Dreams. Dreams. Dreams.

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Once upon a time, there was a woman, and she had dreams…

Dreams. Dreams. Dreams.

She loved to soak herself in them like the warmest, most perfect bath, ever drawn.

Dreams. Dreams. Dreams.

Wisps of them–the dreams–wafted off her much like morning dew on a warm summers morning. She loved every second of them. Every single moment of those dreams. They were her happiness.

Then, one day, she realized the world was changing around her. A society that once felt forever stagnate and motionless spun and turn like a possessed top. While she was still tethered to her dreams (dreams. dreams. dreams.) Their tails wrapped around the ball of life, a long, twisted bit of twine created a tangled ring of all her moments in time.

Of all those dreams…

Until she felt stuck.

The dreams that once felt as silky as honeysuckles on a humid night’s breeze transformed. Sweetness went sour. Silk became burlap.

You may think the spinning whipped and turned her around. The tether lassoed to her ankle, wrist, heart–pulled her from her origins, thrusting her into the world. They didn’t. She was a damsel tied to the railroad tracks–a locomotive barreling down on her.

She knew it was wrong. All of it, but she’d become too obsessed, confused, disoriented to begin to understand what was happening. Especially, now… without her:

Dreams.

Dreams.

Dreams.

But one day, a notion dawned upon her. A perfect ‘a-ha’ moment pushed her through the clouds of her mind. What she figured out was none of it is real.

The tether.

The spinning globe.

The disorientation.

They were all illusions conjured by the most wicked evil maker of them all–herself.

…dreams…dreams…dreams…

She’d become so concerned with the outside perception of her she’d neglected her truth. That neglect led to her forgetting who she was and accidentally distanced herself from those                                            dreams.

The moment expanded, growing like a bubble stuck to the tip of a child’s plastic wand. Rainbows and stripes of swirling color encased her. She was the nucleus. She was the yoke floating in the center of it all. And just outside the thin veil separating her from those awful thoughts and her truth–were those dreams.

(dreams. dreams. dreams.)

She knew, while she stared through the stained glass coloring her vision, life was what she decided it to be. She was the creator of her illusion and understood what she stared at the longest became her truth.

Her fingers uncoiled and the tethers released–completely.                                                      Her dreams. All of those…             Dreams. Dreams. Dreams.

Caught in an upward current, floating high above.                                                                                                    Each dream holding every desire she’d ever harbored–bobbing reminders of who, and what, she was.

She was herself. Perfect and true.

She was the right amount of everything because she could never be her or her or even him. And her dreams… all of those dreams! (dreams. dreams. dreams.) kept her afloat and moving forward–high above everything trying to hold her back. High above herself.

The End

 

What, you may ask, is the moral of the story? Simple. You are never too old to dream. Your dreams are valid. Just because someone else doesn’t understand your dreams will never and can never diminish your dreams. And even if your first had your dream many years ago doesn’t mean it’s not the right dream because dreams don’t have expiration dates–they only fade if we give up on them.

You are perfect just as you are.

Life, the Universe, and 2018.

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2018 has shown me life is a curveball wrapped in bubble wrap–or maybe it’s a glass ball filled with every breath I thought I’d lost. On impact, an explosion–pointy chards and oxygen…or a thud with three or four popped plastic bubbles…

2018

I sit here wrestling with the past 12 months–with myself in those moments. This was a year of great growth and change. Something ended, I’m not sure exactly when only that it did. With that ending, I changed.

I don’t like to over analyze life. What’s the point? I am not sitting here searching for greater meaning in the ups and downs I’ve had. I rather deal with life as it happens and move forward.

Forward. Back is the wrong way. I’ve been there. I’ve taken what I need. I’m here. Keep going.

In both the good and bad moments, I’ve learned. I love that part–even the shitty moments. I learned something. I sit, quietly, watching. The shadows are where the truth lives. When people shut off. When they are themselves: unfiltered. Perfect.

The biggest thing I’ve learned is I can be what I want to be. It’s no longer up for debate. I also know I won’t take no for an answer anymore. I want to change with every transformational moment. I want more. Bigger. Brighter. All of it moving me forward.

2018 rocked me with success, it squashed me with illness. It opened my eyes until the fodder fell away. It was a moment of pause, over and over and over again.

I normally celebrate new years on my birthday–this year I’ll make an exception. I’ll sit in the desert, stare at the sky, and make wishes. A thousand of them. And on January 1, 2019–the journey will continue.

