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.

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The Internet–a rant about out society

The internet. Oh, the internet… how it has changed things. It’s changed EVERYTHING, even if we want to turn a blind eye and pretend it hasn’t.

A decade ago, when I first half-heartily considered walking the path of a writer, the world was a different place. That really wasn’t that long ago… but here we are. Turned on our heads.

The saying used to be, “Everyone is a critic,” but now it should be, “Everyone thinks they’re an expert.”

This LOOK AT ME mentality isn’t helping anyone.

Yes, I want people to read my blog. Yes, I want an agent/publisher to be interested in my books–but I want them to be interested in my work. Insta-fame is overrate.

And this constant need for *instant* notoriety and gratification is deflating.

I loath the down side to the accessibility of information and communication. I despise how many people tag themselves an expert on one topic or another. If they are an actually–certified–expert, great job! But it’s the wannabes that make my blood boils.

Once, I followed a blog that claimed themselves a grammar king–and received numerous newsletter with grammatical errors. But said site has THOUSANDS of followers. Moo-train! Moo!!

~sigh~ Obviously this tangent isn’t solving any issues, but it sure feels great to vent.

Yes, there are people out there who are knowledgeable and are willing to lend a hand. But any more, I feel there are more people selling snake oil than actual information.

Everyone wants to be famous.

My son told me he wants to be famous. He said it with a glint in his eyes.

I told him to aim higher.

Oh, the damn internet. It is such a double edge sword. One hand you have actual information and facts, and the other–“Look at me! Look at me!”

More people should look at themselves. Maybe then we’d have quality–rather than pile upon piles of know-it-all’s with limited to know knowledge of anything.

What do you do for a living? (and other loaded questions)

I’ve been writing for a long time, but its only recently I’ve called myself a writer. When meeting new people, and they ask what I do, I tend to say, “I’m a stay-at-home mom.” This isn’t a lie. I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for nearly five years now. (It will be five years next month. Let’s have a party. You can bring the chips.) As I was saying–I’m a stay-at-home mom, but I’m also a writer.

Why is it so hard for me to answer, “What do you do?” with, “Well, I’m a writer!”

It shouldn’t be hard, but it always is.

Somehow this last book I wrote–the one currently on submissions–helpped me bridge this gap in the personal assessment of myself. Now, I’m a, “stay-at-home mom, who writes when my child is in school.” So, I have yet to cross the entire bridge, but I’m a lot closer than before.

Now, instead of hearing about how much fun I must have ‘playing’ all the time, I get a new reply:

“Oh! That’s so interesting! What to do you write?”

“I wrote a novel. It’s science fiction.”

“Oh…” Quick subject change. (You know…because science fiction has a bad rap of being boring. It’s not. Read better books.)

But back to the issue at hand. The conundrum of “am I a writer” falls in the same vein as “if a tree falls in the forest and no one there to hear it, does it make a sound?”

Yes, it makes a sound, and yes, I’m a writer. No, I’m not on the New York Times Bestseller list–but neither have been many other writers. Maybe I will be one day. I’m not sure of that, but I am sure I’ll be published.

No, I’m not being egotistical. It’s just what needs to be done. But until that day is cemented in stone, I here by announced that I’m a writer. So if you meet me at a party (or more likely on a play ground) to answer your, “What do you do?” question is, I write.

And soon I hope to be sharing some of that writing on here for your pleasure! Do you write? Do you post it online? Leave me a link in the comments section so I can check you out!

Happy writing!! xxoo-A

Honesty. Life. Yoga. Writing.

Honesty may be the best policy, but it’s also one of the hardest things we ever do as humans. From being honest to the people in our lives, to keeping the truth flowing with ourselves–sometimes honesty takes the back seat.

Writing a blog post is hard for me, because of honesty. There is the fear that if I’m honest, no one will read my posts, and then there’s the fear that if I’m honest, people will actually read my post–and comment on it.

If I’m honest, and put it all out there, its like dangling from the edge of a cliff…

waiting…

Obviously, this feeling passes. The fear of rejection and acceptance is over the second you know that you have been accepted or rejected. Then you can move on with life.

You can decided what to do next. Try again, or maybe give up this time–the choice is yours, no matter what other people want you to believe.

I’ve given up on a lot of things in my life. Given up on books I’m reading, books I’m writing, people I once called “friend,” and even myself. Giving up is comfortable. It’s that sweet spot where you don’t really have to be scared all the time. Because, simply put, when you’re not putting anything out there, you’ll never have to worry about that second of “will they or won’t they?”

Sometime over the past few months I’ve realized I’m tired of giving up. [insert shrug] I really don’t have a game plan, other than I need to stop it. Living like this–in this sweet spot–turns out it’s not so sweet after all.

The sweetness has morphed into something much more debilitating. It’s become a weird cocktail of depression, I could have been’s, and this has got to stop. Now, the logical side of my brain knows I’m being over dramatic.

Part of being a writer (or any sort of artist) will lead you to being over dramatic from time to time. You may not agree, but I’m fine with this. There is a lot of emotion and energy put into your work–a lot of your own soul–and that will tip the best of us over the edge from time to time.

Now, the not so logical side of my brain–my stupid ego that I’ve named Doris, so I can yell, “Shut up, Doris!” whenever I feel like this–is a complainer. She likes to tell me to stay in the sweet spot.

So, making the decision that I’m done with feeling like this is the first step at getting Doris to shut up on a more permanent bases. The second step is to actively change. Without actively working to change what I dislike–what’s the point?

Once upon a time, I used to practice yoga and mediate daily. Over the past few years, between my new isolated life in L.A. to the boom of the industry, I’ve pulled away from it. (Not a fan of trendy. Won’t buy lululemon pants. I’m not sorry.) But recently I started getting back into it. (Yoga, not trying to be trendy.) So this morning, as I was balancing on my arm in a side plank, I started thinking. Maybe it’s all true, this idea that yoga = happiness?

I mean, I remember being happy when I practiced a lot. So could it be that my answer has always been there, but I’ve been avoiding it because I can’t be honest with myself?

There is really only one way to find out, and yesterday I started my “yoga till then end of 2015” challenge. (I’m not inviting you along, or maybe I am–you choose.) I’m also implementing my “write every day” policy again. That one won’t be hard, because I do write/edit nearly every day. The actual challenge will be to tackle the weekends. Weekends are hard when it comes to exercising and writing for me, because I feel an obligation to sit around with my husband and son, instead of working.

Now, hers is another moment of “honest.” The reason I’m coming on here and sharing is… I need to hold myself accountable. I could easily go journal about it. Keeping this journey to myself and not sharing it with anyone, which would be completely fine. But I feel that if I force myself to write about it on here, and to be as brutally honest about it as I can manage,  maybe I can actually make it to December 31st and practice every day.

Maybe then Doris will be so quiet I can concentrate on things that are more important?

Like I said, there is only one way to find out. So here I am.

Please prepare yourself from some swearing. Swearing is very stress revealing, and it won’t get me arrested like random punching will. Because that’s where I’m at in this life–wanting to randomly punch people because I find them frustrating. <- that’s me being honest.