A Dream Realized
There are times when I struggle for a post. Not physically, of course. That would be silly. But in the back of mind I think, “It’s been a while since I’ve posted on my blog. I need to post something. But what?” And then there are other times when it just comes to me. Like this one.
Over the past few days, it’s started to dawn on me what’s really happening here. I mean, it still doesn’t feel right, like it’s not me at all but someone else, but it is happening. My dreams are coming true.
Since I was fourteen, I knew I was a writer. My dream was to become a famous writer; not so famous that I could no longer walk down the street without being approached or anything like that, but famous enough that if you asked someone if they’d read the latest Kimberly A. Bettes novel, they’d say ‘no, but I heard about it.’ I wanted to have fans. I wanted people to know about and like my work. I wanted to mean to someone what my favorite authors mean to me.
I was twenty-five when I got my first professional-grade camera and realized I was a good photographer. I had no idea what I was doing, I only knew that people raved about the photographs I took, and I had to admit that they were amazing. I didn’t know I had it in me. So my dream then was to become a writer/photographer, a writer who moonlighted as a photographer.
I know, it sounded a little crazy to me too at first. But a lot of authors have something else at which they’re talented. Many are musicians, others paint. So I started to think I may not be that crazy after all.
And now, within a year of publishing my first book and only six months after publishing my books at Amazon, it seems that it’s happened. It’s actually been happening for many months now, but it’s only just hit me. I sell books every single day, and I have for nearly a year now (but I’m still not rich, so don’t ask to borrow money). I have fans, and I’m not talking about people I know who like my work, because oddly enough, very few people I know even read my work. I’m talking about genuine fans, people I’ve never met who have read and liked my stories, many of them taking time out of their lives to drop me a line and tell me how much they liked them. (Which by the way, I’d never factored into my dream, so that’s a big ol’ bonus.) I’ve given interviews, I’ve autographed my books for fans, and I’ve been asked writing advice. Me! The girl who used to stay up late at night during the summer clacking away at the keys of an old manual typewriter, turning out page after page of her very first novel in the hopes that someday she’d be a famous author, whose books stood amongst the greats. And the photography part of my dream? That’s happened too. In fact, I just had a photography job yesterday. Which is really what made me realize that my dreams have come true. And that’s where it gets weird.
All these years, I imagined what it would be like to have my dreams come true, to attain all that I ever wanted. But now that it’s happening, I don’t know what to make of it. It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel like it’s me. Of course I do have a horrible habit of minimizing things so as to not seem like an arrogant ass. (For example, when people ask me about my car wreck or my books or anything else, I always answer with short nonchalant answers and am eager to change the subject. I’m just not comfortable talking about myself; it makes me feel like I’m showing off, gloating. And I hate people who show off.)
I can’t help but feel like it’s too good to be true, and that it’ll just suddenly stop. But I’m going to enjoy every minute – every second of it while I have it. Because after all, how many times do you get to watch as your dreams come true? How many people get to live out their lifelong dreams? Not many. And it seems that I’m one of the lucky ones.