A Dream About a Dream

Pay attention to your dreams — God’s angels often speak directly to our hearts when we are asleep.

~Eileen Elias Freeman, The Angels’ Little Instruction Book

My family immigrated to Canada when I was about a year old. In those early years, we didn’t have much. Our home was a simple rented apartment furnished with hand-me-downs and thrift-store finds. There certainly wasn’t enough money for expensive outings, so our weekends were filled with simple pleasures we could do for free, like picnics, bike rides, and my favorite — trips to the library.

Thanks to the library’s children’s section, I fell in love with stories — silly ones, moving ones, and even educational ones. I’d have my parents read the books we borrowed over and over until we needed to return them, or I’d page through them myself, imagining the stories in my head, even though I was too young to read the words.

When I was about five years old and finally starting to read on my own, I had a curious thought: I knew we could get books from the library or buy them in stores if we had the money, but where did books come from?

I asked my mother this question, to which she replied that the stories I loved were created in the imaginations of people called “writers.” These people then wrote them down so they could be shared with others.

Four decades later, I still remember that moment. It was as though I’d been struck by lightning. Then and there, I knew my purpose in this world. I would be one of those writers. I would create stories and share them with the world.

As a young child, I began by making up stories about animals or my toys, dictating them to my grandmother since I hadn’t yet mastered the skill to write them down myself. When I grew a little older, I filled countless notebooks with words and illustrations. For a time, I even published my own little newspaper with a circulation of my immediate family.

I didn’t know a thing about the writing profession or the skills involved in the craft, but I kept writing all the same, figuring I’d somehow learn these things over the years.

As I grew into adolescence, I did start to learn some of the required skills. I learned grammar and basic story structure first in school, and then through writing books.

Meanwhile, I watched my peers struggle with what they wanted to do once they were grown. I knew I was luckier than they were. I’d always known what I was meant to do in life, and I kept at it, getting my homework done quickly each day so I could write for the rest of the evening. In this way, I completed my first attempt at a novel by fourteen. It was a challenge to see if I could write a book-length story from start to finish, even if it wasn’t very good.

Despite my dedication to this dream, I’d heard repeatedly from the adults in my life that writing was a difficult way to make a living. One day, I’d have bills to pay, and I’d need a reliable income to do so.

The research I did into the writing business seemed to confirm this. Sure, there were writers who were very successful — some even rich and famous. But most spent years trying to succeed and generally did so while working “day jobs.”

I began to think that maybe I should have a backup plan. I began to doubt my dream.

One thing I knew was that whatever I did, it would have to be in the arts. Art was the one thing I was good at. I considered several options, ultimately settling on photography. It was something I’d been doing as a hobby already, and I could see myself working as a nature photographer while writing on the side.

After graduating high school and working for a time to save up money to supplement my student loan, I went off to college to study photography. This was still in the days of film and dark rooms, and I enjoyed the challenge of developing and printing in total darkness. College was very demanding, though, and didn’t leave me a lot of spare time. Because of this, my writing fell by the wayside a little — and then a lot.

Eventually, I graduated, and it came time to find that job that would allow me to pay my bills. But there weren’t great jobs available where I lived for someone fresh out of school. All I could find was work assisting other photographers, mostly shooting things like weddings or school pictures — a far cry from the nature photographer I’d imagined I’d be.

I was the child of immigrants, though. I knew sometimes you had to start at the bottom and be patient getting to where you ultimately wanted to be. If I just kept at it, in time I might start my own business and photograph what I wanted. I had college loans to pay back, after all.

But the truth was, I wasn’t happy. Work became a slog, and I stopped writing altogether. Then one night, I had a dream.

I saw myself back in college, in the old dark room. I moved through the room toward the chemical trays in which we developed prints. As I approached, I could see the various chemical baths, photo paper already in them. But then I noticed that instead of photo paper, the paper in the trays were the printed pages of a novel I’d been working on before I’d stopped writing. The chemicals were damaging them. I could see the ink running and the paper falling apart.

I woke up and immediately understood what my dream was trying to tell me. I was focusing on this photography career while my dream of becoming a writer fell apart. It wasn’t making me happy. It wasn’t what I was meant to be doing.

This dream changed everything. I quit photography and went back to college to study journalism. There I met my husband. This course gave me the skills that got me work as a copyeditor after graduation, first for a major magazine and later as a freelancer. These skills were also transferable to writing fiction.

After a few years of helping to pay the bills, I was able to quit my day job and dedicate myself to writing fiction full-time. Today, I have several published stories out in the world for others to enjoy. One day, I hope to publish a book. But I wouldn’t be where I am if it hadn’t been for that dream that reminded me about a little girl’s certainty of her purpose in life and the importance of living your dream.

— P.A. Cornell —