I got food poisoning the other day. This may be a weird way to start a post about dreams, but hear me out. The aforementioned food poisoning meant that once the fever and the chills and the general disgustingness of having food poisoning subsided, what I was left with was an extreme case of exhaustion. Earlier today I was telling my mum how I was annoyed I was wasting the day, and her advice to me was the advice I assume most good mothers will dish out: rest up, heal, and then you can get back to the things you want to do.

This invariably meant I had a lot of time on my hands. A little too much time, that is. There’s nothing worse for an over-thinker than to have more time than normal to sit and ruminate over things…

The one thing that kept playing over and over in my mind is how I haven’t been able to write my novel for the past three days. First, an unexpected office-based gig came my way. The issue was that I already had two articles due over the days I’d be working there, but when you’re a freelancer you know how quickly work can dry up, so you try not to turn things down. So I had to work 12 hour days to get everything done on time.  Then I got ill.

I hate it when I don’t write my 1000 words each day. It makes me feel uncomfortable, like I’m letting myself down or something. And this is why I started thinking of how important dreams are. Correction – it’s not enough to dream. You have to pursue that dream.

Up until a certain age, we have things pretty mapped out for us. We’re born, we go to school, we become teenagers from hell, some of us then go onto university or college, and we’re then expected to get a job. Then we’re expected, at some point, to get married, have kids,