Chasing Dreams

I knew at an early age that I wanted to write.

Maybe it was because I learned to read early, or maybe it was because I could lose myself in a story, but whatever the reason, words drew me as if I were being sucked into a vacuum.

Books saved me on many occasions by giving me an escape. They were also great fountains of knowledge, and I valued this. I even liked my math book, though I have never cared much for math.

I vividly remember the day I looked up from reading the local paper and told my mother that one day I would write for that publication. Only I would do it better, I said. I wouldn't have any of this "a little bird tells us" stuff that was often found in the paper at that time. That was in 1974; I was 11 years old

It was 1985, four years after I graduated high school, before I managed to get a byline in The Herald. My first piece was headlined "Making Shiloh Apple Butter" and it was about a church group using apple butter as a fundraiser.

I was ecstatic. I met my mother at Mike's Market (which used to be in Daleville where Bellacino's is now located) to show her the paper. I had fulfilled that dream, and apparently since I am still writing for the newspaper it became a calling, maybe a passion. I have had something published every year since, even when I was putting myself through college. These days I publish an average of 30 articles a month. I am nothing if not consistent.

But other dreams have not come to me quite so easily. I also want to write books. By this time in my life, as I sit here pondering middle age, I had hoped to have a poetry book of some kind published. Even just a little chapbook would be nice.

I also want to write fiction. I have several fiction novels about half written, another that is finished but it is handwritten and needs to be typed. They sit untouched in my computer or in drawers. They are no worse than some published stories I have read but I've never moved further with them.

I once thought I might write young adult fiction, a la Nancy Drew, perhaps, but alas, I have not. These days I doubt I could.

Or maybe I'd write a mainstream fiction book, like A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley.

Or maybe I would be another Phyllis Whitney, specializing in Gothic romance, a genre that seems to have completely vanished from the shelves. How I loved those books.

I never thought that at 45 I would be writing only newspaper articles. Or that I would be doing so many that I don't have time for anything else. Or that as I head toward my 46th birthday I would be wondering if I am burned out.

I never thought I'd have 875 posts on a blog, either, but here I am, making my 875th blog post. It's a lot of writing and I am greatly thankful for the relationships I have made through my blog. I am grateful for my loyal readers who seem to have found something here they like.

However, a blog is not a book.

Since my scare on February 20, which greatly highlighted my fear of dying at what is these days a relatively young age, I have been rethinking what I am doing.

I really *like* writing articles. I enjoy writing for the newspaper. I see it as a teaching position. It's a way for me to impart knowledge, to share what I have learned. It is for me a civic duty, a way to give back to the county and the nation that has done so much for me.

Plus, I do okay with it, and isn't it my responsibility to use my talent where it works?

What I don't know is when you stop. Even the Army lets you retire after some many years, and with a full pension. If I retire I will have no pension or no income. There is no safety net when you're an independent contractor, which is what I am.

I also am concerned that I have some innate issue with sticking with a long-term project. It's kind of like weight loss. I can see where I want to be but darned if I can figure out how to get there. I fear it is the same with something like a book. I can see the beginning and the end but can't slog my way through the middle.

Life is a long and interesting journey. I firmly believe it is not the end that matters, but the way we get there. I hope to make some changes in my life this year. I don't know yet what they will be. Maybe it will simply be an hour a day trying to write a piece of fiction. Maybe it will be weight loss and better health.

I am still thinking, still pondering, still wondering. My life is not a bad one - I can stay home and write in my jammies if I want. My husband loves me, and I love him and our marriage is sound and strong. I have a nice house and food to eat. I have much for which to be thankful, and so I am.

But I smell change on my horizon. I wonder where it will lead?