scintilla #4 – impossible dreams

It’s yet another daily post from the Scintilla Project! 

 Scintilla Prompt #4 – What is one massively impossible dream you’ve always had?

When I was very young, my dream was to be a jockey (National Velvet was my favorite book). That dream was dashed by the time I was nine and realized I was probably already too tall to be a jockey. So then I decided to be a cowboy. My cousin and I were going to live on our own ranch. We would have lots of horses (I really loved horses- the vocation really didn’t matter as long as horses were involved) and boys would not be allowed. This plan had lots of flaws, including the fact that we were not boys ourselves, so technically we could not be cowboys. And we didn’t want to be cowgirls because that wouldn’t be any fun. And if boys weren’t allowed on our ranch, it would have no cowboys at all, which would probably be a whole lot less appealing a prospect when we were older than, say, nine.  

My slightly more realistic dream when I was 14 or so was to be a vet. Until I realized my severe squeamishness and aversion to anything the slightest bit medical might be a problem. So I decided I would be an artist. I’d live in Taos New Mexico on that street where all the artists have studios, and I’d paint! And I would make a good living painting, and people would tour my studio on the artists’ street in Taos, and they would pay me huge sums for my paintings! Which of course would mostly be of horses. I actually continued with this plan through my freshman year in college, where I majored in Studio Art. (No, I really do not know what my parents were thinking. But they had a very hands-off parenting style and assumed I knew what I was doing. And college was not nearly as expensive way back then as it is now.)

I failed three of my four required studio art classes – not because I was that bad at it, but because I hated them and was depressed and I kept not going to class. When I noticed that instead of drawing in my required art journal for the fourth studio class, I was filling it up with angsty moony overwrought prose, I changed my major to English. Because that’s nearly as useful a major as art! And I’ve ended up with a whole string of jobs that sadly have had very little to do with writing. Or art.

As an adult, my massively impossible dream would be to become an international photojournalist. Traveling the world, writing fascinating stories about the amazing things I see (I want to see amazing things – not war and death and all that downer stuff), and taking award-winning photographs of it. I suppose I would really love to be a travel writer, since that would involve beaches and beautiful views and quaint little Irish cottages, and not involve being blown to bits in Syrian hotels during massive civil unrest. Because I am not the least bit fearless and brave and selfless like that. It’s definitely a pipe dream, since I am far too old to become a photojournalist. And I didn’t like the journalism class I took in college – I didn’t like having to write about reality. I liked making things up. So I probably would not enjoy a career in journalism, and I would probably get tired of having to take photos on demand, and I especially would not want to run off around the world without my husband, the lovely and travel-phobic Baker B, and our three cats. So, it’s massively impossible. But it’s still fun to think about.