And no, I’m not talking about the immigrant children who grew up to become unpapered Americans. That’s a political question for another time, perhaps.
I’m referring to those of us who suffered the impatience of loved ones when we wanted to spend our lives on things that would never make us rich, might not even make us a living. Things we saw in a dream and tried to recreate with words, crayons, paints, clay, stone, fabrics or musical instruments.
When Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posted this picture prompt for the Friday Fictioneers, many of us saw a man making a small living creating beautiful art.
I saw a man drawn to draw, whether it made money or not.
While I have had my books published, I also have piles—many years-worth—of notebooks, journals and digital files that will never be seen by anyone but me. They are the dreams I just had to write down in some form or other, and earning money was never a part of it. I only wish my father had lived long enough to see some of my dream come true.
If you have a dream, work on it now. Even if you have to hide it from impatient people. Even if you can’t explain it to those who love you but don’t understand why you do it. Even if you have to fit it in around “making a living”. Celebrate your dreams and make them real, if only for yourself.
As a start, take a look at this week’s picture and dream up a little 100-word story of your own. You can make it less than 100 words, but no more, at least not for the Friday Fictioneers. (You can turn it into something bigger later. I have.) Post your story on your blog, your website, wherever. Then click on the froggie below and share the link — let us know where we can find it! We’re all dreamers, aren’t we? We want to read it. Be sure to click and comment on the other dreamers’ stories.
The Street Artist
I glared across the street.
“Mama,” I said, “is Papa painting pictures again?”
“He is making money, my dumpling.”
“Not very much money.”
She pulled on my arm, dragging me down the street to ask the grocer for more credit. She thought forcing me to come along would enure me to being poor. It only made me hate our poverty even more.
“Why doesn’t he come with us?” I demanded. “Why isn’t he the one to beg food from these people? Then he would understand what he puts us through.”
“Why doesn’t the bird stop singing to hunt for food?”