Heart a Flutter


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When I’m suddenly struck with the inspiration to write it feels as if my heart may leap from my chest. I get tense and nervous, but most of all, I get anxious.

Now I used the word, “struck” on purpose, you see, because it is as if being suddenly struck by a hard object. I’m Lucy, and Ricky just threw the book at me and without warning I now have a black eye and my mind is full of suspicion and doubt and fear, but also of hope. There is a hope inside of me that I will take this further than just an idea.

The only cure for my black eye is to write. So I do. So I have been.

I’m sorry I have been gone for so long.

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At a Loss for Words


I don’t believe in writer’s block. I honestly don’t. I believe in a lack of motivation, loss of inspiration, an overabundance of stress contributing to depression. Which all around destroys one’s ability to be artistic in a positive manner. I can’t really explain why I haven’t written anything in this blog worth reading for over three years. Only that I can’t imagine that any of you would have liked to read what I have written in these past years. Only that I have continued to write on my own, and I haven’t been sharing those words with anyone other than myself.

However, I participated in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) this last November, and let me tell you, I blew that competition out of the water. I had 30 days to write a 50k word novel, which is barely over the limit of a novella mind you. I completed the challenge on day 11. ELEVEN days! I wrote 50,000 words in ELEVEN days! I could barely contain my excitement.

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And when I went bouncing to my loved ones, proud of my achievement, none of them cared. Not, a, one. They blinked at me like a deer in the headlights. I had ran them over with my excitement and they didn’t even notice. The grill of my shiney new novel smashed under their lack of shit to give.

At first, I was deeply hurt. My depression which had taken hold of me earlier that year grabbed my heart and I cried into my pillow. Why couldn’t anyone notice how much I had achieved? Why didn’t they care? Then it hit me, days later, staring into my granola cereal as it got soggy. I had over achieved so much that I had made it look like it was nothing. I went back to my chatrooms and forums and read from published authors on the topic and every single one of them mentioned the exact same story.

What had I been expecting? I was bouncing! Literally bouncing on the balls of my feet, waiting as patiently as I could for the person to be done with what they were doing so I could tell them what I had done. I wanted them to drop what they were doing and scream to the heavens with glee! Sweeping me into many hugs and pats on the back! I got a thumbs up. Really. I received a genuine thumbs up. If that doesn’t crush your enthusiasm, I don’t know what will.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not writing this, or telling you all this, to cry about my shortcomings. No. I’m writing this because I had a moment of clarity that changed my sobs and strengthened my heart. I was proud of myself. What does it matter that other’s weren’t, or that I couldn’t see their enthusiasm the way I wanted to. I didn’t write a novel for their approval, or for them to be proud of me in the first place, so why was I searching for it? It wasn’t that no one cared, they just didn’t care as much as I wanted them to. That was unfair of me to expect of them. How were they supposed to know how much I wanted them to freak right out and scream and jump in circles with me? They weren’t. There is no psychics in my world. No one to read my mind and hold my hand in the world and tell me I’m fantastic.

So my expectations have changed. I am proud of myself, and that is all that I need. I wrote a freaken novel! I rock! ‘Nuff said.

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An exciting Kickstarter! 4 Artists and 20 Writers.


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I don’t typically promote on my blog, mostly because I don’t really show interest in many things other than art, games, and more art (writing/books). I just couldn’t pass this project up. Recently a post was made to one of my favorite local author’s blog, announcing that he was a part of a project that collected four amazing artists and twenty authors who will write a 50 words or less description of what they interpret the word Nightmare as. If you’re someone who reads my blog I’m sure you have gathered, by now, that I am no stranger to dreams and nightmares and a project like this one is a wonderful collaboration between some of the best authors of darker fiction. Because I’m so excited about this project I hope I can share my enthusiasm with all of you. If this is something you feel enclined to help support or spread the word about please take a look at the Kickstarter here: Nightmares.

 

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Attention Deficit Disord… SHINEY!


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How do I even explain the things that I see in my mind? How do I even attempt to share my soul with someone unwilling to pay attention. I’ll be over here, when you notice me. I’ve been here the whole time. 

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Dream in Color


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Scientifically, dreams are supposed to be in black and white, the color completely drained from the story being told in your own mind. My dreams are never in black and white. I have more colors in my imagination than I have ever been able to find or recreate. I feel my dreams in my heart and on my skin and they linger with me for days at a time, and some even stay with me for years. I have grown accustomed to these dreams and have fallen for their adventures. The dream I have chosen to share with you now has been with me for 10 years.

Her eyes flutter open heavily, the weight they held was so immense that she thought sleep would take her again. She fought the urge to allow herself to sleep when she realized that she was not in her bed. In fact, she wasn’t even indoors. As the thought occurred to her to feel frightened, she couldn’t. Her heart remained steady in her chest and her breathing calm.

The chill of the night air swept over her skin and the grass beneath her head glowed with the soft light of the lanterns above her. She was surrounded by bushes of roses of any color. Not just every color, but colors that she had never seen before. The roses were such a deep purple that they nearly glowed black, or a red that shined gold, and a blue that sparkled with stars.

She sat up slowly, stretching her arms into the air over her as she inspected the garden around her. The sky was gone, hidden by a glass surface that shared the galaxy beyond her world. As her arms drifted back to her sides she let her legs dangle off of the soft grass platform that had held her sleeping form and slid the extra few inches to the ground to stand.

