Dreams

A small child sits on a porch swing, rocking gently in the growing storm.   Lightning brightens the sky and thunder follows close behind.  The little girl pays no heed to the storm's lashings and thrashings.  She struggles with forming the words that are crammed into her brain.  Having just barely learned to put letters together to form sentences, she carefully draws each letter.  The rain falls to earth in sheets, drenching her aunt’s flowers just below the porch.  It takes her all day, but the little girl finally finishes her first story.

            That little girl was me.  Five years old and determined to write a truly brilliant (it wasn’t) story, I hid out on my aunt’s porch swing, knowing full well that no one would look for me outside during that heinous thunderstorm.  And I was correct.  I spent the whole day alone, writing.  I don’t remember what the story was about, but I do remember becoming extremely mad at my sister for teasing me about it.  She did it in light-heartedness like siblings often do.  But to my five year old self, I had just experienced my first dose of criticism.  It was certainly not my last.

            I have always loved reading.  Books truly can be magical.  I have always loved writing too.  I have, however, allowed myself to listen to all of the nay-sayers that pass through my life.  These types seem to have the most opinions of which they will happily share with you.  I never thought I had what it takes to be a ‘real’ writer.  I had started writing several books, only to share what I had written, often to nay-sayers, in disguise.  I never finished those books.  I, unfortunately, let the little weasel of doubt sniggle into my brain.  I also thought I should wait for the ‘perfect’ circumstances.  What are the perfect circumstances?  I really don’t know as they never have appeared.

Fast forward to the year 2023.  It’s mid-pandemic, I had just had a baby, and we are still in quarantine.  I had no inkling to write.  I was ‘too busy’.  My heart thought otherwise as it began to act up (yes, I do have a heart).  My husband rushed me to the emergency room and several grueling days of testing later, I found out my heart was just fine (yay!).  This did put a lot of things into perspective for me, though.  It reminded me that life is too short to wait for any perfect anything.  I began to write again.  I wrote very late at night.  I wrote obscenely early in the morning.  I wrote any chance I could.  A solid story began to take shape.  I was happier than I had been in a very long time and I now had a creative outlet.  I was, however, not going to share my story with anyone and certainly not the world.  My oldest son, bless him, snuck and read my story.  He loved it!  He asked for more and then made my husband read it, who also loved it.  I decided it was time…time to become a ‘real’ writer. 

Two years to the very day (no joke), my first book was released.   I wish I could step in time to see that little five year old struggling to form letters.  I wish I could hug her and tell her to keep writing.  I can’t do that, but I can tell you: keep writing, painting, singing, creating.  Your art is needed.  If you have ever thought about writing a book, do it.  You probably will feel like it is not good enough, but trust me, it is.  Follow your dreams and you will be rewarded. 

Pax et fides.

-Rio L. Barney

Post Views : 44