Ten years ago, I allowed myself to dream. “I’m a writer,” I began to say, to myself and then to others. I had written before, but this was the time period during which I realized I had a goal, and that it was a part of me.
When I was an adolescent, and searching for that tag that related to myself, I had nothing. Academics were only absorbed if they interested me. I could almost draw, almost sing and almost act. And athletics? Last in line to be picked at dodge ball. I was a good target for volleyball and baseball, for catching the ball, with my head. In fact, I may have gotten hit in the head with the ball one too many times!
And so I told myself, that dreams were for other people. They were artists and singers and football players. They were into science and architecture and interior designing. Those were the kids that knew what they wanted and had the drive to accomplish it, those that were born already talented so that the completion of that dream was more of a possibility.
And meanwhile, I read books. I read a lot. And I lived, and had relationships and learned to love people. I found God, and He was such a friend to me, that the part of me that was locked away began to jump up and down. He gave me gifts. And the freedom to dream.
So ten years ago when I finished a story, I knew that I’d been given the ticket. Dreams weren’t for other people. I could accomplish a dream too. I could begin a story and finish it, put everything I wanted to happen in it. I could fill a book with words and create worlds, and develop meanings and shape myself through my characters. To create, like God does, a place of warmth after hardship, a hand to hold when facing trouble, and at last, the end spot of safety.
On August 1st, I was published. It may not go far. My book might disappoint my publishers and sell only a few copies. But for me the dream came true before now. Ten years ago I began to dream, and I still get to translate that into colors and sounds and words on the page. And that’s a gift I hope I never lose.