Tag Archives: writer

Weird Dream

I had the strangest dream the other morning.

 

I was asleep in a house with my entire family. They were in the living room together. I was down the hall in my room, half asleep. This was our home, had all our stuff in it, and only our family lived there.

Lebron James walks out of the room next to mine and goes into the living room, dripping annoyance as he says, “If Daphne doesn’t wake up soon, we’re not going to be able to watch the movies.”

 

Weirdest dream ever.

Seriously.

I dream about people eviscerating other people; creatures chasing vulnerable people and attacking with sledge hammers and foot long, thick fangs; falling in love with (very attractive, human looking) aliens; the world ending with just me and my dog left; falling, hitting the ground, and flying.

I wake up and think woohoo! Great story ideas, hurry up and write this down.

But that?

Definitely my oddest dream thus far.

I don’t even watch basketball.

I don’t know anything about Lebron James except that he plays the game!

 

Since I started taking medication for depression and anxiety I’ve been dreaming. A lot. I didn’t used to dream except now and again. They started out really uncomfortable bad dreams, but now they’re great for my creative writing self!

 

Had any strange dreams lately?

 

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Randomly, In Quotes

“A book is a version of the world. If you do not like it, ignore it; or offer your own version in return.”

  • Salman Rushdie

 

This quote uber backs up my previous blog post! Preach it, dude that I don’t know!

 

 

“Too many people are thinking the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, when they ought to just water the grass they are standing on.”

  • Amar Dave

 

This is what I’m working on right now. Working with what I’ve got. You see, I keep telling myself if I can reach all these goals that are outside of myself, I’ll find happiness. I’ll feel worthy, good enough, valuable, lovable, etc.

The thing is, internal goals are what I need to be working on. Working with what I’ve got. If I don’t change me, nothing outside of me will change.

 

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“Whatever you’re meant to do, do it now. The conditions are always impossible.”

  • Doris Lessing

 

That’s an amazingly focusing quote.

I watched a movie a few weeks ago that somehow made me think of this quote. Movie has nothing to do about anything pertaining to this quote. Or perhaps it does. I don’t know.

What clicked for me was the atmosphere of the movie. The feeling permeating the entire movie.

It was hopeful. Amidst turmoil, madness, unbelievable odds (aren’t we always against unbelievable odds?), and only one other person who believed like the main character did – it was hopeful.

Which connected to this quote, for me.

It’s a real roundabout way of seeing things but that’s typically how my heart smacks my brain in the face finally getting it to see, finally getting me to feel.

So – hope.

Don’t wait.

Work now, for what I want. Find a way to enjoy life. NOW. Find a way to work on improving my life, now. Find a way to be who I am, and consequently bring to the world what only I can, now.

No matter the circumstances. No matter the turmoil, the madness, or unbelievable odds. No matter the amount of people who don’t believe it’s possible.

Find a way to believe. Find hope within yourself. Find others who believe along with you.

Live your life now. Don’t wait.

 

 

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“Determination is doing the task when you have no motivation to do it or energy to give it.”

  • Monica Wilcox

 

This is me right now.

I don’t even have the energy to comment on it.

 

 

“You’ll never change your life until you change something you do daily. The secret of your success is found in your daily routine.”

  • John C. Maxwell

 

 

*falls over*

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Non-Static Tomorrows

The more I try to put a magnifying glass to “who I am” and try to figure it out, the farther away I fall. The vaguer the answers get.

I know who I am. Even if that means, right now, I don’t have all the answers about myself or my motivations or my deep, dark, hidden secrets from myself.

The more I try to peg down who I am in specifics, the more I lose my ability to define my identity.

Who I am, is someone who changes.

Every day.

 

Today, I don’t have all the answers.

I’m the chick who cried in a room full of people who understand her, and didn’t want to get the headache that might turn to a migraine because she cried. The chick who doesn’t cry out loud often. But feels safe in that room.

Today, I’m the gal who prepared a small lesson to teach tomorrow about self-reliance and tied it in with how to fold an origami heart.

I’m the person who listened to her neighbors shriek at each other and wondered if I could put them in a story and fix them.

 

Today, I’m Daphne. I was Daphne yesterday. I’ll be her tomorrow.

But today, I’m not the same as yesterday and I won’t be the same tomorrow.

 

Today I’ve struggled with depression and anxiety and come out of it with a touch of serenity in my rib cage. I’ve been honest with myself, even though it hurt, and felt better for it.

I’ve felt a touch of hope. Hope that I’ve changed. Hope that I’ll continue to grow.

I’m the one who read this post and felt an immediate connection with her words.

Who laughs a real laugh, content, even though my insides are a mess.

