In one of my favorite songs, “The Real World” by Owl City, there’s a line that says, “Reality is a lovely place, but I wouldn’t want to live there.”
These lyrics have always resonated with me because I’ve always been a dreamer. I’ve daydreamed my entire life. When I was bored in school, when I wasn’t reading, or whenever I wasn’t actively engaged in something, I was somewhere else—living in a different world.
Don’t get me wrong, I also love reality. But a good portion of my life has been spent immersed in the stories my mind creates.
So what does that have to do with writing?
One day, I was brave enough to share one of those daydreamed stories with my husband. He was shocked by the fully formed world my imagination had created—almost like a book already living in my mind—and he encouraged me to write it down.
Now, I had tried this once before, years earlier in college. As an avid reader, I immediately realized my attempt was terrible. I crumpled it up and decided that writing was simply outside my capabilities.
So when my husband suggested I write my story down, I told him I had already tried and failed. But he kept encouraging me, so eventually I decided to give it another go.
Fast forward twenty-some years, and here I am.
I’m still learning and improving my craft—something I believe artists never stop doing. But now, I must write. It’s as if my stories have to bleed onto the page for me to feel satisfied. Where once I was content to keep them to myself, now they must be set free.
Regardless of whether anyone reads them or not, I still must write.
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