Dreams do not just exist, they are constructed.
When I was younger, I had these ideas of what I wanted to become. I saw myself as an artist and writer, living downtown in some big city with great hair and a sexy girlfriend and possibly a dog.
Since I was in the fourth grade—with the exception of a few years as a religious fanatic—all I've wanted to do was write. Since what seems like maybe the third grade, I've been told that one simply cannot make their living that way. I say third grade, because it seems like this was an idea that was in my head before I decided I wanted to write for a living. Even before I had the desire I had the sense that it was impossible.
So for roughly the first 29 years of my life, I had a certain sense of fatalistic resignation. People would ask me what I wanted to do with my life and I would become silently heart-broken.
I want to write.
But writing is impossible.
When Emily died—and please forgive the cliche here—I realized how short life was and that one should do what makes one happy. I still felt that writing for a living was impossible, but that no longer really mattered. I would work menial jobs to pay my bills and would write the rest of my time.
Write for the sheer joy of writing and never make a dime of it.
I finished my first collection of poetry soon after.
I moved to the downtown area of Denver.
I started using my arcane religious knowledge to write a series of blogs about faith and how we lose it.
I started writing humor simply because it amused me.
I found myself a sexy girlfriend. Also a writer. Who has a significantly more optimistic view of how one can turn words into money.
I joined the editor board of a small poetry magazine. Then I became the senior editor of it.
I aligned myself with a group of like-minded people who also want nothing but to write. Last night, we started a production company.
And now this morning, as I am sitting at some hip coffee shop in downtown Denver, waiting to have a meeting about marketing and "personal brand development," I've realized that I have largely fulfilled my dream.
I just didn't recognize it because I have been building it slowly, brick by brick.
Dreams don't just exist. They are constructed.
Now all I need is to find a way to write full-time for a reasonable amount of money.
And get a dog.
And really, how hard can that be?