I am a dreamer.
I always have been.
Not the kind who's subconscious supplies them with fantastical adventures or terrifying feats to overcome while they sleep (though I've been known to stumble into a few of those circumstances on occasion). No, I am the dreamer who always had something she wanted to be. Somewhere she wanted to go. Something she wanted to do.
A beautician, a secretary, a teacher, president of the United States, a rancher, a wife, an author, an artist, a princess, a poet, a fashion designer, a photographer.
Something.
Anything.
Anything but ordinary.
Someone who gets to see her name on a New York Times Best Seller List or a marquee or in the credits of a hit film. Or maybe if I got really lucky, winning a Pulitzer.
Where has the dreaming led me? For some, I suppose, it would appear that - because I am living none of my dreams - I am a failure. I choose to ignore those who might see things in that light.
I believe that someday, somehow, I'll be good enough at just one thing - just one - and I'll make my mark. You'll see my name somewhere other than on a free blogging website. You'll see it in lights, on posters, on the cover of a book, in a magazine.
Someday I'll become discontent with simply waiting to be discovered and I'll actually do something about it.
You'll see.
