What if . . .


What if . . .

. . . in a previous life, and the one before, and the one before, I was a writer. Ones who never achieved their dreams. Ones who were never able to share their words, be heard, experience the joy of bringing something to the life of another. And the torch has been passed to me, burning inside with the desire of lives, upon lives, upon lives, to bring those words into the open so they may be felt and tasted, rolled around the brain like a precious gem in nimble fingers. If I give this up, then I will let those that came before me down.

What if . . .

. . . somewhere out there, there’s someone whose life will be changed if I share my words. I don’t really write the kind of profound stories that change lives, but it could happen. There are a number of books that have changed my life, some deep thinking, others not. And their sagacity, or lack of it, wasn’t requisite to the change. Harry Potter had a far more reaching effect on my life than some of the more serious literary novels I have read. And by stepping aside, leaving the stories and the characters locked in my head, I have deprived that reader of an experience that may affect them for the better. I have let them down.

What if . . .

. . . instead of the negligent mother I think my children see, they see a woman working for her dreams. Reading, writing, building a social media presence, and still finding time to be a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter. And I give up, throw in the towel because it’s too much, and they see that. And it affects them. They spend their lives maybe never going quite far enough to reach their goals, never putting in as much effort as they could, and thinking, “It’s okay. Mom gave up too. There’s no reason to kill myself with effort. It’s just a dream.” And by not sharing my words, I kill my dream, and then kill their dreams too. And I’ve let them down.

What if . . .

. . . all the time and money and effort I have put into this dream was for nothing. My husband has supported me through it all, working a full time job while I stayed at home with our children. But that wasn’t all. He supports me taking the children to daycare two days a week so I can write. He supports me spending my every waking minute squeezing between laundry and dinner and family, time to blog and write and read. He supports the books and the computer I drag along on vacations, and the endless discussions of how to survive in the wild or build a solar panel or what to name a science fiction vehicle. He paid for my computer, the daycare, the books I read . . . and never complains. Not once. And if I give up before I have shared my words, I have let him down.

What if . . .

. . . I shut it all down: the dreams, the stories, the wanting of it all. The characters who live inside me, their lives an intricate spider’s web that should be weaved into the fabric of our world, if I only share my words. What if I give up, forget the hard work I have put in, and concentrate on my family and living? There is benefit in that, yes, but if I kill that part of me that dreams, not only of the life I want, but the life I want to give my characters, and what I want to share with others, what happens then? And I look back, many years from now, when life is ending, and I know that there were lives inside that should have been lived through the pages of a book, but I didn’t want the struggle. I will see that I gave up too soon. I didn’t give all that I could have given to make my dreams a reality. And it’s not about the dream coming true, but the effort you put into it. Was it enough? Did I do all I could do? Did I let myself down?

But what if . . .

I share my words.


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