My daughter has found her dream job and is moving out. Happiness for getting her life started does not express the pride and jubilation I feel for her. So having said that, I got to wondering, what about my ‘dream’ job.
A lifetime ago it was my dream to be an artist, watercolor was my medium, and then a book offer, handed to me through no effort of my own, opened up possibilities so far off my grid, I reinvented myself. Well…I screwed that one up, too young…too soon…too stupid.
So I wrote music and what a kick it was to hear a band play what I had written. Then my future morphed into business, I was going to be a mogul. Then at the less than tender age of past-thirty, I married, had babies and set way back on the shelf, actually it was the top shelf of a hall closet, my typewriter dreams. Until nap time became my time to write.
The typewriter became a word processor, (published essay), became a computer, (published more essays), became another computer, (life took over), and a laptop. This laptop and the new dream of writing fiction has opened up the idea that a twenty year hiatus from clamoring to be published has provided me with wisdom; yes I have something valuable to say and just enough doubt to wonder if anybody is listening.
I took writing classes, joined a writer’s group and have for the first time realized, maybe; just maybe, I can finally get my life started too. My dream?
Ah…it’s the pleasure of doing what I just did in 272 words.