Unless otherwise noted, Copyright James C. Hess 2008. All Rights Reserved. Published by Thinking Rock Press, with written permission from the author.

IT BEGAN WITH a dream.

A dream: A moment in time and space, where the subconscious, the consciousness, and the unconscious converge, albeit for a fleeting moment, where anything and everything is possible, from which seemingly infinite opportunities are born.

A dream, this dream came to form one quiet spring morning, just before dawn, when song birds were beginning to stir and sing and call forth the coming day. A dream, this dream came into existence when the subconscious, the consciousness, and the unconscious converged, where anything and everything is possible, from which seemingly infinite opportunities are born.

I consider myself a modest and humble individual. As such my dreams are a reflection of me. Even this particular dream, where anything and everything is possible, from which seemingly infinite opportunities are born.

A dream grounded in reality but brought about by a desire to realize my potential.

I long had the dream to not only write but to make a living from my writing. It was a dream, for many years, I did not believe would ever come to fruition, owing much to the environment I found myself in.

I have not written much about my upbringing. Mine was a middle middle-class existence. My father was a well-paid engineer with a multi-national corporation. My mother was a Registered Nurse who eventually became a small business owner. My parents were and are Conservatives to the core. We had a nice home in the country and did not go with out, my brother and I. But luxuries were not something my parents indulged. My Dad drove the same pick-up truck until it literally fell apart. My mother had the same car for many years, until it became my brother's, then mine.

My upbringing, simply, was pragmatic. So much so that writing was considered a hobby, and a minor one at that. It was something you did to thank a relative for a gift or two on your birthday or Christmas. Writing was what you engaged in to write express an opinion when showing support for a candidate for elected office.

But writing was not something you did to earn a living. It was an opinion that was often put to me when discussions and conversations about what it was I wanted from Life.

Discussions and conversations that increased with frequency the older I got, incidentially.

Because of the way I was raised I came to accept this opinion as absolute fact, and decided that if I couldn't make a living writing I should do the next best thing: Teach others to write.

As those who know me know that didn't happen the way it was supposed to.

Around the time I decided to pursue a career in teaching something happened: I discovered filmmaking.

To make a long story short for a time I pursued an interest in filmmaking because I believed it could lead me to where I wanted to be in Life: The life of a Writer.

Simply, it didn't. There were a lot of reasons for that. But it allowed me to come to an understanding of what writing, at least for me, represents.

Which, incidentially, is what this installment is actually about.

Writing and Writers, in general, get a bum wrap, a bad reputation. Writing is considered by many not to be a profession because Writers are considered to be anything but professionals. The Writers that achieve success by way of fame and fortune, more often than not, do so by way of drug addiction and alcohol abuse, a string of failed marriages, and illegitimate children who see them not as role models and parents but monsters and distant memories, that come bearing gifts at odd and inconvenient moments, whose shameless intent is to buy love and make up for absence and failure in the aforementioned roles.

But for every Writer that is a monster and a failed parent, a drunk and a bum, there is at least one Writer whose name may never be known to many because they worked hard at doing the best they could in all things, and whose concern is not with fame or fortune or success as defined by the popular culture.

When I decided I wanted to pursue the writing life, to be a Writer, I also decided the trappings of such a life would not be a concern or interest to me.

As a result of my decision and deliberate choice I know I made life for myself and my family difficult and hard.

But from these difficulties and hardship have come experiences unmatched.

From that came a dream. Born. Fulfilled.

More on that some other time. For now, there's writing to get done.