The Anatomy of Dreams

Eighteen months ago, I lit a flame. It was the shape of a dream to create a picture story book. It was not a whim, nor one of those fleeting brilliant ideas; it was a promise to birth this story into the world. I envisioned the day – a triumphant culmination – when the final word would be written, and the last brushstroke laid down.

Now that the book is finished, the manuscript is polished, the illustrations have settled, it is a dream realised. Yet, the champagne remains un-popped, the celebration on hold. Why this strange inertia?

Because the goalposts have moved. Dreams are slippery things. They shift, they morph, they demand more of us than we ever initially imagine. And so, my dream has now evolved. It no longer resides in the simple act of creation. It has transcended the tangible. The new dream asks, ‘Please may this book connect. Please may it resonate.’ Suddenly, the perfect sentence structure, and the meticulous details of each drawing, seem almost insignificant. A new, more vulnerable dream has taken root: the dream of shared passion, of touching another heart.

Achievements, it turns out, aren't the final destination. They are merely breathtaking vistas on the path to something more. And in this liminal space, between completion and connection, I stand, breathless. I don't yet know what this new dream will become, but I know, with a certainty that vibrates through my bones, that it will transform. Perhaps I’ll dare to imagine my book nestled in the window of Brooklyn’s Books Are Magic, or gleaming with a gold sticker from the Australian Indi Book Awards. These are whispers of possibility, shimmering on the horizon.

Dreams are seeds. Planted with courage, nurtured with devotion, they grow. But a tree never declares, “I am finished.” It may cease growing taller, but it will never stop changing. This is the immutable law of nature, and of dreams.

The synchronicities are breathtaking. As I poured my heart into The Fruit of Dragons, the dragon fruit in my garden bloomed, mirroring my own creative blossoming. Now, as the first fruits are harvested, my book rolls off the press. This is a season, a moment in time. And as the last dragon fruit is savoured, the next blooms will unfurl. If met with curiosity and courage, they too will bear fruit. Perhaps the fruit of a second book. The fruit of a new friendship. The fruit of finally feeling enough. Who knows? All I know is that the seasons will turn, and the cycle of dreaming, creating, and transforming will begin anew.