...and Longing for Something Is Better than Forgetting that You Ever Wanted It

Let me explain.

Remember back, a long time ago, when you had a grand plan for your life? Remember what that plan was?

Yeah, me neither...

No, actually, I do (see last post). I feel like there are a lot of things I have yet to do. Maybe training for this marathon is helping me realize those things can still happen for me. Well, maybe not the part about winning a Tony, but I still write frequently and paint when I can.

There are other areas of my life that I long to change...I suppose I need to start small though. I'll run these 26.2 miles, contribute to cancer research, find studio space for art and writing (my house is waaaaay too small for creating - everything I make seems more chaotic than I intended, including the words I write) and then maybe those other longings will fade.

Or maybe they won't and I'll be inspired to make some changes.

...and One Out of Four Is Better than Three Out of Four

I had lofty dreams.

I wanted to see my name in lights, to press my hands into cement as cameras flashed around me, to protest the paparazzi. I wanted to be a star. I wanted the kind of fame that would reduce my memory to cardboard cutouts fading in thrift store windows. I wanted to be a legend. I wanted every actor in Hollywood to woo me, to beg me to act with them. I wanted to be on the cover of every magazine. I wanted a Tony. I wanted an Oscar.

I dreamt of writing a novel so fantastic both literary critics and the masses would wait in line at midnight to get a first edition. I dreamt of my name with "Pulitzer" next to it for eternity. I dreamt that every word I typed would be studied for its near perfection. I dreamt of The New York Times best sellers lists - both the fiction and non-fiction sides - so often that I was surprised that my name wasn't really printed there. I dreamt I was a household name, like Hemingway or Shakespeare.

I pictured myself living up to my "Most Creative" title from high school. I pictured a New York loft, paint-splattered, smelling of coffee and candles. I pictured my work in The New Yorker. I pictured myself paying for meals with a napkin sketch. I pictured fingernails so stained, people mistook me for a mechanic. I pictured stretched canvas, jars of brushes, tubes of paint, a cot in the corner for napping. I pictured my "g" being as well known as Van Gogh's "Vincent."

I imagined my life being very different than what it is today.

I did get one of my wishes, though, and I have a feeling that all the other dreams coming true couldn't compare.