The large square cobblestones beneath her feet were so meticulous that they must have been hand made. Kneeling, she realized there were words inscribed within the stone, her fingers grazed the engravings and felt the smooth surface of a gloss finish over each stone within reaching distance. The words read her dreams, her wishes, her hopes, and none of her fears.

“I would never want you to fear this place.” A deep melodic voice came near her and his soft footsteps echoed along the stones. She looked up at him and slowly stood to inspect the speaker. His eyes were a kind sea blue and his short light blonde curls were a contrast against the black button up shirt that he wore. He was slender but obviously fit with regal high cheekbones. “I am not afraid.” She whispered. She checked her heartbeat in her chest and though it was now racing it was not fueled by the adrenaline of fear. She knew she was happy to see him, though she could not remember him.

He offered his arm to her and she slipped her hand through and cupped his forearm, his free hand protectively resting over her hand. The warmth of his skin chasing away the chill of the air. She looked up to him then and saw that while he was kind he was sad. A sorrow beyond anything she had ever felt threatened to destroy her just at the look in his eyes. He smiled softly, lifting the pain from his eyes and led her through the garden and the colors grew brighter at their approach. Brilliant, unimaginable beauty, bloomed before her. The smile she felt pulled from her heart, deep within her soul.

They walked in the glory of this world silent, but it was a content silence. Words were not something they needed. She knew, as if she had always known, they could spend an eternity in complete silence and always know everything of one another. His hand gently pressed more firmly against hers and it told her that he was pleased by her reaction to the garden. It had been created for her, nurtured and perfected with a never ending love, for her. The stones were created at the birth of her desires, and the colors were born of her imagination, the roses nurtured from her heart and fed by her passion.

He turned so they would face each other. After hours of spending silent time together, “It’s time for you to wake now.” His voice was a sad caress, loving and beautiful but full of terribly sorrow. She rested her head against his chest and whispered, “I want to stay…” His hand brushed through her hair, never tangling and always comforting. “Come here when you wish, love. Just think of your garden and you’ll be here, but for now, you must wake.” She looked up to meet his eyes, his hands moving to rest gently along the sides of her face. He brushed her lips lightly with his own.

A click always sounded just before the stereo would kick on, and for the life of me I never understood why that would always be what would wake me up, and not the music that followed. I slipped from my bed and proceeded throughout the day with a heavy heart. I think I knew it the moment I woke, or even within the dream, that to this day, and no matter how much I wish it, I have never been able to return.

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My Escape…


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I was born an artist, a dancer, a believer, a singer, but most of all I was born a writer. I draw and paint and create, but it is only within my words can I truly escape. 

I bury myself in my books, dreaming of passion that can only be written, and tales that can only be dreamed of. This is my escape.

My drive is my dream, my motivations come from my readers, and my inspiration is purely within my imagination. I sleep, wake, and breathe my stories. This, is my escape. 

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I’m Incredibly Awkward…


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The printer had jammed again. Seriously, this mammoth of a machine has the most difficult time just feeding itself paper. I stare at it, thinking that it’s lucky it isn’t actually alive otherwise it would starve itself from incompetence. I start pushing the touch screen to move it on to its next bright idea, another useless solution for me to attempt to unjam it.

Since it is the third time in the last hour this particular machine had jammed I automatically work my way through the list and pull drawers that it says are blocked but they really aren’t and shake the ink cartridge because it thinks this brand new one is empty. Through some wondrous stroke of luck it just starts printing. I glare at it as the image floods my brain of this cartoonish machine as it  giggles like a dumbass and says “Oh! I totally forgot what I was doing! I’m sooo A.D.D. sometimes. How many more do I have to print for you?” It’s fictional smile sends a wave of heat through my face as I control every urge to kick it multiple times.

“Hey! You got it to work! I should just call you over whenever things break instead of IT.” Reality punched me in the gut and his voice nearly made me jump, and I seriously worried that my fictional dialog wasn’t showing on my not-so-secretive face. “Heh…” I cough out, “Just going through the list of things it thinks are wrong.” I think I smiled… Honestly, I’m not sure. I may have looked away too…

Out of the corner of my eye I see my co-worker walk away to another co-worker, “Alexis is some kind of master at everything.” I look up and literally pout! Seriously, no joke! My lip stuck out like an offering to a bird for a perch! He looked horror-struck. “Aw! Don’t give me THAT look. I meant it as a compliment.” He offered me a genuine smile and not only did I feel completely stupid for my reaction, but I felt that I needed to explain myself. “I… It’s just… I’m not a master at EVERYTHING.” I attempted and noticed that my voice sounded oddly strange and not at all like myself. The comment hadn’t offended me in the slightest, but what it had done was make me feel like an ass. Some know-it-all. I have no idea why, nor do I believe he understood it either, but at that moment I let out one hell of an awkward half laugh and fled the village. I ran. Well, not literally, but I did walk away rather briskly.

As I sat back at my desk, completely horrified by my actions I played the scene over and over in my head. Witty quips that I should have said but instead I metaphorically tripped over my own tongue and crashed onto my face. What on earth is wrong with me?! I forgot my copies at the printer.

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