Dreaming of a Pink House

Every day on my way to school, I pass a famous author's house. According to her web site, she has more than 10 million books in print. I've never met her, although I live less than 5 miles away, but I did sit near her in the doctor's office once.

For a full year I gazed at her sprawling, one-story, pink-bricked mansion 10 times a week. I admired the land surrounding it, the 4-car garage, and what looks to be an impressive garden. It sits far from the road and I'd glance for only a few seconds before my eyes turned back. And I would think, "I want that."

Her success, that is. And if I'm being honest, a giant house with a whole lot of land. Hers isn't the genre I plan to pursue. But every writer dreams of bestsellers and million-dollar advances… or at least this one does.

But today it dawned on me. School started back this week, and in the four days since I've driven that route, I've yet to look in her direction. Describing myself as 'startled' isn't an exaggeration. But… why? Why am I not looking anymore?

My only conclusion -- and believe me, I may be wrong -- is perhaps because I'm finally doing, rather than dreaming. I'm constantly writing, I'm getting things done. No, I'm not successful. Yet. But I will be. There's a good chance I won't sell 10 million books, but I will be published. My name will appear in bylines. And one day, hopefully, my book(s) will grace bookstore shelves. 

So after a week of new classes on Shakespeare, Advanced Grammar, and TV Production, I guess the most important lesson I can pass along is this: Stop dreaming of a pink house, get off your ass -- and do something.

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