When I was a little girl, I told my mother that I wanted to be a writer, an author, a journalist! I wanted to share my ideas and my stories with anyone who wanted to read them. I wanted to make writing a permanent part of my life.
On snow or rainy days, I’d plop my old fashion type writer down on our kitchen table and click away at the keys. People invented in my mind, finally being put to paper, given lives of their very own to live. Fresh ink on paper is as comforting as hot chocolate or chicken noodle soup.
My mother seemed content when I was buried in invention. She’d ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I’d tell her the dreams I had in store for the adult version of me. “That’s a pipe dream,” she’d tell me. “You will live a terrible life. There’s no money in writing.”
When you hear this enough, you begin to believe it. The words weigh you down. Writing no longer stayed a dream. It was a wasted idea, a stupid one. Why it must be true because my mother told me so and surely she only wants what is best for me?
Haha! Joke is on,you mom! I work a crappy job with crappy hours. My pay checks are meager. J.K. Rowling however, now that’s a writer rolling in dough.
Why do we as parents pour cold water on the fire of our children’s dreams? Snoochie is an amazing artist – her work reveals the depths of her soul. She thinks in a spectrum of colors. She hears in notes of music. Should I tell her about the starving artist? Her happiness means more to me than if she ever earns a single penny. I do not want to be the dream crusher. I want to be the kindling, feeding the fire.