Scribbles on Balloons.

This blog is called the adventurist.

Well my latest adventure involved three dirty mustaches, two bouts of food poisoning, and one delightful encounter with a volunteer thrift store associate.

I escaped the canyon on monday with two of my newest best friends. Sonia drove with me. Daniel arrived later. We spent the day dreaming about our lives together as we ate dirty tacos with fake mustaches plastered to our upper lips. It was quite magical.

Here's a taste...

We dreamed of future spouses, trips to Vegas, slurpees on beaches, and joyful gallivanting at the newly opened Harry Potter World.

I told you. Magical.

All that to say, I'm a dreamer. You know this.

It's 11:11. Make a wish. I've been dreaming about becoming a writer and never have I believed in that dream as much as I do now. I've become a bit of an insomniac to tell you the truth. I can't stop thinking about my query letter, my proposal, my plots to make my words known. I just want to write. But I want people to read what I write. To laugh with me. To weep with me. To fidget with discomfort and to fist pump with unencumbered joy.

And so I've been tackling what it means to find a literary agent. Sounds daunting. And far too professional for the likes of my amateur scribbles. But yet, I dream big. And lie awake appeasing my angsty mind, letting the rivers of words cascade into every recess of my naked brain, attempting to lure the words confidence, worthiness, and bravery into my net.

Here I am, taking another shaky step out onto the limb, the limb called chance, called risk, called adventure. I've got some authenticity and some originality floating inside a red balloon and a yellow balloon, both tied to my wrist. Should the limb crack beneath my lofty dreams, my balloons will float me away.

Away to a place where dreams can never be too big, and the imagination can never be wild enough, and the beauty of laughter is the only sustainable energy.

Thank you for harboring a dream by continuing to read these petty words of mine.