Once Upon a Dream

Some of my earliest and fondest memories are being read to by my parents and then reading to myself when I grew old enough. I have always loved reading because of the stories. There's something almost magical about reading that transports you out of your own bedroom and deposits you in the middle of your story. A good author has the power to make you forget, even if for a short while, who you are and sets you free on the seas of imagination. Oh the freedom! The possibilities!

I am not sure when that love for reading began to translate into a love for writing, but I do distinctly remember as early as 3rd grade that I loved creative writing! My favorite school assignment was having my spelling words for the week turned into a list that I had to somehow incorporate into a story. My little diary was also a staple most every day. My sister and I would take our toys and build up scenes in the stories I would write, so we could see what I imagined visually. I fancied myself to be a writer just like Anne Shirley in the "Anne of Green Gables" series. My imagination then was fresh, dramatic, vivid. I dreamed of one day being an author.

As a teenager I still wrote in my journal. When I felt like I would burst, it would relieve the pressure built up inside me. Countless times when I was wide awake at night, I would open my journal and write until I was relaxed enough to fall asleep. During my teens years, I also discovered that it was easier for me to open up and share my heart through written rather than spoken word. I could expresses myself far more through a letter than I could ever say aloud. I could be bolder through writing than I would be otherwise.

Then college came along and I grew more focused on editing, perfecting, and polishing. Writing evolved into more function than fun; it was a necessity rather than enjoyable. Writing for me became solely a matter of proper punctuation, good grammar, and the correct research documentation. I convinced myself that I was not a writer but an editor. After all I had become a Yearbook editor in 8th grade and spent 10 years immersed in that world.

While I never lost my love for reading, somewhere along the way I lost my enjoyment of writing. I think it was about the same time that I lost the ability to dream. My dreams were lost as the real world crowded out the imaginary. Life became all about necessity and the need for practicality; it left little room for dreaming. I had to "grow up" and face reality. Practicality numbed my imagination and lacking imagination my love for writing was temporarily erased. I forgot writing could be fun. Even my journal became more about finding relief or recording facts than about having fun.

When I told my dad that several of my friends had started blogs, his immediate response was that I should too. Perhaps he remembered better than I did my childhood love for writing or perhaps he just thought it would be a good outlet for me. Either way, my response was a complete rejection of the idea. I was an editor, better at polish than creativity. But the idea stuck. I found myself thinking that blogging looked like so much fun!

Eventually I broke down and this blog was born. Through it I have begun to fall in love with writing all over again. I think the biggest change is that writing is teaching me once again to dream, that life doesn't always have to be practical. That a life without dreams, imaginations, and what-ifs, is far too dull a life to live. That someone along the way I had lost the childlike ability to dream and that it's OK to reach back into the past and pull it up with me into the present.

So this coming November, I am going to dream. I am going to dream big! My imagination cap will be firmly placed on my head and even though practicality screams at me that I might not be capable, I will plug my ears and have fun writing!