You know you must write, must climb on whatever step is yours to climb on the stairway of your
own social climate. You must make your dream a cohesive part of present human experience, but
you feel insignificant, intimidated by intellects that will forever outshine your own. For, you recognise
real writers, and they leave you in awe. You read and find there is depth, strength, tenderness,
wisdom and vision. There is the darkness of hateful deeds and the glorious lightening of love moving
over pages rippled with a multitude of actions and emotions you feel your words can only imitate in the
Yet, you settle into your effort, knowing the creative mind must endeavour to leave some inheritance of
its intensity, some tangible expression of individual thought. You catch a dream from a moment that is
open to new interpretation. An idea is held up in its delicate tracery, while mind seethes with words; with
pieces of theme that rush and tumble to attach themselves to raw portions of thought now seeking completion.
A pattern begins to play in the light of the mind, while the light itself experiments with its own angles - emphasis here,
shadow there - until shape and shadow fuse into meaningful form.
Sudden thrusts of understanding introduce new comprehension, awareness of reality previously hidden, and
energy rushes in on wings of excitement, as words make an offering beyond themselves - only a ghost of a
poem maybe, or not even a promise of a poem at this stage, more a prose collage pasted with unusual detail,
painted with feeling, communicating, however obliquely, some quality, some secret of the human spirit.
Reasoned reality is overshadowed in this arena. It barely colours the background, for the experience
expressed is a deeply subjective version of reality, lifted a little by imagination, filtered through inner perception
and finally interpreted by the eye of intelligence unique to each mind.
So you write, knowing your expression is an emerging essence of self, a thread in the fabric of now, and yet you
sense it also contains the warp and weft of ancient dreams. You ask yourself who has the perfection to pronounce
your dream invalid. It may not shine in the rarefied air of someone else’s excellence, but it lives as a symbol of
your time, and a proof of the part your mind plays within it.
Dare then, to be bold, to hold your ideas up as you strive to reach your highest ideal. Someone else may see
a nimbus glowing around them; may see in that glow a mystery that releases something of its truth to the viewer,
a vision grown from your inner perception, the existence of which you never suspected when you commenced
Be Bold – Make a Shape of your Dream
First published in Scope - the magazine of Federation of Australian Writers, Queensland Branch.