The change will continue.

I’ll keep watching.

I’ll keep learning.

There is only one way to go from here and I’m excited to walk that path.

 

Happy 2018 to you all. I hope you found what you’ve been looking for and if you haven’t, I hope 2019 does.

-A

 

 

 

Inspiration

Inspiration.

It keeps me awake at night. Trips me up when I’m working out. Distracts me from real life. It is a whisper in my ear telling me what it thinks I need to know. Its message,  a thousand gentle fingertips brushing over my skin, raising each hair in their wake.

Call it a muse.

Paint an image of a woman in a flowy dress or whatever you like, but make sure it warms you on chilled days, lifts you on dreary ones, and dances with you when the sun is out.

I will not call mine muse, it is more like a scent on a breeze. A sprinkle of confection sugar, sweet on the tongue.

Hidden thoughts woven in air.

An enigma, a ghost, a jolt to my psyche. Arriving without announcement, planting seeds intended to devour me. Each spiky root burrows deep, claiming, consuming until I have no choice but to float on its rhyme without reason. For it has none other than to ignite.

I suppose there are things worse than being consumed by ideas, stories, images. Like, not being consumed by anything at all. A blank page, blank mind, the drab vortex of nothingness.

But I have my inspiration. It came calling like a rogue wave, washing over me when I had my back turn, pulling me into its folds. It has claimed me, uncaring of all those other things I should be doing.

I bend at its will because when it planted those seeds it has also molded me into what I’ve become. Thus proving, life without inspiration can only be death.

The Lonely Writer (excuses)

My name is Aryn, and I’m a writer. (even though I may not have a book deal–I AM a writer.) And this is my Friday rant:

The Lonely Writer:

Talk to any writer and they’ll tell you how lonely it is. This is a fact, not a lie. Writing is a desert island. Sometimes it has to do with your muse. The only way to isolate the perfect ideas is to to sequester yourself from outside influences. (And I don’t mean you stop reading other books, or participating in general every day life. That’s crazy.)

Then there is the actual work. You don’t need (or want) a buddy pushing the keyboard buttons for you. Thus, again, alone. Fingers tapping on keys. Tap-a-tap-a-tap. In solitude.

Then editing… (editing is like literary plastic surgery. It puts you elbow deep in syntax and metaphors. E’s everywhere! Cover your eyes…)

But let’s not forget the other factor. After a while, non-writers really get tired of hearing your ramblings about your next “big idea.” I don’t know why… I mean, seriously, it’s genius! My ideas are brilliant!

Ah! funny….

Anyway, I have been “on a break” this past week. Trust me when I say, it’s me–not my writing. My writing is beautiful and kind–but I’ve drifted from it’s side. Now I feel more like my writings friend than a lover, which is a BIG issue. Not insurmountable, but that feeling is what led to this weeks hiatus.

Luckily, it’s not the total white noise of writers block. There are still some plot lines trickling it, but they’re all unrelated to my current WiP.

This is the curse of being a writer–besides feeling alone there are all the fake people in your head demanding you tell their story–NOW!

And suddenly I realize that I’m writing this blog post to justify my week off. HA! I may be alone in this, or maybe you feel the same–but I don’t regret the break. I needed my brain clear. I needed to be able to see the trees from the forest. And I needed to clean my house. It’s kinda gross… I mean, if I HAD friends and they stopped over, I’d be super duper embarrassed..

In the end:

Life is what you make of it–so is writing. And that means some times you need to stop what you’re doing to regroup, allowing you to move forward with all those plans. (and stories)

I hope you’re all well and enjoying a fantastic day, where ever you are. But most of all, I hope you’re listening to good music, embracing the life you have. Even if today is the day you look to excuses, let tomorrow lead to your truth.

Happy writing! xxoo-a

Writers gotta write

I don’t normally post on Tuesdays, but I’m making an exception this week.

Since this blog has my name on it, I feel it should contain posts that represent the true me. Most days, I stick with writing. But like the rest of you, there is more to me than on single facet. I am a mother, wife, artist, friend, sister, and even an Aunt. I love this world.

Most days I love this world.

Lately I’m not sure how I feel about this world.

It’s like there is this spinning Doctor Who-esk vortex churning up the sky–and our lives. But instead of sucking Daleks out of London, it’s spewing anger and hate into our universe.