The same Daphne who hasn’t taken all of her Halloween decorations down yet, because hey, bats and pumpkin-skeletons are part of Fall too!

The gal who took her dog out in the freezing cold and thought of all the homeless who must be shivering in old clothes, and wished she could save the world. The same gal who realized a lot of people don’t want to be saved. Not really.

The same Daphne who grinned at herself. California isn’t freezing, not compared to other places.

To me, it’s freezing.

I am the writer who watches Scooby-Doo reruns while writing about death, rebirth, pain, suffering, hope, and a woman who fights herself to freedom.

 

Yesterday… I don’t want to think about yesterday. It hurts. And the hurt slides back in so easily, just at the mere mental mention of it. It pervades.

But the Daphne I am today is okay with that.

Today I have choices, I’ve decided.

Today, I can be all of me. Vulnerable. Raw.

I keep telling you this. Because I know it’s true. I feel it from the soles of my feet to the hollows behind my eyes.

 

Meet Daphne Shadows. She takes a selfie about once a year. So she's terrible at it. Don't judge.

Meet Daphne Shadows. She takes a selfie about once a year. So she’s terrible at it. Don’t judge. And she’s been crying. Also, she’s upside down. Again.

 

I know where I’ve been, what I’ve been through, how I’ve coped, how I’ve survived. What I was thinking, what went on inside me even as I smiled and people bought, all the time, that I was doing fabulously. I know what’s brought me joy. What I’ve tried and failed to do. What mistakes I’ve made. I know how I’ve grown. What I’ve accomplished.

I know who I was yesterday. Last night. This morning. A few hours ago.

 

I know who I am.

Even if I don’t want to own up to it.

I am the Daphne who expels misery via the ink she types or pens, embedding it into pages.

I know who I am even if I focus on what I feel are my failings and can’t seem to find any successes until I talk to someone else who truly knows me.

Even if I hide who I am, from myself.

 

I know who I am. I am learning to be all of me, out loud.

Even if I don’t know a thing about my tomorrows.

 

Tomorrow I’ll be different. Tomorrow, I’ll be the same me.

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Something is Missing

This post is mainly going to center around me being a writer. If that irritates or bores you, skedaddle. However, you can simply get rid of the word “writer/writing” and add in your passion. Then it’d relate to just about anyone. 😉

 

Do you ever doubt that you’re a good writer?

I don’t mean do you doubt that you are a writer.

I simply mean, publishing material?

Do you doubt that it’s what you’re meant for, what you’re good at, what you’re in love with, what you want to spend the rest of your life doing? Do you ever wonder, would it be better if I gave up on writing as a career path and went for something else? It would certainly be easier. People wouldn’t say I was wasting my life or taking too long to get to where I want to be.

I wonder that sometimes lately.

It comes in these flashes, at the bottom of some terrible episode of me realizing that I’m miserable because I keep forgetting that I’m allowed to enjoy life. That I’m allowed to tailor my life into something I want, the rest of the world’s opinion of me be damned.

It comes when I realize I’m exhausted and bottomed out. Burned out. Tired of fighting against chains I allowed other people to put on me, simply by giving into their mentality. Thinking I should be someone better than I am.

 

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It only lasts a few moments, literally.

That’s the length of time I can even imagine spending my life not being a writer.

And then it’s gone and I see how ridiculous it was.

Because something will remind me.

I’ll finish a really good book and look up the author’s website and get that rush. That unbelievable urge to live life that way. To dive into writing, dive into all that it entails. And I’ll remember the heady craziness that writing is, this lovely terrifying beautiful monster that comforts and loves me and doesn’t let anyone else hurt me.

Maybe this doesn’t make any sense to you. But it does to me.

 

I keep “forgetting” to write. To schedule it in because it’s important to me. Writing is my passion.

And yet, I keep “forgetting” about it.

How does one forget part of themselves?

It’s pretty damn easy, actually.

I took a year off from writing, to get my head straight. (Life has the effect of screwing one’s head on backwards and upside down.) The year is over.

I regained my passion for writing, the urge to write, the desire to write.

I even started working on my novel a few times over the past few months.

But I’m still missing some key ingredient.

I haven’t quite connected all the dots.

At least I’ve wrapped my heart, mind, and soul around writing authentically. So taking the year off worked its magic.

However, I keep having these false starts. I’m steadily (via the false starts) getting through a list of edits, answering questions, and deciding on some changes. Perhaps they’re not false starts. Maybe I’m just starting back to writing really, really slowly.

The key ingredient seems to be finding time to focus on things I’d like to focus on. Easier said than done.

I’ll find that dot eventually, right?

