Many authors write, I think, to live vicariously lives they cannot have in reality. I suppose I am no different. I possess a fear to write, founded I believe on this very fact. If I write to experience all that I secretly dream of in my deepest crevices, will I slip too far into fantasy, despising the life I live where gravity exists? Depression ensues where my dreams and products of my imagination are too wonderful and too aggravatingly out of reach.
The stories swirling around between the walls of my cranium are fantastic, entertaining, and ridiculously fun to tell. Yet…at what cost? Will my enjoyment of this world be eroded, chipped away like a boulder exposed to the elements? Sadly, I do not have for this question a tidy answer wrapped neatly in a bow. The fail-safe I utilize is to remember how blessed I am—how big my God. It likewise doesn’t hurt to simply state to myself that my own unique story is still to be developed. Hasn’t it already begun? Haven’t I already, with God’s good grace and provision, accomplished a number of my most desired goals? A college degree, a prestigious career in my chosen field, loving family and friends, a home in a beautiful city…no, my life is saturated with blessings. It will only get better.
So perhaps that is a glimmer of it. Perhaps my writing can be explorations of the possible story lines—the ways it could take place. Perhaps, then, it isn’t really escapades into fantasy, but instead speculation, speculation that will only fuel my excitement for my “real world” life.