Do you ever worry that your dreams won't come true, like I do? I think it hits me most on the weekends, or in the evenings, when I've got the time on my hands to worry endlessly.
For the last 10 years of my life, I've known that in some way, I'm meant to write. You have to excuse some of those early years, when I called myself a writer but didn't actually write, but for the better part of a decade, I've put a lot of work, and time and heart into creating things and in the quiet moments when I can't help it, I wonder what I have to show for it.
I guess there are words, nearly endless words, in documents on my hard drives, but what is that really? Is it anything, does it mean anything, if I can't produce something that's worth sharing? And if it doesn't, will I ever write something that means anything?
Would it be better not to dream?
I want to end this post there, to wallow like I feel like wallowing. Maybe I'd get a comment or two of encouragement. My mom would probably text me to ask if I was okay.
But the truth is, I can't do this for any of you. I can be encouraged by you, inspired by you. I can want your attention and adulation, but that can't be what it's about, not if I'm going to keep going. Not if I hope to will this dream to life.
Until I write that thing that's ready to publish, which I really hope is the novel I'm working on right now, I move the goalposts. I look for success outside of being published. 902 days of writing in a row is a success. 100,000 words, bad as they were, last year is another. 10,000 this year, already thrown away for a new draft, is a third.
Every day I keep dreaming can be a small victory, if I choose to see it. And right now, I'm looking for any little bit of triumph I can find.