Everyone remembers that first inspiration or mentor in their lives that made them want to be or do something in their lives, whether you actually followed through with it or not. Tell us about that inspiration/mentor. How did they affect or change your life!
Let’s keep your posts to 500 words or less.
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Why can’t I remember?
I page through the archives in my brain, searching the categories, trying to find the source of my dream.
To be a writer.
Teachers. Was it my third grade one, who had us write in a journal? My fourth grade one, who picked my poem about the color red for the school paper? Or was it my fifth grade teacher, who laughed with my classmates at her guest appearances in all of my creative writing pieces?
My mind switches to a new category: family.
Was it my mother, who read voraciously and passed along her love for reading? My father, who sung praises of my oh-so brilliant gorilla story from second grade? Or did it spring forth years later thanks to my husband, his job uprooting us and forcing me to give notice at my own. In a land with no familiar faces or work holding me back, time I’d never had before materialized.
I wrote my first book.
Then I stumble upon a huge folder, overstuffed with names.
I see many in present day who encourage and inspire. They do not scoff at the thought of my name in print or gracing the bookshelves. They silence my doubts and bathe me in hope.
But the dream began before.
Perhaps my wish to be a writer fell with the rains of the storm – the silver lining wrapping the end of my world as my former friends ignored my existence. Alone with no social outlet, the written word was my only way to share the hurt and anger. Ostracized and adrift, my imagination became a refuge.
Or was that just a catalyst to what was born long ago?
Another category glares at me, wanting its say.
I flinch at the contents, not just because they will never be, but because I dared to hope once.
Actress. Ha! My love of becoming a character outreaching my talent.
Dancer. Ha! I blamed the three years I quit, the awkward tweens, crucial in my mind for success. Their loss stole the grace and polish I required to be amazing.
Did my dream of being a writer only exist because my other loves were far more unattainable?
I scan and analyze through my memory archives, seeking the spark. The “ah-ha!” epiphany to be a writer.
I cannot find it.
It does not exist.
Instead I see the categories of my life. Blended together.
People. Moments. Each one is a grain of sand, forming the castle of my writing dream. Together they share the load and build the foundation.
Each one of them bonds to form the inspiration.
They protect and keep it alive.
They tell me to follow the dream.