A short story by Nydia Campbell
I was the little girl who was too afraid to dream. I was passive in everything, and my nose was always stuck in a book. However, there was an inkling in the back of my mind. A hidden desire that I shoved back down. I had resigned myself to the fact that some dreams were just too scary to see to fruition.
I wanted to write stories. I wanted to create fascinating worlds and meet new and exciting people. I would imagine far-off places with plot lines created from the mixing and mashing of all my favorite books. I would pick up a novel, completely devour it, and think to myself I could do that.
I came close a time or two, a blank word document open here, a scribbling of words there. My fingers hovered over the keyboard of my family’s shared computer, shaking with anticipation. The fleeting moments of inspiration never lasted long. They were overtaken by the fear of not being good enough. The possibility that I would never be able to create the perfect story sat in the back of my mind.
I didn’t think I could do it. I didn’t think there was any way I, a strange and lonely girl, could craft millions of worlds with the flick of a wrist and flurry of typing. So, I pushed that dream down. I ignored it until it was forgotten and went on. I browsed library shelves and read all that I could find. I kept moving in my passive way—a girl content to live in the shadows of worlds she could never visit.
Then, something happened.
A silent nudging.
A quiet push in the deepest parts of my heart and soul.
It was a voice that no longer wished to be silent. At first, it was just a whisper. I could almost ignore it if I wanted to. I could blink it away and pretend I never heard it.
However, it never stayed quiet for long.
Finally, I relented.
Then, in a soft office chair, I let the dream go again.
This is practical, I thought. There's no point in pursuing something that could never come true.
That not-so-quiet voice let go again. It slipped back to its hiding place deep in my heart and waited.
I felt out of place, like a piece of wood drifting in the waves. Who were these people I now found myself around? What was this that I was doing with my time? Sitting in the tiny desk, walls lined with math equations and grammar notations, I could hardly sit still. The wrongness settled on my skin like a strange substance that I could never be clean of. This wasn’t where I belonged. I stared at the ceiling above my little, narrow bed and the voice whispered again, soft as ever, but ready to push me forward.
“Are you ready to listen?”
“Yes,” I replied, after a night of restless sleep, tossing and turning in the squeaky bed.
Sunlight filtered its way through the blinds, a shining endorsement of the decision I made that cold winter morning. A visit to an office followed, a paper signed away, and the voice once more spoke in its strange reassuring way.
“It’s time to begin.”
Time passed quickly now. The world fell apart. I was alone again in that childhood bedroom, staring once more at the blank page in front of me. This time I wouldn't shy away. I let words flow from my fingers unafraid of the imperfections and the challenges ahead. This time, I vowed to never turn away.
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