When I was younger, (and blissfully ignorant of reality) I dreamed of becoming a writer. My lack of imagination and abilities were no hindrance because, like many upper-middle class suburban kids, I was encouraged to believe that I had talent and skill well above my peers. (I can only speculate on what all my peers were told: "You have potential, but not nearly as much as _____. ")
Back then I dreamed of days sitting at a typewriter (shut up, you young whippersnappers) and composing great reams of genius in mere hours only to have the rest of the day to myself to do cool things like drink espresso in a coffee bar and go to a record store. I thought once I made tons of money with my amazing writing, I could travel the world and be cool in other countries.
I always remember those days when I watch TV shows like Project Runway where the earnest young designer professes that all she's ever wanted was to design clothes. ("It's all I've ever dreamed of!") I smile to myself. Because if there is one thing I've learned over the years, it's that unless you have the ability to back it up, dreams are all they will ever be. And that's okay.
We all have different levels of skill, and while I can (with hard work and diligence) improve somewhat, I will never win a Pulitzer Prize. I stopped dreaming of that when I realized that all the praise in school was hollow. I could become bitter. Or maudlin. After all, as some people would point out, I will never achieve my dream.
But they would be wrong, because I choose to be happy. And therefore, I have altered my dream. Now, I dream of this little blog and its daily posts. It's not a work of staggering genius or stunning emotion. It is, however, nearly perfectly grammatically accurate (if heavy on the parenthesis) and usually fun to read. Now my dream is to make one person smile, or nod, or silently appreciate my point of view.
Did I do it?