarettes sound disgusting anyway.