"The taomaster," she thought now, sighing heavily. He was the one pushing her, causing her no insignificant amount of worry and stress. Once that thought sprung up, it was hard to relax again. Sheila tossed and turned, still hoping that the warmth would take over and she might drift back into her dreamless sleep.
Glancing at the clock yet again, Sheila realized that it was hopeless. "I might as well get up and be productive," she thought. It was "being productive" that was the cause of her angst. She liked to blame the taomaster, but in reality Sheila was the cause of her pressure. She had accepted the challenge, and now she felt a sense of honor was on the line. Yes, she would have to produce; her self-esteem relied upon that decision. Too often she had wavered and not finished her chosen project. Somehow, this felt like a turning point. Understanding that did not ease the pressure.
"If only I had a good idea," Sheila thought to herself, knowing that it wasn't really about ideas. Rather, it was about action. Taking action: not always a strong suit for her.
The truth was that Sheila saw herself as an idea person, one to come up with the right ideas to get a project off the ground. Once begun, Sheila would often opt out--moving on to the next thing that caught her interest. As a result, she never felt the satisfaction that comes with the completion of a project. Looking back, her entire life seemed as if it were unfinished--a tangled bundle of loose ends just hanging there, going nowhere.
"Jack of all trades, master of none," Sheila thought, pulling herself out of bed.
She wandered into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator just out of habit. She wasn't really hungry, just procrastinating. "Anything to avoid writing," she sighed again. Putting the tea kettle on, she booted up the computer, waiting for the blank page to once again stare her in the face.
"Okay, Sheila. You can do this--just start!" She stared back at the screen, waiting for inspiration to take over. The teakettle whistled, and she began to steep the tea. The effects of the hot tea, along with the drone of the computer and the sheer whiteness of the page, began to calm her. She found herself relaxing, dozing even. Before she knew it, Sheila had fallen fast asleep. It was then that the dream, the story, began to take shape.
Who's to say that one person's dreams are more real or more important than another's?
to be continued...