A few months ago my 6 year old son asked me, quite out of the blue, to tell him what my dream is. I did not hesitate. I am an international bestselling author. I tour the world speaking about the content of my books and I inspire others to live authentically.
I have always known that this is my dream. I have done everything to make this dream a realisation.
Except, of course, to write.
I've started plenty of times. I've had literally thousands of ideas. I've got notebooks full of scribbles. I've studied and I've worked and I've pushed myself to become a better writer.
But never have a I properly pursued the path or completed one potential book of any kind. If you asked me what I would like to do with my last days if they were soon to come and I would say, to write. If you asked me what would be the content of my words, I cannot tell you.
Every attempt is thwarted by this paralysing fear. My fear is that I don't have anything to say that couldn't be said better, or has already been said better, by someone else. I am afraid to fail. And I don't know what to say. And not nearly two decades of trying has talked me out of this. And yet my dream remains unchanged. And I remain unmoving in my pursuit of it.
What am I here for? Is it this busy rush of domestic duty and money earning and procreation? Is it? And if it isn't, and I really do have choice, who funds that life? Is that even the crux of the matter?
What is this life?
I don't know.
If you do, I'd love to hear your ideas.