For much of my life, I have always dreamt of being a published writer. When I was a kid, I constantly had a pony story on the go, scribbling away in an exercise book with tales of girls whose ultimate dream was to own a horse of their own, and who had their wish granted. I guess it was a way of acting out my own fantasies.
These tales were left unfinished though, because my biggest enemy and greatest critic has always been myself. I could toil away passionately in my exercise book for a good week, filling hundreds of pages, yet the following week I would re-read and hate it all. And then the editing would begin, until I had lost all enthusiasm. And the budding bestseller was no more.
I still yearn to really make a go of a writing career, but the stresses and strains of real life get in the way far too frequently these days. I rarely feel the passion that I used to, when my potential book would constantly be on my mind, and I would scribble down ideas on scraps of paper while I was in work. Life wasn’t the easiest during my twenties and early thirties, and I eventually became disillusioned. There was no time to write stories – I was struggling to get through real life as it was.
These days, I no longer feel like I have a voice that people would want to hear. I no longer have that story within me, itching to get out.
So what has changed?
My biggest dream is no longer to write. Yes, my burning ambition is to become a writer. But my biggest dream is to be happy, to get my sense of passion and romance back, and to believe in life. I want to feel that stardust in my soul again, when my creativity spilled out in an unconstrained tumble of words and ideas.
My biggest dream is to get *Me* back.