On Dreams That Don’t Come True

On the last day of the first grade, Mrs. Gramkow stopped me in the hallway after the rest of the class had left. “Have a great summer,” she whispered, handing me a small notebook. The inside cover, in dark blue ink, read: “Jessica: keep writing.” That day, it had been decided: I was destined to be the next great American novelist.

I am currently 24. My desktop is filled with plot outlines, first chapters of novels, half-finished poetry. I work in public relations. I’m not quite the next great American novelist.

After being continuously recognized and encouraged by teachers and professors, I coasted through my adolescence and early adulthood under the impression that someday soon I would sit down and write a novel. I aced every English course. I won national writing contests. I lived with the comfort that my dreams were bound to come to fruition. Someday, I could be the editor-in-chief of a magazine if I wanted to. It was only a matter of time. I had potential.

Until now, I have gone through a majority of my life believing that 1.) my potential to be a writer must be tended to; and 2.) I have to do it now, before my brain turns to mush.

It has always been my biggest fear to be equipped with all of the tools necessary to turn my dreams to reality, and to do nothing with it. I am scared to death that my potential — a caged animal locked in the deepest depths of my brain — will die a starving prisoner, and it’ll be my fault. I could easily make horrible choices or not utilize my time well enough, wasting all of my pent-up potential.

Now, at 24, far from the person I had previously envisioned, I am questioning everything I worked so hard to achieve. I am assessing whether my goal to be read, published and recognized is a “me-goal” or a “society-goal” (which I find to be a relevant question that pertains to a lot of life’s facets).

For children, goals are healthy and productive — but they can also be limiting. I never considered myself anything other than a writer. I never imagined owning a company. I never thought it possible to study marine biology (you’re either a “language person” or a “math person”). I never dabbled in graphic design. I never opened myself up to the possibility of other career paths. I’m a writer, always have been, always will be. My big fat potential, in reality, limited my choices. I was inexplicably bound to an uncertain future.

In addition to self-imposed pressure, society deems what time it is appropriate to act on said potential. The early-to-mid-twenties expectation is a bit of a paradox; this is the time when we should be “experimenting” with our careers because we don’t own houses or have families to fund. However, many of us are still drowning in student debt and living paycheck to paycheck. How is it even feasible to “follow our dreams” without financial assistance? If I can’t fund my dream following, are my goals less important than someone’s who can?

At the beginning of 2015, I set myself into a panic. Isaac Newton developed the theory of gravity at 23. Why am I watching Netflix with a glass of wine after a long day at work? I should be hustling, using every second outside of work to pound the pavement. According to ambitious high school me, who would probably shriek at my daily routines in horror, I am not successful. I’m sailing through my twenties and I have nothing to show for it. I haven’t achieved one goal that I promised myself.

The reality is, though, that despite the fact that I am not working on a book, I am very successful thus far. I have a lot of responsibility and I enjoy being relied on. I never saw my potential to develop great marketing strategy, but I can and I do. I never watered and sewed and grew that potential. But it’s there, and I’m using it.

Though I understand my “get published now” panic is not necessary, my potential, much like potential energy, still feels like a bow-and-arrow ready to draw, but the archer won’t let go. The arrow never flies; that potential hasn’t turned kinetic.

That’s how I know that I still have work to do. But I also know that to counter my fear of failure, I must rid myself of society’s shackles that tell me when and how I should be successful.

There is still time for me to be the next great American novelist. And if there isn’t — if I die tomorrow — it’ll be okay. If I live a long life of happiness and fulfillment, with no book, it’ll be okay.

In truth, I am starting to think that happiness is not contingent on one factor coming to fruition. I am starting to think that if my wildest fantasies about publishing a book don’t come true, I can still be happy. Que sera, sera. And that makes me way less afraid to try.