As writers, we are meant to observe. Even if we’re sitting down to write fantasy, science fiction, or whatever your favorite genre based fiction is. We MUST observe.

The world around us is an endless source of story ideas, characters, setting, plot lines, and the very fabric we use to color our stories. It is the endless well that nourished our spirit. And now, our world is filled with so much “inspiration” it’s hard to look at or think of anything else.

But we must.

No, I’m not suggesting we turn away. We are the writers, the note-keepers, the narrators. It is our job to document life–even if it’s cleverly placed on a planet in another galaxy all together.

What I am saying is we need to absorb, process, and work. We need to write new blog posts, poems, short stories, novels–whatever we can that will help, encourage, fill in the many voids out there.

I want to write this special Tuesday Post to say, “Good Job!” and “Keep it up!” to every writer I know. To every writer who reads this.

To every artist who will be using their medium to show the world what it needs to see/hear/read.

Life is beauty. Beauty is art. Therefore, art is life and it’s beautiful. Sadly, we’ll be needing to dust off the beauty so we can all see it.

Have a beautiful Tuesday, readers. And go out and share your words, art, happiness with the world. It can use a lot of happy.

xxoo-A

No more excuses

Ah! My first post of the New Year. Took me long enough…

zapatoverde graphic design motion design error quit

So, 2016 didn’t much live up to the expectations of the gen pop–but you already knew this. You’ve watched the news, seen the memes, followed the feeds, read the blogs–you, my friend, are in the ‘know!’

And I respect that about you.

2016 has become the punchline–no, the *excuse* of a decade. It is the reason we are sad. It is used as the basis for what is lacking in your life, or this world. 2016 is the quote, it is the comparison, it is rational for every last thing we’ve lost control of or never had control of in the first place.

Well, it’s no longer 2016. Thus, it no longer applies.

Now, I could go into a rant (one that is political in nature) and confabulate with you on what is waiting over the next ridge–but I will not. I could grab a sandwich board and slap some paint on that baby, before draping it over my bony shoulders with a message painted in my scratch writing–but I won’t.

All of this nonsense are distractions. What is the point of this lollygagging when there is so much to do?

I shouldn’t have waited so long to come here and post, but the holidays are a big deal in my life–so I’m here now. I’m here to say, no excuses in 2017. It may not be the best year. It may be worse than the *dreaded* 2016. But it may also be the best year you’ve ever known. This is how I’m looking at it: I know what I want, I’ve known since I was seven–and I’ll keep working to make it happen.

the karate kid

Time to be Daniel and Crane Kick 2017 in the face.

The only wise words I have for those reading this is, “there is no such thing as an over night success.” Remember that when you’re a slave to your craft–to your words. Hard word and dedication are the key to success. The only true failure in life is quitting (unless you’re a smoker, than it’s the opposite.)

Happy New Year, friends! And happy writing–xxoo-A

The map of me

At seven, when I began writing, I wrote because it was fun. Bad poems about ax murders and dragons (don’t judge) and adventure tales that involved hot air balloons and evil people chasing me was the bread and butter of my portfolio.

None of it was “ready,” but like I said–it was a blast. (Even the time the principle called my mothers to rat on me about a mean spirited poem I wrote centering around a girl in my class. To clarify, she’s punched me–I only wrote about wanting to hit her. I’m the classy one.)

In my teens I wrote more poetry. Filled with teen-angst and “why is the world so cruel” themes. This was in my journal. Even the story about a frog that was the wrong color. Everyone made fun of her, until she finally left home. Then, she made a friend–an albino crocodile–and together they saved everyone in her pond. (No, the crock didn’t eat anyone. She was lonely too.)

In my twenties I started to take writing more serious. I wrote a futuristic fantasy novel that had elves and talking crows. Once finish, I promptly showed it to no one. That said, I did my research, all with the intent to publish–yet I never did.

My second attempt was a romance novel. For me romance has always been a palate cleanser. I read the genre when I need a break from the other genres I read. I actually love romance–for this reason. Sometimes a story only needs to be skin deep. Two people meet, they fall in love, life tears them apart–they find each other in the end. There is perfection in that formula.

This novel was rejected. I wasn’t as tenacious back than as I am now. After one rejection I quit–for a long, long time.

