I got to thinking about the dreams of children. I know that children dream of becoming ballerinas, astronauts, actors, and the like. I know this because I told my parents at age five that I was going to be an artist. This was never attainable, given that my stick figures need serious work. But at age eleven, I knew I was going to be a writer. And I haven’t wavered. I know that being a writer is also a child’s dream, but that’s how I know it is real. It’s what I’ve wanted to do before I was cynical, before I was afraid of failing. The innocence of my dream is utterly real and cannot be denied. While becoming a writer isn’t an easy thing, it is my dream. It has been for twelve years. That has to stand for something, right? I sure think so.