“When I was ten, I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed if I had been found doing so. Now that I am fifty I read them openly. When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.” – C.S. Lewis

Earlier this year, I began a writing exercise which asked that I list all the things I used to dream of doing. I couldn’t think of anything besides writing. Not because I am so single-focused. (I’m not.) The truth is I couldn’t remember.

There are times when I feel that holding on to this idea of myself as a writer is just me being mule-stubborn, like a child that won’t let go of a toy. It’s mine! Mine! As if I did let go, I’ll be left with a pair of empty hands and a general air of failure.

Well, I already know what failure feels like. We eat at the same table regularly.

But I know stubborn better. We sleep in the same bed.

Stubbornness is where my inner kid lives. She knows the truth: I do remember what I used to dream of–like seeing more of the world–I just have to let myself be childish enough to go grab them.

Unfortunately, my trip to South Africa fell through, or rather, I pushed it off, but in its place I’ve decided to mozy around northern California for a couple of weeks, relaxing, thinking, writing and ultimately making up my mind about some things that need deciding without the pressure of every day life intruding. I used to dream of living in California. And here I am, nearing four years in LA and until now I’ve seen nothing except this smog-filled corner of it. That’s going to change next month.

There’s more. There’s always more. But right now those thoughts are mine, mine!

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