And so it goes...

Since that clear day in elementary school when we read about the author Shel Silverstein, I've wanted to be a writer. Sitting up in a wood-floor room on the second story of my secluded cabin in the woods, I would sit facing the trees, coffee cup steaming into the ether, swirling with the fresh, wild air from the always-open window. Typewriter clicking and tapping and clopping as I invite words into my mind, then place them out onto the paper, only to cross them out and start over with something better, more beautiful. I envisioned that daily life as the contentment and calmness of my dreams. The independence from every man-made worry and anxiety. It could be me, my tea, and my stories. The characters embodying every person I've always longed to meet. Their lives full of experiences and lessons learned so similar to my life's own and also very different. The places they live and visit manifested from the wildest, darkest, maddest depths of my eternally childlike imagination. Elaborate stories so magical and wonderful they'd help in the escapist efforts of anyone who was reading them. I dreamed of creating something to leave in this world. Something that would make it better than it was before I got here. Something that could help other breathing, although sometimes only barely, souls do so a little easier. For me, I felt like I could do that through writing. Through stories of characters we all benefit from knowing. Through experiences we are glad to see are not solely our own. Through the traveling to places we hope so desperately exist. Through the relationships we form with other lost and broken bones. I have always dreamed of this, but have never truly felt the faith in myself to pursue its beauty. I feel it now, though. The soft silence of a fearless fight. The unconcerned outlook on whether or not it's a failure in someone else's eyes. I shoo away those thoughts, because this is my dream. No one has the right to discourage a lofty dream. Especially a dream with humble and selfless foundations. I want to write because I want to ease the hurt in people's chests. I want to slow the breathing of an anxious heart. I want to help nurse the wounds of shattered dreamers. The ones who were told their dreams were too unreal, too Wonderland. I want to wake those people up and surround them in this world's chaotic tea parties and impossibly possible floating cats and talking white rabbits with pocket watches. I want to write. And so it goes...