Writing For Myself: Practicality or Magic?

I sat down today and wondered, “What if I could write a story for myself?” It seems like a strange idea, coming from my adult self. I don’t know if I really believe in magic anymore. Then again, I’ve always been a bit too practical to even believe in it in my dreams. What kind of child can’t do magic or fly free in their own mind!

My apologies, you aren’t really interested in hearing me rant about such things. you are here for one of two reasons.

First, you do believe you can find magic inside stories.

Second, you want a cold, harsh reality. (We adults don’t really know what we want do we?)

My hopeful self wants to believe beautiful, magical things can happen even inside my mind. Practical self wants things to fit into logical, sequential boxes.

Today, I think I’ll dabble a little with my hopeful self: the one who still loves to read children’s books, dreams of falling in love with a beautiful stranger, and overcoming incredible odds to make it happen!

I’m still nameless. For now. But I can tell you a little bit about myself. I work as a teacher, but didn’t finish the right training in the time I should have done it in college so I’m not even sure if I am worthy of working in my job.

I study animation but have no desire to really draw myself. Does that make me. . . someone who loves watching others do what they love instead of doing it myself?

I love seeing other people create wonderful things, but don’t think I can create anything quite as magical. (There is a practical downer self for you. No songwriting, poetry slamming, or becoming a ballerina! Thirty-two going on Thirty-three isn’t the time for fulfilling impossible dreams.)

I have six siblings. . . although three of them don’t talk to me anymore. I live with my parents, not because I have to, but because I want them to feel loved.

I love music, but haven’t pushed myself to grow in it for a long time. When do I have time to do those kind of things? Too much work to do. Too many people who need me.

When is there ever a time for dreaming? What were my dreams?

I wanted to live with my mother forever when I was seven. Because I loved being in a place where I felt safe.

I loved to sing and write songs all the way through high school but gave up once I reached college because I lost my passion for what I did.

I longed to be married by nineteen or twenty, so I could have someone with who loved me and I could build a family. It hasn’t happened, possibly because I’m too picky or afraid to reach out to other people.

I once thought of becoming a writer. But what kind of story could I tell? I always thought my imagination was too stiff and my stories two-dimensional.

I think I failed at unleashing my hopeful self. Practical self won out. I mean, this is my first time writing in years!

But maybe. . .

Just maybe. . .

I can dare to dream another day? I think there might be magic there if I keep digging deeper.

(Note: I decided to free write for the next week to help sort out a lot of hard feelings and thoughts I’ve had inside me for a long time. Maybe, it will turn into actual storytelling. If anything, it may help me overcome some things I’ve been carrying for a long time.)