I would like to be published someday, nestled in among the B’s in the bookstore. Only I can never decide just what kind of book I’ll have. The B’s seem rife with science fiction and it might be fun to spice it up a bit. But a goal is a goal, and it’s nothing without plans to reach it.
I have plans, I do, they just never seem to survive the enemy.
And it occurred to me, I’ve got one shot at this. Tomorrow is not a guarantee, it’s no more real than the daydreams that carry me through the day. I cannot put this off. I cannot wait for when I have more time, less stress, more freedom. I need to write today, this hour and every hour, in the scribbled margins of my life. Because waiting until the day where I can lay aside all else and bury my thoughts in Muses is a day that will never come. Not while I can still make use of it.
So I will start scribbling the stories in my head, in whatever pen’s at hand, and from those seeds build up a forest. If I plant them now, in thirty years I’ll have a hundred acre wood of my own, instead of a bag of horded acorns and a trowel.
And that, that is what I’ll wake to tomorrow, to life and stress and dreams of trees.