“You know that I was born in the same town as Hans Christian Anderson”, my grandfather would often say.
A wooden statue of Hans greets us each time we visit our campground reminding me of three things: My grandfather, my Danish roots, and my love for storytelling. I have all three to thank for that.
As a youth, my life was hockey and drawing. I was either going to be an animator, or play in the NHL. I was on the ice four days a week – more in the winter if there was a local pond to play on – and in the evenings and on weekends, I was on a street or in a parking lot playing with my buds.
I was introduced to the writer inside of me in middle school and as my youth hockey career came to an end, writing became more a part of me from poetry, to journaling. I did give animation a go – attending Sheridan College in my mid twenties, but I dropped out after a year-and-a-half. All of the work, passion, and late nights, fvcked over by fear. Fear of not being the best in the class, about struggling with one project, looking ahead a few years at moving to California for work, you name it. If there was a fictitious obstacle that I could think of, my mind visualized it until I finally quit and went back to my old dead-end job.
Dropping out of animation is truly a symbol of how looking a hundred steps ahead has gotten in the way of so many dreams.
Now, I’m 50. Still dreaming of being something, rotting away at a job that I wish I could love because it has everything else you could ask for in a career, except the role itself.