The Value of Dreams

I have to admit I am rubbish at a lot of things but one thing I am good at is trying. At picking myself up and starting again. I have done that whole rubber ball thing (and bounced back) more times than I would have thought possible,  but it is when we are faced with having to pick up the pieces of ourselves and start again that we make discoveries.

In some ways it is a chance for a clean sweep, a time of renewal if you like. To throw out the rule book and do things differently.

To this end I have adopted the above as a new mantra of sorts. Yesterday I was totally rubbish as organising stuff but today is a new beginning. I am taking small steps towards becoming better at things. Silly things like I have a mountain of paperwork and random bits and pieces I have accumulated over 30+ years that I just couldn’t be arsed with sorting out. This week, I adopted my new mantra and made little in roads into tackling it. And it presented me with several gifts, I located some old writing..things I had completely forgotten about, like a sequel to The Stowaway the very first story I ever wrote and the original drafts for the poems that were recently published.

It reminded me that this writing dream of mine has been one that has been with me for over 30 years and I have neglected it so much in favour of other things. I have never had much money and I’ve always had that saying go through my head..”Writers don’t earn any money…you should do something else that actually makes money” And for so long I listened to it. And here I am over 30 years later still plodding along, still not having any money but still the writer in me remains. Bob will not be silenced any more.

So what I may never make any money from my writing, so what if the only other person who reads my stuff is my mum (because that’s what mums do). It doesn’t matter to me anymore. My family may never buy or read anything I ever write and yes that hurts, that I am not worth even £5 in their eyes and that more of my friends have bought my book than members of my family but I am no longer looking for that validation. It is not important. What is important is that I value my writing. That I stop ignoring it, that I give it the time it needs. The value of my dreams is not for anyone else to dictate, it is for me and I need to stop looking for its value in other peoples actions.

And as I head into those few weeks of July where I will be in a cyclical state of bouncing back not just every day but probably every few hours until the storm passes for another year, I wont be ignoring my inner writer. I will be pouring everything I have into my notebooks, because of something else I discovered this week…

I remembered that when I was at my darkest hour long before 2010 and 2012 it saved me. My writing has saved me almost as much as music calms my soul. I have laid myself bare in those scribbled words…as a young child mourning her father, as a child fresh with excitement and future dreams…as a lonely and lost teenager writing a suicide note because she could not see any way out and just thought the world would be a better place without her in it…and as an adult making herself the promise that she would never ever get that low again and the hundreds of times since when I have vowed to be myself, to be more confident and to be comfortable just being me. The value of my dream is priceless and that is something that can never be taken away.

Today I may be unable to think of anything to write that has meaning but to quote Scarlet O’Hara “Tomorrow is another day”