The Girl Who Dreams

It is 2015 and I still have the same dream that I've always had. That is to write, well I do write almost daily. To be an author of books, mainly middle-grade fantasy. Of course most people will scoff at my dream. Or they'll say I don't know what I want to do. But that is not true. Writing is my passion. I have a creative mind and soul. My imagination is in overdrive. In my school days when the teacher would ask me a question my mind was in some other universe. And to this day my mind drifts to another place. Sometimes a character will walk through my cerebral corridor. Or I'll think  way to wax poetic about a ruby sunset.

There was a time when I was trying to have a regular, non-creative job. I use to apply to banks, and office type jobs but then I realize I am a creative person, I love to write. My heart isn't in to being crammed into a cubicle or being an account representative reciting a script over and over on the phone. I don't want to sell insurance. I don't want to be a manager. I don't want to try and compete with others for a job where no passion lies.

I've spent all of my twenties trying to get a  regular job, all the while my creativity was wilting. Not to reflect in the rear view  but I wish I would have nourish my creativity back then. Wrote more. Polish my manuscript and then maybe I would be further in  my literary career. Because honestly that is the only career I want. Right now I'm planted in the retail industry and I can feel the creativity ebbing like a tide. But I've been trying to keep the blooms of the my creativity. I'm working on completing my fourth manuscript. Sure my venture into self-publishing didn't yield any success but I won't give up on my literary dream. I am after all the girl who dreams.

Literary or bust.

The End of September

Cracks in the sidewalk
of dreams
falling like leaves
littered
on the ground
a glimmer remains

The breaking dawn
brings a new beginning
by the time the moon reflects
it feels like the end of dreams
stripped bare
as a tree
standing
in cold despair

Birdsong fills the days
which are shorter
like life
without dreams
how to begin like
the rose burgeoning
through concrete

A tear trickles down
dying embers
of a flame
smothered
could it be the end?
She wondered

The end of September

Midwestern Dreams

Stars
too scattered
to wish upon
bluer than ocean and sky
she longed for dreams
to dance into reality
her ink clotted
creativity hit concrete
the scribe
subscribe to "someday"
but found herself wondering "when"
glazing out the window
she saw herself reflected in the moon
a loner
a dreamer
dreams where a veil of fog
before her eyes
the brightest flame
the scribe
subscribe to "someday"
wondering "when"
midwestern dreams
would fill her sky

Chasing down dreams

The Write Stuff

Well it's the third day in November which happens to be National Novel Writing Month. But I won't be participating. I have to write at my own pace. Anyways, I'm currently working on a writing project. I'm really excited about the direction it's going. So many ideas are tumbling down my cerebral corridor. My goal for my project which is entitled The Elemental Queen is to have over a hundred pages. I'm really happy with this story. I'm just letting the ink flow and blocking the inner critic. I'll worrry about the revising and polishing later. Right now I'm just trying to turned my works-in-progress to complete manuscripts. To stop doubting my skills. And to believe in myself and innate talent. Happy writing.

Abandon

Well it's been a minute since I blogged. Not that I have readers or anything. Anyways, here's a short story I composed earlier this week.

A young woman walked down the street, her eyes distant as the planets. She walked with her head down, hands jammed into her coat pockets. She mumbled to herself, "this sucks. I feel like I'm stuck in a bad episode of the Twilight Zone," she fumed, a tear prickled her eyelid. A whimper derailed her mopey train of thought.

She raised her head. Something, no someone was sitting on the curb. They were dressed in an oversized brown coat.

"Are you okay?"

The hunched over person didn't respond.

The woman put a gentle hand on the person's shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"You've abandoned me," the person replied in little more than a whisper.

The woman stepped back. "I don't even know you."

The person looked up. "Sure you do. I'm the dream you gave up."

"Impossible." The woman stared.

"You waved the white flag."

"I..I..I didn't give up. It was too hard to keep dreaming and trying." The woman felt the warm tears travel down her cheeks.

The dream/person replied, "you lost sight of your gift. Doubt clouded your mind. You didn't believe in yourself."

"I've tried. I'm trying." The woman reached out to touch the dream/person but they slipped through her fingers like water.

The woman stared from the crumpled brown coat to the mirrored sky. "I believe in myself."

