SATISFACTION

I’ve been living your dream of writing a book for almost a month now and crossing off the days with the pained resolve of Harry counting down his summer exile at the Dursley’s house. I have to say, I wonder why not more books on living your dream start with “Aaaarghhh??!!!”. Aaaaarghhh being shorthand for “How am I ever going to get through this?”, “Why am I doing this to myself?”, and “How many days is too many days without a shower?”, respectively. It’s also the sound I just made after hitting my head on the desk in defeat from all that delightful dream living I’ve been doing.

I know you think that following your purpose, heeding the call, or living the dream (I’m actually hearing someone yell “Yeah, you’re doing it, high five!!!” at me in my head as I write this) will be what saves you. You’re thinking that if only you could finally write your book, a “feel good” happily ever after as a writer awaits you. To quote Shrek, but without the Scottish burr (and I can’t even do an Irish brogue), “Like that’s ever going to happen”. I’m being harsh, I know, but only because you left me to clean up the mess from one of your biggest misconceptions: Dreams don’t save you. They’re Gandalf, knocking on your door and asking “Hey, I’m about to head out on an adventure with thirteen dwarves, you in?”

Saying yes to this offer, as I’m sure both Bilbo and Frodo Baggins can attest, is the end of your comfort-loving, second breakfast eating ways, and the beginning of a hero’s journey. A journey you’ve been too afraid to go on. You’ve always wanted to be a writer (as your numerous Pinterest boards can attest), but you’ve never wanted to become one. I get it. To be honest, I think after the initial euphoria of “I’m doing it!” I’ve spent most of the last few weeks feeling sorry for myself and sending people gifs of a Korean woman titled “she’s crying, but she’s still eating.” And I guess that’s the point: I’m crying and I keep going. I know you understand why.

That time you stayed up till 4 AM on a school night to finish your short story? I remember the solidity you felt as you walked your tired body into the classroom the next day. Where you felt like nothing more than dissolving smoke in the hallways before, the knowledge of what you accomplished pulled the disbanding pieces of yourself back into wholeness. Even if just for a few hours.

Writing a book won’t save you from death, or hardship, or the general absurdity of the human experience (case in point: “what if cats and dogs had opposable thumbs day” exists). No dream will. You’ll still have to find an answer to “What are we having for dinner?” that isn’t takeout and empty out the cat’s litter box (since they don’t actually have opposable thumbs yet).

But saying yes to the adventure of living your dream when it comes knocking on your door? It’s what will make living the pages between the front and back cover of your biography more satisfying. And smug. Don’t underestimate the joys of smugness.