HEY, MS FUNNY NAME...KEEP DREAMING

There she is, curling up on the loveseat of her grandmother’s couch with that same, damn tablet on the ball of her knees. Clutters of papers are sprawled besides her, trailing to the floor as if each paper represents an important story. Her eyes are darkened, noticeable weariness from a lack of sleep she been bearing for months; and yet, this woman’s mission is crystal clear: to continue her vision no matter how bumpy the course.

Everyday she’s up before dawn, creating content for God-knows whom, and at times, she carries this pink diary-like book, scribbling in it for new ideas.

Some people are just as baffled as me; they can’t understand as to why somebody, like she, chooses writing…wait, excuse me, storytelling, as a life’s dream. This petite and shy woman could do a lot of things, can she? You can’t tell me this ridiculous notion of creating fiction is the only thing she can do?

For five years I’ve seen her type on her laptop, glowing like a bride at her wedding. Then, right on cue, she beams in silent awe when her story takes a new turn. I raise my brow in curiosity, pondering what’s going on in her pretty little head.  

Inside of her hard drive are a library of finished and unfinished manuscripts and a collection of short stories and poems. I’ve read all of them, and she has a style of her own. I’m not saying they’re bad; they’re actually good – great, if you want the honest truth. But her writing skills aren't the problems, it’s watching her work until she forgets to sleep; it’s hearing her sigh in frustration, almost to the point of her voice breaking, when she writes on the tablet and it freezes; and it’s the constant reading…reading…reading and the constant writing…writing…writing. Sometimes I have to breathe for her since she doesn't want to do it for herself.

Yet behind her weirdness and her aloof persona, conveys a spirit I wish I had. I want her to stop with this nonsense, but truthfully and honestly, as she would say, I’m glad she’s not. She can’t. It’s not in her. If my better half can switch from meat to meatless in forty days and those forty days are now five years, lose over hundred pounds – not once but twice, and can go from “peasant” to fab if she wants to, you would think she’s tougher than nails, right?

There were moments before she would take heed to my advice. Any of her so-called lightbulb-moments were ceased, thanks to me. Somebody has to do it. And now I feel as though I’m losing the battle with Miss “Funny Name”.

So as I continue to gaze with concern, observing her rigid body language while writing on that damn tablet, I realize one thing: her tenacious essence is why I respect to her to the highest. She tells me all the time that fear is the root as to why people don’t follow their dreams. No one wants to fail, the feeling is horrible; however, the worst part of failure is not trying– and who would want that to be their legacy?

And what's this? 

She heaves a respite sigh, as she covers her face in obvious fatigue. Another sleepless night is apparent. Good. Maybe a nap in dreamland will shed clarity to end this nonsensical mess. 

Then again, maybe not.

She and I will never see eye to eye on this dream of hers. But one thing for certain, she knows how to quell her doubts without uttering a word. You know the voice that lingers in minds to create an inferiority complex? I’ve been good at it for forty-three years, so why stop now?

Sooner or later, Ms. Funny Name will listen. 

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