Cliched dreams, dying on the vine

I was talking to a friend a while ago about what we want to do with our lives. Both of us worried that our dreams were just cliches... we wanted to do the things that everyone wants to do. There's a billion people who want to be travel writers, for example.

The other day I had this great idea. I decided that I wanted to write a good book for teenagers. Because I remember reading very few good books as a teenager. I remember they all sounded like they were written in fifteen minutes. (Though that Christopher Pike was quality.) But what did I find on mediabistro.com yesterday? A whole seminar on writing young adult books.

I see stuff like that and I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I picture myself coming in to one of those seminars, wary but optimistic, a sharpened pencil and a clean new notebook in hand. And I sit down in the only available seat, next to this big hairy guy who's drooling on the desk. His name is Ted. He's 26. He's a copy editor at a trade magazine. And he wants to be a young adult novelist too.

And here I fast-forward to our first assignment, where we read all of our papers aloud. And Ted's is absolutely brilliant. Everyone suggests he could be the next J.D. Salinger. And mine is absolutely so completely horrible that everyone else in the class looks at me sympathetically and no one can come up with any constructive criticism except, "Maybe you should add more about where they make out in the car."

So I've decided to resign myself to reality. No matter what far-off pie-in-the-sky dream that I think up, a million other people are already dreaming it. And, in fact, a million others are living it, leaving no room in the field for me. So not only is my dream unoriginal, it's also completely unattainable.

Of course, when it comes right down to it, these dreams -- and these interior debates about dreams -- are just decoys that keep my mind off the real question at hand: What am I actually going to do next?

2/2/2003 09:19:40 AM

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