This Road

Traveling down this road
mapless
hapless
useless
compass
left, right
no direction
broken concentration
need some assertion
to take way this emotion
dreams disappearing in the rear view mirror
they are close but I'm no nearer
the future is a blur, can't see no clearer
the laid out destiny
that's before me
as I travel down this road.

Lost in Emotion

Sometimes I'm filled with dual emotions when it comes to my publishing pursuits. On one hand I'm enliven and on the other hand I'm dubious. I feel the excitement coursing through my veins when I see that my short story isn't doing too bad on webook. But then the seeds of doubt start budding every time I open an e-mail politely declining my manuscript or how my story ranks in the triple digits on autonomy. But that's life no matter what vocation you're pursuing. Sometimes you will have doubts and question whether your energy is best suited elsewhere. I have.
But I must keep the faith and continue to believe in this dream I've been dreaming for so long. This eternal flame in my heart eclipses an shadow of doubt.

Pocketful of Dreams

I walk this concrete jungle with my
dream tucked inside my jean pocket
can I share it with you?
my heart is poetry
iambic beats on the ground
I folded my pocketful of dreams
the prose I compose
never seems good enough
to catch your eyes
words are my soul
can't let the passion perish
these pocketful of dreams
won't be deferred

Empire State of Mind

I really love music. And there are some songs that really speak to me, especially when they are about following your dreams or unrequited love. Lately Alicia Keys' Empire State of Mind pt2 is in my head. I know what does that have to do with my literary blogging. Quite a bit. The chorus part really strikes a chord with me. I'ma make it by any means/I've got a pocketful of dreams/baby I'm from New York/concrete jungle where dreams are made of.
I'm not from a big city like New York but my dreams are just as big. Big enough to believe there's space on the bookshelf for my book alongside the Stephine Meyers and J.K. Rowlings of the literary world. I gonna make it by any means despite how daunting and difficult it is to navigate the publishing terrain. The arrows of rejections won't pierce my pride b/c I'm gonna keep writing and polishing my manuscripts. I've got a pocketful of dreams, baby.

Sea of No

I started sending out queries for my middle-grade novel, The Strange World of Neve Rimbel the first week of this month. By the second week, two of the three agents respectfully declined. I've been swimming in the sea of no for so long, I wonder where the shore of yes is. I know rejection is part of the literary game and it's a subjective business. I've worked really hard on my novel. I think it's a very good story. A twelve-year-old girl and her family moves to a cursed town. The girl sees beware, bewarned, be afraid eteched on her window. Thus begans her encounters with strange things from a woman bursting into crows to alien baby imposters.

A lot of the middle-grade/young adult novels I read the protagonist are white. My protagonist Neve Rimbel is black, but of course I like to think that wouldn't be the cause of a no. I would like to believe a fantasy novel with a black protagonist could have a decent number of readers and buyers. Character race shouldn't matter if the story is well-written and compelling and you believe in the story you're telling.

Often when I look at the book sections in Target and Wal-Mart (where I work) I get a wistful look in my eyes. Given a chance I would love to see my story ideas in book form.

I hear a song or two

If I had a theme song(s) that summed up my literary aspirations and frustrations it, would be a mashup of Natasha Bedingfield's unwritten and these words.

Unwritten/These Words

I am unwritten/the pen's in my hand/

staring at the blank page/trying to find the magic/

trying to write a classic/Don't you know/Don't you know/waste bin full of paper/nothing I write is ever good enough.

Literary Dreams

I've been honing my writing skills since 2004. Prior to that I deferred my literary dream to pursue a white-collar office job, I never even had an interview for. My post-secondary education was spent failing and retaking computer and accounting classes. All the while writing was in the background. I took two creative writing classes while in college. I had a professor, Dr. Kinder say my writing reminded her of C.S. Lewis (I hadn't read anything of his at the time). If I could time travel I would go back and take English and writng classes intead of business and computer classes were mediocrity was evident.

Writing for me didn't truly began in 2004 but in 1988 when I was nine. I use to write and illustrate my own stories, along with my cousin. Most of my characters were talking animals with a few misanthopic aliens thrown in. Writing is what I love to do.

My literary dreams began in 1988 and although I deferred them in my early twenties, the dream is still alive.