Life is a handful of short stories, pretending to be a novel.
Breathing is something our body does for us, we know it is there and yet we still ignore it. A human’s dreams are much the same. If you ask a six-year-old what he wants to be when he/she grows up, they will give you an answer not knowing they will probably not reach it. If you ask an adult what they wanted to be as a child they will stare at their feet and mutter to you what it was. Our dreams are always in front of us, always waiting for us to do something with them. I wanted to be a police officer when I was a kid. I am nearly thirty-five and there is not a week goes by I don’t think about that.
Since I was fourteen years old I wanted to be a writer. I always loved to read as a child and I was always ahead of my class in what I read. I was reading college level books in sixth grade. When I turned eighteen and began my adult life I gave up on my dream of being a writer because as adults it is what we are told to do. A person must grow up and forget childish things. I was told that I should get on with my life and not try to do what I wanted because it would be too hard. At that age I believed the people around me and began my life, though I still wrote in a journal. Writing always was something after eighteen I felt that I should not talk about, for fear of hearing the words, “you’ll never be a real writer”. I heard those words a few times and it stung every time.
The last five years have brought me back to where I was at eighteen. I am still unsure of what brought me out of it. I know a few things that helped. My wife’s understanding of what I wanted to do and that she would support me as long as I kept a day job. That my cousin was published and the things I have learned from her and knowing that it truly is in my blood in some form made me want to try harder. That after twenty years I still wanted to walk in a store and see my book on display, that is what made me want to write again. All of these things are so many and so distinct in my mind that I can see where I was when my wife told me she would support me. I know where I was when I heard my cousin was getting published. I am still the fourteen year old kid that had a dream of being a writer, it only took me twenty years to get there. A dream is like air, you know its there but you forget about it until someone points it out.