Reality is for Suckers

When I was a kid, I wanted stories. I wanted tales of heroes who almost couldn't win and managed to do so. I wanted valiant dogs fending off werewolves to save their owner and friend. I wanted anything but the reality of living on Rt. 322 South Sunfield Highway.

I drew my stories on scraps of paper, told them to my pets, and wrote them in spiral-bound notebooks. When my parents would find these bits of fantasy they would ridicule my worlds and admonish me to grow up and deal with the real world.

The real world, though, was this place I would work until I retired or died. I might buy a paperback novel to enjoy on work breaks, but in no way would I ever write my own. I was informed that writers were smarter than I would ever be and got better grades in English than I'd ever had. I could've held fast to my dreams and kept trying, but I instead allowed a monochromatic life to become my own. I said goodbye to my werewolves, fairies who might eat you, and witches who ran used bookstores. I muddled along being an adult with a series of jobs I never wanted. The real world had a stern god who didn't value imagination and required a serious nature. I would conform to the expected.

I was committed to keeping my head down and being sensible.

Then, at fifty-three years old, I won a small writing contest with the princely sum of $35.00 as a prize. I wrote about a fairy prince who had a farm, used for Fairy Court festivals, that had been sold. He'd ignored it a bit too long and now it was gone. Worst of all, a Renaissance Fair was in its place. I read the judges' comments with their valid criticisms and compliments and thought,

"This isn't too bad." They said I had talent. I remembered the joy of making up my worlds and their inhabitants. I also found this creative spark sneaking into other aspects of my life.

A friend approached me needing art to make a beginner's deck of tarot cards. This led to a business that is a merging of my art with the metaphysical. In slow strides, I, with my business partner, have made products and tenderly nursed our business on Etsy and our meager website. It's like my grey world started to have color as parts of me, long-dormant, started flexing and reaching toward a world where my creativity was valued and respected.

I stand teetering on an exciting cliff's edge of possibility. One that allows me to use that part of myself long deigned under the guise of being a sensible adult. I write for every contest I can find and push my art. I don't want to waste another minute of my life living in the dull world of slogging away at meaningless work until I die. While winning money in contests may seem like an ineffective method of funding my work, I see it as a promise that if I'm given money, I will create. I will make worlds for others to visit and, hopefully, inspire more people to create their realities as well. I will make products to enhance your spiritual practice. I am unfettered by the view that the only valid work comes with a timecard. I am, for the first time in my life, excited by where I'm headed and just how I'm getting there. The people who follow me on social media cheer me on and say, " Oh, I could never do that…"

I hoist my flag of imagination and nonconformity as I say, " Yes, you can! It's never too late."