I wonder as I always do about living my dreams in Technicolor. I fret about the possibility of my dreams being overwritten by fate’s ruthless pen. Even considering the likelihood of not seeing the fantasy of living out my days penning stories for others rocks me to my core. My lower lip quivers, my heart quickens—not in the way it does when I see tall, dark, and come-hither—and requires a handful of tropical fruit flavored Tums to beat down the panic.
It’s the sort of feeling that tears at the fabric of the rose-colored sheets lining the imaginary room where I create my magical realities. Having an outlet keeps me in harmony, but it also reminds me dreams are only dreams unless I force myself to see them outside of my head. It’s takes a strong heart muscle (strong enough to withstand disappointment), reckless abandonment (enough to push and challenge the status quo), and dedication (the relentless, industrial, gritty resolve kind that weathers doubt and rejection). Every dream deserves at least this much.
And even then…
It might not be enough. Or it may mean the dreamer (me) has to double down and keep at it. Being a flawed human I sometimes complain to the Universe when it takes more than it gives. I have been known to wallow in a deep cup of pity me for the length of a breath or the time it takes for me to finish a glass of wine or shot of espresso. Over coffee this morning was one of those moments. I received two of my least favorite kinds of emails,
Thank you for applying …
Dear Brenda Moguez
Thank you for allowing us to consider your book, however….
It’s probably crazy to do engage in two activities that I have no control over simultaneously, but what kind of life would I be living if I didn’t reach for what is outside of my reach? You’re thinking, safe, secure, free of rocky roads, and heartache, right?
Nah, you’re saying what I tell myself after I’ve finished rolling about in the emotional debris left behind after a hearty kick to my ego, BORING. The truth of the matter is this…
A dream is just a dream until it’s not…
But it is also the one thing in my (your) jurisdiction. I (you) can double-down, keep painting on my (your) imaginary canvas waiting for magic, and driving forward, rolling over the obstacles, or I (you) can have a second cup of pity me and give up.
I had my doubts this morning when I opened my email. Maybe it’s not your destiny to be a writer, the sultry voice in my head suggested. I seriously considered the words my alter ego whispered while sipping espresso. She might be right, but then again I’ve heard similar words before and proved her wrong. I took another sip of coffee and reviewed a few of the highlights of my past:
- I’ve finished school, and broke through the glass ceilings Latin women occasionally bump up against
- Reinvented myself in four industries and mastered their respective disciplines
- Found the courage to declare myself a writer
- I gave my heart away, not once, but three times
- Forced myself to be less of an introvert (a continuous work in progress)
- Submitted, published, and survived numerous rejections
- Completed two novels, a few novellas, and have a third novel in motion
Not too shabby of a list to show for myself, but not exactly my own private Idaho—seeing the two novels and others published is in the original blueprints for happiness.
I swallowed the last of my java lingered a moment longer before moving on. The truth is I have to make allowances for the reality that I may never see my dreams play out exactly I as originally imaged them, but then again a dream is a dream until it isn’t.
Mine’s still playing out, how about yours?