Chasing Butterflies

Over the years, I have written many and thought about even more, but they have always been anything but finished. Two things they all had in common: they were all beginnings, and they were many. They were endless beginnings. In recent years, I have been reading and writing more than usual. That was the one sport I was consistently at, and I was good. Then I started having all these dreams almost every day an hour before dawn. Vivid but mostly incoherent dreams, all undeniably relevant to me somehow. I’d then wake and forget them later. I should start leaving a notepad on my bedside table to write them down when I wake up. Sometimes I’d have these incredible stories. It felt like chasing butterflies. But it was more like catching dreams. I could use some dreamcatchers nearby as my writing muse. Alas, I am averse towards gambling of any sorts, it isn’t in my nature. And that may be why I do not yet dare take the step in writing regularly and making something more out of it. Because if you are looking for security, look elsewhere. Writing is a career for gamblers. It isn’t about getting published or receiving a fat pay check or signing autographs. It’s all about being in a room, quiet, singular, immersed, and writing. Very little about being a writer is being afraid of never selling another book, than doubting you’d write another book. I wish someone had told me to start writing sooner. Do not hesitate. Do not wait for permission. So two things they had in common and they were all endless beginnings. I suppose then it’s very simple now that there should be two rules: I must write, and I must finish what I write.