I have lots of dreams and always have. But as I've gotten older I've been able to steady myself on a couple realistic ones. The career path I dream of following and the books I dream of writing.
I didn’t read for years. But when I began at age 23 I finally found a home in my society, where most of my life I didn't feel I fit in very well. Reading stories took me away to places I'd only dreamed of or never imagined. They took me through emotions and feelings I'd often resisted or never experienced in my life. They took me into the lives of characters whose struggles were symbolic of my own and those I saw around me. That words on a page could be so vivid and powerful continues to fascinate and inspire me.
I had no idea then that I had it in me to write such stories, or even write at all. I had no idea why I felt so passionately about stories, or why I found such upliftment from the accomplishments of the authors I idolized. I remember reading a book written by a nineteen year old and somehow that fact, his young age, stuck with me – If he could do it, so could I!
This faint dream lingered in me for awhile. I continued to read, continued to play music as I often did and still do, and continued through life as I had before. Their came a time, however, when I began to ask myself some important questions: "I'm very fascinated and inspired by the accomplishments of other people, but what have I done? What are my accomplishments? Don't I have anything to share with the world, like they did? These questions haunted me, stalked me while I lagged through my days.
Eventually, I decided I wanted to go to college. I'd never wanted this before. I never had anything that interested me enough to want to go to school, nor did I have anyone who really encouraged me to go. School just seemed something not for me, others maybe felt the same. But I convinced myself that I had something to share with the world and that school was going to help me do that.
After my first year, studying music and taking other required classes like English, I found an unexpected gift - I could write. I had a lot I wanted to say about the things we covered in school and this showed in my, albeit, undisciplined writing. Through the help and encouragement of teachers, one in particular, I honed this craft and gradually fell in love with it.
Writing came very naturally to me. I never had to struggle write – it just flows. I found that this was not always the case with others, especially my fellow students. That others struggled greatly to do something that was so easy and satisfying for me had a profound affect on me. "Hey, I can help them!" and "Wow, I must have a talent for writing!" The implications of these realizations changed my life.
I'm happy to say that now at 27 I'm still in school (majoring in creative writing), I'm in the middle of my first novel, and have and continue to help many people with their own writing. Soon I hope to be where I only had the faintest, yet very desirable dream of being – an author.
I dream that perhaps someday someone who may be unenthusiastic or down about life may read my words and be inspired or uplifted to do something fulfilling or beyond what they thought possible for them.
I've always wanted to be the birth giver of cars. Whether to draw them on a piece of paper, or build them from the ground up in garages. They're so lovely to watch, and I would love to father those creations
I dream of someday being a mother. I picture myself teaching and creating with my children, watching them discover the unending marvels of life, nurturing their growing minds and radiant souls. I expect they'll teach me quite a bit as well. :happy: