The lights are low, illuminating the brick walls with a soft glow. The echoes of footfalls from well-heeled shoes bounce across the room then sink into crevices and corners.
Beyond the oversized, unadorned windows, Main Street is quiet. It is, after all, a blustery, cold Monday night. Despite the date on the calendar, spring seems like it is still months away from arriving.
It is a good-sized crowd gathered. There are young people from the local Governor’s School for the Arts. Older couples – presumably friends of one of the readers. Men and women. Other writers and poets. Maybe a stranger or two who just decided to check out this event.
Then there’s me.
I enter the room quietly, reverently. After all, I am entering the presence of published writers. My white wine circles the large glass as I pivot to hold the door for those who are following me. I don’t know them. But we smile at each other, remark on the cold weather and the beauty of the space.
I take a seat on the second row – not on the last. I want to be close so as not to miss even one of the inspired words of my author friend. She is reading several of her selections here tonight. I want her to see me. I want her to know that I’m cheering for her in this latest, well-deserved writing accolade.
The reading, as anticipated, is beautiful – magical even. Tears gather in the corners of my eyes as she recounts how she came to be adopted and raised here instead of her Irish homeland. A lump forms in my throat as she reads about discovering at the age of twenty-something that she, too, was to become an unwed mother. Emotions run deep as she reads of meeting her birth parents in her 40s.
Her words are powerful.
Afterwards, I congratulate my friend, wrap my coat around me and begin the trek down Main Street to my car. I am warmed by the wine and the incredible talent of those who shared their words. As I walk, two things are very clear to me.
First, words in general are powerful and should be chosen carefully. They can build or destroy, often with only one word. Over the past two weeks, I have experienced the spectrum of their power. The mean, cutting words of a friend, the intention of which was to hurt and criticize. The loving, supportive words of my spouse on our 15th anniversary. The magical, healing words of a fantastic writer as she explores the origins of her beginnings.
Second is that I, too, want my moment at the podium. My voice may tremble when I share my words, but they are the contribution I’ve been chosen to make in this universe. I am certain of that.
Over the next two weeks, I’ll be devoting my time to preparing my book for submission to an agent. I have a goal of doing so by the end of April.
This makes me nervous, but I must give a voice to those characters who invade both my waking and sleeping dreams. The hunger to accomplish this is one that supersedes all others in me. It is one that I am confident I can achieve with time and patience.
Today, regardless of where you are in your journey, I urge each of you to reach out for your dreams. Even if your voice shakes. Even if your hands tremble. Even if there’s only one face in the crowd that’s there to specifically support you.
Today is the day to pursue your dreams.