Some days, like my friend Mary, I imagine a world where either my husband starts making at least $60,000 a year, I win the lottery or else I just figure out a way to not have a job most of the time. If that were to happen I would spend my time writing. Maybe I could make money writing, although I’m sure thousands of people ponder that every day. But the step from working full-time and thinking of writing and actually quitting a job and doing it seems like leaping off the side of a building praying you grow wings before you crash to your death.
Sometimes when I lay in bed and can’t fall asleep right away, or I have just fininshed a good novel and am thinking about how the author came up with the story, I imagine what my novel could be about. Sometimes in odd places I have moments of inspiration – some small tidbit of life that becomes poignant because of circumstance and setting. I imagine writing a version of my life or my husband’s life into a short story or a novel. But then I think I haven’t lived enough yet. But since it’s a novel, it can continue any way I like. But then, it wouldn’t be real, and creating stories that taste of reality seem to require a bit of life experience. If we got story ideas from tv and movies they would basically end perfectly, but I want to write about real life and real people’s lives.
Last night I layed in bed brainstorming pieces of my novel and then prayed I would remember some of what I was thinking the next day to write it down. This evening, I did, and so I wrote them down. I have been thinking of taking a creative writing class and I think I really will do it. I certainly have time, it’s just initiative to start up, get rolling. In the meantime, I keep dreaming.