I was seven when I decided to be an author. My other ambitions of becoming an artist, a ballerina, and Indiana Jones took a backseat as I spent hours in my room scribbling fantasties and storylines about adventurous ballerina artists. (They were pretty cool.) Pursuing my goal also meant that I’d probably never be a storm chaser, a spelunker, or a professional whale watcher. All of which I still very much want to do.
I’m all grown up now and I’m glad I never gave up that dream. I realize that Great American Novel is lightyears away, but I’m cool with that. Real life takes over and after a night of working until midnight, I’m not exactly thrilled to get up at 6am to write for an hour. I really like sleep. When I’m on a creative tear and have to go in to work, that really, really sucks, but bills don’t pay themselves. It takes discipline and balance to keep that dream alive in the adult world, neither of which I’m very good at yet.
I think that we give up our ambitions too easily for what can provide an immediate satisfactory reaction. I’m guilty of it occasionally but at the end of the day I still try to make it work. Goals constantly shift and that’s ok. Becoming an award-winning novelist doesn’t really appeal to me as much at the moment as becoming someone who simply writes every day. Even if I do have to count a creative work email or grocery list as sufficient.
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