Dreams Made Flesh


Um . . . hi all.

Last night I had a heart-to-brain talk with my spouse, who’s always been super-supportive of my writing. I told him I’d had a mini-panic attack that day because I actually had plans to write, which I haven’t found time for lately.

You have to write. We’re–all of us–sacrificing so you can follow your dream, he said.

Gulp.

But it’s so hard, my whiny inner voice said (thankfully, I did not utter that out loud. Scott works 50+hours a week, PLUS does freelance writing).

A whole book? Writing a whole book? Again?

And then I put it in perspective; say I wanted to make movies. I’d have a camera, maybe a few friends who would tolerate being ordered around, and a few ideas. I couldn’t ever make the movie of my dreams, not without a whole lotta money and some clout.

If I wanted to paint, I’d need a dedicated workspace, a lot of oil paints, training and someone willing to exhibit my work. Not sure how long it takes to paint a painting, but I bet it’s a long time. And I am guessing the art world is harder to break into than the book world.

Or music; okay, never mind, it’s easier to distribute music these days. But would I make money? (not with me singing, my son would be happy to point out) Probably not. And I would need to work with other musicians, and have time and training and expensive instruments and recording equipment.

But a book?

I can write the book of my dreams on my own (I’ve already got a computer. And an imagination). Theoretically, of course.

So today’s post is short, since I’ve got to finish other work, and then get to writing. I’ve got a dream to follow.

Thanks for putting up with my whining,

Megan

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