I still wrote. Poems. Songs. Long rants in my journal about how I felt, my love/hate relationship with the world. With life. A script about a girl in love with a guy in a band. Two scripts that were horror movies. (One I still love. The other, I love one scene from. Sadly it doesn’t translate to novel writing. It was a camera thing.) And another story (which I adore, but the premise wasn’t my idea, so I let it sit, dusty and untouched) was the story of a young boy–set in NYC in the late 70’s. Seriously, I sometimes think about this kid. If you know me, and have read some of my stuff–the kids name was Malcolm. I loved him so much, I moved him into a new world. I made him grow up. He became a wonderful man–I’m slightly in love with him.

Then I got pregnant. Lost my job. Went to yoga teacher training to help reinvent myself–and then it happened. At our graduation celebration, a yogi friend said, “What are you thinking about now, Aryn?” and before I could lock my brain down or keep my mouth shut, I said, “Writing. I wish I was writing.”

And so I did. I moved. Had a few poems published.

I wrote another book. Then I rewrote that book. And then I rewrote it five more times. Rejected. (a big whole bunch.) (YA Fantasy/Horror)

So I wrote another book. This one for someone. The first draft sits, because… I don’t know. I can’t seem to reconnect with the content. This, like the story with the boy, has some parts I adore–but there is a mind blockade. A wall of white noise. It wears me down. (Historic Fiction)

Wrote a novella. (Sci/fi YA)

Then the one I have out on query. Actually, this was written prior to the one for a friend. I sent it out–Rejected. So I reworked it. From first draft to fifth, I found a writing partner. She helped me fix it. Still rejected. (Speculative Science Fiction)

Rejected so many times I’ve learned to flinch when my email pings. I turn my ringer off now.

In October I finished the first draft of a new book. I have high hopes for this one. It’s early. I hoped to have the second draft down by now–but the hell death plague that devoured my house, and my health, made certain that wasn’t an option. (Urban Fantasy)

I haven’t been seven in a very long time, but I can tell you this with all honestly–writing is still fun. I no longer write about the mean girl, or how I wish something bad would happen to her. If there is one thing that writing has taught me is the importance of being selective–in what you write about, who you spend your time with, where you put your energy.

It shows.

I’m hoping this next book is my lucky charm. Or maybe there is an agent out there–right now–reading my query for my current piece on submission who wants more. I don’t know. All I’m sure of, flinching aside, all I’ve ever known is writing. It is my expression. My soul. It is all I want.

Words.

Love to Oakland

I want to take a second to throw some love to everyone in Oakland. If you haven’t heard about The Ghost Ship, and what happened on Saturday night/Sunday morning–there was a massive fire at a place called The Ghost Ship.

An artist commune, the building was an old warehouse used by artists to work and celebrate art. I’ve read a number of articles over the past few days–most concentrate on all the building violations. This morning I read a piece for the Village Voice that way by far my favorite. (Click on Village Voice to read the article.)

Before I go into the thick of it–here is a photo of the interior of The Ghost Ship:

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I’m post the image because I want people to really look at what it was–an not sit around making assumptions about what it *must* have been.

I consider myself an artists. As you know, I write. I’ve had poems published, I’m working really hard to have a novel put into publication–but I also paint, am an avid fan of photography, and I still write music from time to time. These parts of me–parts of my artists–I don’t broadcast. My life has limited spare time–most of which I pour into words.

That said, I’ve been to many places like The Ghost Ship. I’ve sat on their floors, hung out with their artist, conspired and contributed. There is nothing more subjective than art–which makes it a difficult path to walk. One day everyone may love you, and the next they want nothing to do with you. I’ve spent a better part of this year being rejected over and over–so much so I now flinch when my email rings. This is a fact.

Will I stop? No. Because this is who I am. Please stop asking artists to quit because it’s hard. They know it’s hard. We know it’s hard–but it’s who we are. It’s important.

Once we stop grieving, because we need time to do that–people lost their lives. This is a tragedy. But we need to make changes. Just like The Village Voice states–the only way to prevent another instance like The Ghost Ship in Oakland is to support local art.

This new administration will not be friendly to the arts. Like I said, art is a very subjective world–I have a hard time believing a group of people who are actively trying to remove things like Social Security under the guise of *Saving Money* (we–the public–pay for that by the way–the government doesn’t. So whose money are they trying to save…?) I very much doubt they will reach out to the art community to give them the money the need in order to be artists.

Art isn’t free. It takes time, money, effort–talent. It’s a hard road. So when you meet an artist–don’t ask them to give you their work for free. Don’t say things like, “My kid could do that,” or “I could have done that.” Because you didn’t–they did it–and most likely, you couldn’t in the first place. Pay them for their work. Encourage your community to help and support art.

