scribbler of dreams

Currently on the road to the Bay! I believe I’ll write a little bit to pass the time…

I think everyone’s just looking for a little inspiration in life.

This search begins in our youth with a little thing called imagination. A single toy teddy bear is capable of great things. It is no longer an inanimate object: it may talk, it may dance, it may even have super strength. The toy, then, is no longer an object. We can now call it a friend. It lives. It presents comfort and joy, enabling our very human ability to dream. As children our curiosity is insatiable and is apparent in a one-syllable word: Why? This curiosity accompanies us into adolescence, perhaps remaining just as strong as when we were 5, or in other cases, one’s curiosity may lead to a simple indifference. We are aware of our peers and society-sanctioned definitions of what is perceived as cool versus uncool, especially in middle school and high school. Things that once held our interests such as that teddy bear may no longer hold any significance. We grow up and stop focusing on everything with that childlike wonder for we are no longer children, nor do we have time for such things as make believe because we discover there’s a world out there that’s real. In adolescence we are more aware of our sexuality. Here, one’s curiosity may pique and may lead to undesirable consequences via an unexpected delivery from the stork (though I won’t discredit that the birth of a child may very well be a form of a person’s saving grace). Mistakes are made, mistakes are avoided, and we learn a little about being cautious.

In our adolescence we are also more aware of our interests. Interest opens doors for inspiration. When we learn more of what we are interested in, we may find inspiration. Inspiration stirs within that anatomy class you took, the vintage camera in your grandfather’s attic, or watching your favorite baseball player make a homerun. For me, inspiration presented itself in the form of one of Shakespeare’s most renowned plays, Romeo and Juliet. I said a form of, mind you, it wasn’t actually the Bard’s own manuscript (I for one, perceive Romeo as the epitome of anti-masculinity but my reasoning could go on for pages so perhaps it’s best I leave my explication and rendering of Romeo for another journal entry, though it’s definitely more of a persuasive paper argument best left in the classroom. Oh look, I’ve managed to drift completely off topic). It (that book I was writing about before my previous digression, yes, THAT “it”) was one of those inspired novels that had the same plot and storyline as R & J. It was a book entitled Scribbler of Dreams I took one afternoon off of my sister’s shelf. I was 14, on summer vacation, and bored out of my freakin’ mind. I walked into my younger sister’s room, sighed dramatically, and slumped into a chair, exclamations of my extreme boredom grumpily slipping from my lips to the aggravation of my sister who was totally engrossed in a chapter of her book. She didn’t even lift her head at my entrance. Read a book, she told me, a roll of the eyes evident in the tone of her voice despite the curtain of hair blocking my view of her face. I sat still for a couple of minutes willing her head to move to look at me so we could do something, anything to alleviate my boredom. My attempts were futile, so after a few moments of gross silence I plopped myself in front of her bookcase. She was a big science fiction/fantasy buff (still is!) and none of it really appealed to me. Oh, and she had a ton of books! There were books on top of books, books behind books, books inside of books. Okay, so maybe there weren’t books inside of books, but you catch my drift; it was overwhelming and I was distraught in finding something that held my interest. Here, read this, my sister finally said handing me a book from the shelf as she suddenly materialized beside me. I think you’ll like it. Scribbler of Dreams read the title in a black scrawl as if it was truly scribbled onto the cover. The cover displayed a normal, nondescript looking girl save for her eyes looking up toward the face of a boy whose own eyes are downcast. Her eyes seem to be searching for something or trying to tell him something, looking as if she’s in pain. Her mouth is cast in a way in which she can’t decide if she wants to smile or frown. I flipped its pages, familiarizing myself with its scent, stood up, threw a thanks over my shoulder at my sister, and left her room knowing a response wouldn’t follow me out.

Scribbler of Dreams is a young adult novel following its female protagonist as she deals with the falls and triumphs of first love—basically the storyline of every young adult novel ever written but it captivated my interest for the rest of the day, my boredom long forgotten. I came back every other day picking books off my sister’s shelf for the rest of the summer. My love for reading blossomed that summer and soon I had my own collection of books, abandoning my sister’s fantasy-filled shelves for fiction that suited my own tastes. I had an array of novels starring female protagonists: some were reckless, some were shy, some were abandoned, some were stifled. I read about girls who dealt with drugs and abuse, remorse and fear, virginity and passion. I found a kinship with these girls. Their stories seemed real and I walked away taller and brighter from having shared their experiences. Inspiration was resonant in chapters, in paragraphs, sentences, and words. Even today, in my undergrad, I find an extreme interest in the etymologies of words and untranslatable and foreign words.

Something I have grown quite fond of within this past year, which I’ve found provides endless inspiration, is poetry (YES, I’m writing about poetry again, it’s just THAT awesome). A great part of poetry is the experimentation of language. Poetry magnifies the beauty of words; sometimes so gut-wrenchingly and heart-crushingly beautiful that it makes you ache even if you don’t understand or fully grasp its meaning. Though I’ve dabbled in writing it myself, I am no poet. I’m actually pretty horrible at it. This does not deter my love of poetry however. Poetry can be intimidating. It’s a puzzle in which multiple meanings can be conveyed. There are many facets in one line alone that can be daunting. Nevertheless, it’s your own interpretation of the poem, I believe, that holds the most value.

Poetry, I think, has the ability to deeply move a person, whether for a singular moment in time or the span of one’s existence. I recall Auden’s “In Memory of W.B. Yeats,” and his line: “For poetry makes nothing happen.” Poetry first affects its readers. It provides an intangible happening in the form of inward improvement for our self-awareness. This is not nothing. It is then our choice to take this newly discovered self-awareness, act upon it, and let our discovery be known to others. Though some poems are more abstract than others, its reader craves for a connection to the words typed out on the page and from there, imprinted in their mind, and more often than not, their heart. So my inspiration derives from my deep interest in words, whether they’re put together in a way that’s undecipherable and obscure, or whether they stand alone.

Inspiration holds the key for our tomorrows. Our inspirations turn into our aspirations that shape who we are and who we desire to be. People build their careers and their lives on what inspires them. Therein, inspiration necessitates in forming our identities. Dreams shouldn’t just be something that lives, hidden deep in our conscious. Dreams are messages. Dreams are gentle whispers aiding in the formation of our reality. We just need to listen.