What dreams may come...
Thought for the day: "Dreaming is a form of praying and praying is a form of dreaming..."
I have no problem with the "dreaming" part. As a kid, there were no limits to my imagination. At thirteen, home-schooled and living in South Carolina, I launched into my first novel, confident it would be a bestseller. A love story set during World War II about a boy and a girl: David and Eliza. It is still saved in a quiet place on my computer, along with a number of other files that accumulated over the years, each containing a story holding some element of all of my hopes and dreams. Truth be told, I have a hard time opening those early files, because they reflect such an innocence. Those stories were born when I still believed anything could happen. Dreams were easy. Love and happily ever after were simply won things. (Sometimes I wonder if they still are. I look around and I wonder if we choose to make our lives more complicated!)
Now, from a writing perspective, the "early works" still need a lot of work. Plot development, character depth, a storyline...some things require life and experience. My life as a (cough) late-20-something woman is much different than my life as a 13-year-old. I've suffered through loss. I've traveled to places I never thought I'd go. I survived real-life mean girls. And I am a published author (in a now defunct action sports magazine but I had a byline!!) If there is one thing I can guarantee, my life will look different in another 15 years. But I believe that everything we experience shapes who we are.
The difficult thing is that dreams seem harder to follow now that I am older. I am currently working my way through The Circle Maker by Mark Batterson and it has been a bumpy ride. It has raised some very good questions, poked a few tender spots, and dared me to pray for my dreams. Especially the crazy ones.
What hopes and dreams are harbored in some recess of your mind, waiting to be cut loose?
I have no problem with the "dreaming" part. As a kid, there were no limits to my imagination. At thirteen, home-schooled and living in South Carolina, I launched into my first novel, confident it would be a bestseller. A love story set during World War II about a boy and a girl: David and Eliza. It is still saved in a quiet place on my computer, along with a number of other files that accumulated over the years, each containing a story holding some element of all of my hopes and dreams. Truth be told, I have a hard time opening those early files, because they reflect such an innocence. Those stories were born when I still believed anything could happen. Dreams were easy. Love and happily ever after were simply won things. (Sometimes I wonder if they still are. I look around and I wonder if we choose to make our lives more complicated!)
Now, from a writing perspective, the "early works" still need a lot of work. Plot development, character depth, a storyline...some things require life and experience. My life as a (cough) late-20-something woman is much different than my life as a 13-year-old. I've suffered through loss. I've traveled to places I never thought I'd go. I survived real-life mean girls. And I am a published author (in a now defunct action sports magazine but I had a byline!!) If there is one thing I can guarantee, my life will look different in another 15 years. But I believe that everything we experience shapes who we are.
The difficult thing is that dreams seem harder to follow now that I am older. I am currently working my way through The Circle Maker by Mark Batterson and it has been a bumpy ride. It has raised some very good questions, poked a few tender spots, and dared me to pray for my dreams. Especially the crazy ones.
What hopes and dreams are harbored in some recess of your mind, waiting to be cut loose?
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