Since I’ve been able to daydream, I’ve wanted to be a writer. In particular, I wanted to be a novelist. I kept hoping, and dreaming, and writing. But sometimes when you dream about something for so long … it’s almost like it starts to feel less real. Does that make sense? It starts to take up space on a dusty shelf alongside all your other quirky hopes and dreams. Paper crowns and cardboard castles and a bunch of burned out wishing stars. And you want to write a novel?? Who do you think you are?! People will flat-out tell you that it’s a dumb dream. And here’s the thing: whatever your Big Dream is, I hope someone tells you how ridiculous you are for chasing after it. I hope they tell you that, so you get to feel what it’s like to prove them wrong. Keep hoping. Keep dreaming. Above all, keep writing. Even if the story you write isn’t the one that finds you an agent, or an editor, it’s still a story that can help you find your way. Write the next story. Hold on tight to the tail of that wishing star. You never know where it will carry you.