I love fantasy stories. It doesn’t simply end there though. I love all similar genre of movies. I even wake up after having dreams in the same mesmerizing category. I couldn’t evade my mental hard-drive from writing a story of my fantasy.
Writing for days would end with a mental block. I would lay in bed worried that nothing permanent would give me motivation. I would drift to sleep and wake up with a new found booster to my over stressed/under-stimulated brain.
I would dream, when I was pregnant with Leon, of children in my life and those I care about being converted into my book. It happened so often that I couldn’t help but to give in to my moral compass. Each plot, person, legacy, and inevitably, each dimension of my book started to fall into place. I know that my imagination is grand. I know that my genre and storyline are risky. It’s ok though. With risk I have a chance of failure. That’s ok too though.
With risk I have a chance to succeed. My children, my heart, and my integrity are what’s more important than failing. So what if I don’t know what will happen with my work. I’m not supposed to.