I was really hitting my stride.
Getting back to the novel that I had been dancing with for way too long. Ready to finally send out my first email newsletter for this blog. Talking to my partner Curt about the post-production progress of our short film Waiting for Goodbye.
Doors were opening. Things were shifting in a positive way. I was taking step after step toward being the writer I always wanted to be.
And then …
I am firmly convinced that each of us is here for a very specific reason. To share a precious gift with the world that only we possess.
But how many of us act on that conviction?
I’m not pointing fingers. Well, except maybe at myself. Because I have had a rich history of nodding my head in agreement with the concept of living your dream, yet fleeing like my ass was on fire when faced with the action steps that go with it.
While I admit to being surgically attached to my Kindle, I still love an excursion to an actual bookstore. There’s really nothing like holding an old school book in your hand: leafing through the pages, admiring the cover art, daring the jacket blurb to draw you in. And the unspoken agreement amongst my fellow bookworms that silence (or at least hushed chatter) is golden. This is my version of Heaven.
Well, it was until yesterday.
A few years ago, I read an article about a 13 year old girl named Athena Orchard who died of a rare form of bone cancer. I’ve never forgotten Athena, for a number of reasons. First and foremost, the tragedy of her having such an unfairly short amount of time on this planet. Never getting to live out all of her cherished dreams. Having to leave behind family and friends who I’m sure are still lost without her.
But Athena left something else behind.