Not All Dreams Have To Die

My siblings got me the namesake of this blog for Christmas. Now it sits on my shelf and reminds me that not all dreams have to die. 

When I was young, I told my family that my dream job, money withstanding, would be reviewing books. They laughed at me, my dad said at that point simply become an author, likely teasing me like it's easy. My parents raised us to be extremely pragmatic, and I never once considered becoming an author full time with the forethought that perhaps hobbies should stay hobbies and work should stay work. So I grumbled at their comments, but they didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. 

My love affair with anything literary began when I was a kid. I'd visit the library with my siblings, reaching the borrowing cap of fifty. I tore through the young adult fiction shelves at my library, reading one novel each summer morning before rising from my bed to face the day. My family knew I loved to read and write after I asked them to read my work at the ripe age of twelve. I tore through assigned reading at school; Humanities were my best subjects. I started a blog, encouraged by my dad. He loves books as much as I do, so he was pleased I liked writing, watched as I set up my blog that was his idea and suggested I share my writing with my peers. Despite these efforts, it obviously never gained any traction, but I didn’t mind, I was just happy to be writing. 

As I got older, my posting and hence my writing slowed and eventually… stopped altogether. I chalked it all up to being busy and lacking subject matter. I told myself, I have the real world to worry about. I contemplated applying for a university creative writing program when the time came to make the big decisions about how to spend the next four years of my life educating myself and preparing to integrate into society. But I decided against it, thinking to myself that I would likely be leaving my literary days behind me as I entered the world of responsibility, adulthood, and fulfilling my duty of becoming a cog in the capitalist machine, only half joking.

When lockdown winded down, I began to read more library books with my down time. Then I decided to buy a few used books on a whim. Suddenly, I was reading obsessively again. It began to feel intrinsically linked to my wellbeing and happiness. My family took the stacks of books piling in my room in stride, my trips to the thrift store with my dad became more and more frequent as he began to collect CDs. I took a fiction writing course at my university for fun. 

I didn't even know there was a book community on Instagram when I made my account to use as a digital reading log. But I unexpectedly gained some following and I started making friends. I began writing actual reviews and writing creatively again. Comments said they enjoyed my work, it was impactful, they could relate. My heart soared. I started this blog soon after.  

I never could have predicted this course of events. Now I'm minoring in English, I have my Instagram platform where I get to embrace my nerdiness with other nerds, and get to share my writing on this blog, beanie baby worm. 

This gift has reminded me of how lucky I am to have books and writing and friends and family. Nothing is easy and everything is complicated, but my love for books is anything but. 

Dec. 29, 2022