I’m sending much love and respect to every single last one of you in Oakland.

The courtyard and the man.

 

I dreamt of an estate in Italy, at least that’s where my gut tells me it was. I’ve never been to Italy, but somehow I’m certain of the location. In the estate was a courtyard, and I saw me in it, wearing a violet and tangerine dress. Yes, this sounds like a terrible combination of colors, but I can assure you, it was a beautiful dress. Delicate and rich, like nothing I’ve ever own.

In the dream I loved the courtyard. There were raised gardens around the edges, and everything was made of old red bricks and gray stones. That place made me happy, but I wasn’t there anymore. I knew it wasn’t really me.

When I saw it, in my travels, I knew it was once mine. Just like I knew when I saw him, he was once mine, too. And he was perfect, and beautiful, and he made me happy.

But now he wasn’t there, and the courtyard was worn. Another woman owned it, and she didn’t like me being there. She didn’t like me remembering him. She wanted me to leave, but I couldn’t. Not without proof. Not without something tangible that showed I wasn’t insane.

When I found it, a book–leather bound, and falling apart, I knew my proof was on those brittle pages. As I reached for it–he was beside me. He reached with me, helping me pull it from the pigeon gray splintered shelf. The dry leather barely held the biding in place, and the pages were askew. One hand rested on my hip, his other on my arm.

And when he kissed me, I cried–because I knew it would never happen again. He left after that and I asked another man for help to find ‘him.’ We took a boat on the Mediterranean, but he was gone, and I was alone.

I’m not even sure why I’m sharing this, but I was online and I found an image of the courtyard. As I stared at it, all I could think, was, “Who was he?”

I guess I’ll never know.

(ps-I would have posted the photo but it wouldn’t let me)

xxoo-A

The Laugh

happy vintage illustration batman excited

There is a man in my building, I’ll call him Mike. That is not his name, but it will do for this story. He is a short man, round in size. Actually, he’s shaped more like an egg than a basketball–but that’s not what sets him apart from the rest of those living in my urban paradise.

His hair is black, naturally straight as a spade–but he perms it. It’s his ‘thing.’ Once again–not that defining factor (even thought it probably should be.)

What sets Mike apart from the rest of my block is his laugh. He has the laugh of a 1970’s villain’s sidekick. You know the character. He’s the guy who accidentally takes a rake to the chest because he wasn’t paying attention and stepped on the handle as he ran away from the hero of the story. When I hear the piercing sound of his punctuated howl, I nearly always pause for Luther to say, “Warriors, come out to play-i-ay!” even though I’m not in the subway and no where close to New York City.

Testing 1, 2, 3 the warriors can you dig it movie 1970s

Once, a long time ago when I first moved into my apartment, Mike wanted to be my friend. He would joke with me, and I would smile and look interested–rarely did I know what he was talking about. He’s about eleven shy of a dozen… I would like to make it clear, this wasn’t some sort of hiccup due to language barrier, Mike is just an odd man. Plus, my poker face stinks.

Now, Mike doesn’t acknowledge me at all. Not even a nod or a simple hello. It was after this courtyard dismissal I became privy to the laugh (that is normally mixed with techno and tighty whities.) He’s in a class all his own, and with our non-existent relationship–I have no way to record this chuckle. None that are legal anyway.

Alas, dear friends. What am I do do? As a writer I NEED to record it! I need to post the track on here!! I need to add it to my current WIP, or at least something I write in my life.

All of Mike needs to be in a book. All five-foot-five-inches of him, with his ovoid shaped frame, and even he jet black spiral perm. I see him perched on the edge of his antique folding tattered lawn chair, seated behind his Audi (it’s a mystery how he upgraded from a white battered gremlin to this luxury hatchback–but that’s a whole other post), with the car’s stereo speaker blaring, as he listens to his earbuds.

Mike is a character that belongs in a book–and not cackling under my bedroom window for many reasons. Most of which would keep me sane. The only reason I don’t slam my music and turn on my own music is that laugh you may never hear…

[This is how I find characters for my stories. Some fit in perfect, others I dissect and keep the part I’ve grown to love (or loath). Mike is a very real person. Almost too real. My theory as to why he’s in my life is it keeps me from being to serious all the time. Life is too short not to find a hyena laugh hilarious.]