Sometimes What You Think Is Your Dream, Isn't

I love reading fiction, but I find time and again that I can't write it. And it's something that's really bothering me, I think, because as a society we seem to believe that the "real" writers are the fiction writers. They're the artists. They're the creative ones.

And when the only real dream I've had is to be a writer, it can be disheartening to feel like you can't do the thing you dream of doing. And on occasion it's also depressing, and carries me to a place where I want to wave my white flag and say:

"You know what? I just don't have a story inside of me. I love words, I love writing. I love hearing people's stories. But I don't ache to write. I don't live to write. I don't breathe words and sentences. I won't die if I don't write. In fact, I like a lot of other things too - like photography, cooking, yoga, dance, gardening, knitting. Maybe I'm just not a 'real' writer."

I asked my best friend last week, "What's my one thing? You know, that thing that's 'me' and that encompasses who I am the most?"

And she said, "Writer, duh." And then she added, "Oh and cats."

And I guess that's true when you've been a professional writer for over 10 years. That's your thing. Here I am writing this blog post, and not for money, but because I have something to say.

But I'm not writing a fiction story.

So yes, I'm mildly frustrated with myself today. I want to be a writer. I want to be a creative. I want to be an artist. But the truth is I just don't have any made-up stories to tell. I look into my brain and there are a few disjointed thoughts, a handful of random characters, and perhaps a setting or two. But that's it. There's nothing there that forms a story.

I have started a novel this year for the second time. And I'm four chapters in. And I'm thinking maybe I'll get through it slowly...like one of those writers who writes a book for 10 years before they're finished. But in the meantime, aside from freelancing, what dream can I hang my hat on? This writer feels a little lost today.

Afterthought:

Reading what I wrote, talking to my husband, turning everything over in my head. Pausing. Thinking.

Well, here's the thing. Maybe what I thought was my dream just isn't. Maybe it's ok that I really enjoy freelance writing. And maybe I've dreamed of being an author because I'm good at writing, and not because it's really my dream.

Maybe, just maybe, I've got to examine whether writing books is really my purpose, or if it's just something that I wish was my purpose.

In fact, maybe my purpose is something else entirely. I've been asking myself lately (because I read this question in a magazine), What does the world need? What's the one thing? And my answer is: self-esteem/self love. The author of the article claimed the answer to that question would bring you closer to your purpose.

It's time to open my brain again. To start exploring. To realize that I've read a lot of books on the craft of writing, that I've tried to write fiction, and that it just doesn't come naturally to me. What does come naturally? Blog posts like this one. My writing work that I do for businesses. Non-fiction or opinion pieces. Non-profit work.

And so I begin my journey anew.

I will finish my memoir, An Offbeat Path Through Yoga, because it came naturally to me. And I will continue to work as a freelance writer, because I can't think of a more awesome way to make a living. And in my spare time? I'll start exploring other things that I've loved in my life. One of those is photography. Maybe there's something in there that I'm missing.