I am inching towards the finish, but it seems like the closer I get to the finish, the harder it is to reach my goal. Perhaps I am too much of a perfectionist. Perhaps I let too many quaking ducks (as Jane Yolen likes to call life's necessary distractions) get in the way. Or perhaps I'm just not quite ready.
I've wanted to be a story teller my entire life. It's ingrained as deeply in me as my brown eyes or my quirky little run. It's a part of who I am. A huge part. Because of this, I think I'm a little terrified to make it happen. Dreams are huge unmanageable things. They have a way of taking on a life of their own and becoming more than we can manage.
At fifteen, I wrote a list of things I wanted to accomplish. It was one of those fantasy lists I'm sure came after hearing a motivational speaker at a high school assembly. You know the kind of speaker that inspires every child to believe that they can have anything they want, if they want it badly enough. I don't want to point fingers but I wonder if there is a correlation between depression and the rise of motivational speakers. Seriously, I wonder if those assemblies do more damage than good.
Anyway. I've been pretty lucky in my life and been able to obtain most of the things on my list. lot of my dreams. My body takes me as far as want to go, farther than I ever imagined if we're talking about Yoga. I always knew I wanted to be a writer. I can only imagine how it must feel to walk into a book store, lift a crisp new book from the shelf and know that it is mine.