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.
