Do you have big dreams?
I do.
I love them so. I treat them like tiny porcelain unicorns—too fragile for any display or handling. I keep them locked safely away and bring them out only when I’m alone. I hold them and cuddle them and imagine a distant day when they will come to life and make me truly happy.
Sometimes I want to show them to people, my loved ones and friends, but then I cowardly change the subject before it gets anywhere near my precious dreams. I tell myself that I’m protecting them. Why? Because my Big Dreams can’t handle being mistaken for Dumb Ideas. Or Crazy Talk. Or Useless Ventures. Or worse yet, Wastes of Time.
So I never mention them.
But the reality is this—it’s me who I’m protecting, not my dreams. And the only person who has ever called them Dumb Ideas, Crazy Talk, Useless Ventures and Wastes of Time is the one who claims to love them most—yours truly.
I’m like that wretched friend who builds you up for later sabotage.
Today I took out my favorite Big Dream and held its paper-thin frame up to my lips. I whispered my regular empty promise of, “Someday, someday,” and turned to put it back where it goes, deep in its cabinet, locked and bolted. It caught a ray of sunshine and I realized for the first time that what I had mistaken as porcelain was actually thick and heavy steel. And its face no longer resembled a patient Rapunzel, but an impatient and overdue pregnant mother ready to labor.
My Big Dream looked me in the eye and demanded its rights. No more dark corners, it said. No more anonymity. No more being fed only enough to barely stay alive. Time! it demanded. Nourishment! it shouted. A name! it screamed. And then it politely asked to meet my family and friends.
I had no choice but to nod and agree to the terms. Turns out, this Big Dream is a total bad ass that does not want to be messed with anymore.
And so, trembling, I would like to introduce you to my Big Dream. Her name is I Am Writing a Book.
