Perhaps the only dreams that die are the ones that come true. They cease to exist in the very instant that they pass from imagination to reality. Until then they live on in the recesses of your mind,veiled by disappointment and hopelessness, like old love letters tied up in red ribbon and left in an antique box in the attic. Forgotten and unfulfilled.
Sometimes it can take a near-catastrophe to pull your dreams back into the forefront of your consciousness and convince you to dust off all the reasons you abandoned them. Sometimes you need to teeter on the rim of death to put them back into play.
I wrote The Cancer Whisperer last summer because cancer had dropped my neglected dream of being an author into my arms like a newborn baby, wide-eyed and irresistible, demanding my complete attention. I barely had a choice in the matter. It just wanted out.