Dream

Category: Writing Published: Saturday, 24 March 2018

Sometimes, as a writer, I get mired in the how-to, in technique and form and even protocol.  I forget something so basic.

I write because I dream.

 The mechanics of writing are important.  They matter.  But they aren't WHY I write.  I don't read a grammatically correct sentence and feel the pull of that grammar.  That grammar helps me to see what the writer saw in creating it.  Don't forget those mechanics.

But...  For me, those mechanics together form the hill I must climb in order to find the vision.

That's my goal.  I write because something has captured me so intimately that I have no choice but to share it.  Because what I see grabs me.  Because I feel tragedy at the thought that this vision in my head might die with me someday.

I worry... a lot... that I don't have the talent to bring it from my head onto the page.  That my mediocrity will fail.  That I will never be able to give you, the reader, the joy of experiencing what Martun, Veldas, or ELAH have shown me.

And then I realized something.  That worry, that fear, it gives me a choice.  See, worry isn't certainty.  Fear isn't decided.  Hell, in this context, even certainty isn't certainty.

So, the choice.  I can give in, or I can strive.

The universe isn't here to hurt me.  Nor is it here to help me.

When intellectual cowards plug their ears to me and refuse even to hear, much less listen, that's not a denial.  It's an opportunity.  They are closed.  But I don't have to be.  I can still take joy in feeling the passion of another heart that has not yet closed itself.  And I can be one of those hearts in my turn.

That passion is a joy,  Even in disagreement.

I can still dream.  They cannot take that from me.  Only I can deny me that.

And when I dream, I can draw from that energy.  I can strive.

I have been told that my belief in the power of people to help themselves is unreasonable, unrealistic.  That it blames the victims of unjustice.

But, then, what is the purpose of striving, of wanting, if I must wait for someone to give me what I already have?

Maybe they are right.  Maybe not.  The only way to be certain is to continue to strive.

So I write.  I dream.  I see.  I do what I can to place on paper the visions that crowd my mind.  And I accept the responses that say I have failed, even in those times when I don't agree.  Because failure is not an end.  It is a chance.  It means that I have found out something about myself.  If I am willing to listen.  And I am willing.

So, to the dullards I say, "Hold yours ears tighter.  You can deny yourself hearing what you don't wish to hear.  But you cannot silence me.  You cannot deny me my voice."

I write.  I write because I see.  I write because I strive.  I write because I dream.

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