 

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What is your passion? Do you have a problem with fitting it in? Do you ever “forget” part of yourself? Any missing dots?

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If We Couldn’t Change

I’m glad, as a human being, as a person, that I can change.
Aren’t you glad we’re capable of change?
I recently had the need to look back through an old blog post of mine and found myself cringing.
So I’m making some changes.

Let me repeat:
Thank heaven we can change.
*falls over*

My blog is under construction again.
I get itchy. I get agitated. I get tired of how things were.
Right now, I feel like my blog is unorganized and so I’m re-organizing.
Slowly. (because I also tend to put things off that have to do with writing. and emails. i take forever to get to emails.)
I’m also deleting posts that make me wish I could hide under a rock.
It’s like shedding dead skin.

I’m kind of in awe, actually.
It amazes me how much a person can change. Okay, so it amazes (and kind of embaresses me) how much I’ve changed. How I can read a post I wrote two years ago and wonder at the person who wrote it?
Plus I’m finding a post here and there that just seems redudant, as if I really, really didn’t know what to write about but felt obligated… Pointless. And I don’t like it when I’m redundant. I feel like I harp. I don’t like that feeling. (that wasn’t a really redundant paragraph at all)

Have you ever read something you wrote years ago and wondered at how much you’ve changed?

People change.
Situations change.
Atmospheres change.
Could you imagine if we got to a certain point and were no longer allowed to change? To learn, grow. Become.

Without the possibility of change there would be no hope.

 

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Mayhap

 

Maybe it isn’t

Perhaps I will never know

Am I better off?

 

 

by Daphne Shadows

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I. Don’t. Know. (In other Words – I Have No Freaking Clue but I’m Trying to Find One)

So…. This is me writing a blog post.

Not really.

This is me staring out into space, clicking on new song after song to the point that I’m so desensitized by the sound of new music that I’m not even sure how to figure out if I like a song or not.

This is me holding two different writing books, one of them open with the cover facing me, because I’ve felt inspired to read them. But I can’t quite seem to grasp much.

This is me watching re-runs of NCIS and wondering what I’m going to cook for dinner for the crazy masses. Because the Great Food Person is stuck on *blank*.

This is me looking at bookmarked quotes, and again, feeling desensitized to the point of wondering if I even like that quote. Does it have that spark? Or am I just losing touch?

This is me doing, I don’t know what.

I haven’t written in over six months. I’m finding it’s a good thing. I’m starting to see, in this non writing excursion of the brain, that it truly, really, desperately is a part of me. I’ve just lost how to take what’s inside me and to put it onto paper. I’ve lost touch with how to breathe life into the stories in my mind. Instead, I basically take a cut and dry plot of what I’m supposed to write and rigidly stick to it. I’ve figured that part out. Now the part I gotta jump on? The figuring out how to write like Daphne Shadows part.

I’ve lost touch all right.

With me.

What’s that quote? You are a soul and you have a body. I’ll have to look that up so I can give credit. And quote it correctly.

Sheesh.

I’d say it’s been one of those days, but that’s all I’ve got to say lately, it seems.

“Been one of those days.”

What does that even mean, really?

That I’m lost inside somewhere, waving a white flag, hiding behind a rock, and wondering when the blood will stop pouring?

Maybe that’s not it.

Maybe I’m wondering when the blood will start pouring.

Or dripping.

Or damn, just start bleeding at all.

Don’t they say you have to lose yourself, get totally, fabulously and hilariously lost before you can find yourself?

Okay.

Well then.

I’m ready.

Let’s go!

Now!

……

Now!

……

….

Whoever “they” are, they forgot to tell me about the ‘meantime’ in their little spiel of knowing everything about everyone, ever.

I don’t think they leave out the things we REALLY NEED TO KNOW on purpose… okay, yeah, I think they leave it out on purpose, just to torture us.

I feel like my days are a consistent, ‘still clueless, working on it, learning, figuring it out, but not entirely sure what I’m doing or when I’ll ever be healthy, but I’m functioning and life is getting better’.

That’s good, right?

Right.

It’s better than what was.

But what do you do when you’re throwing all the garbage out, day by day, as you find the things you’re thinking, the rules you’re living by are just that, garbage… what do you do when you’re just left only one honest thing: I don’t know.

It’s a sort of blankness.

An honesty which is asking a question, but knows it’s still too vulnerable to ask it of anyone.

And why ask someone on the outside?

Don’t I know me?

Not really.

I don’t really know myself at all.

I’m in here somewhere, I’m certain of that. The tricky part is the finding of myself, one sliver at a time. It takes time. Ugh. It takes so much freaking time.

Who put a time limit on it?

I did.

I put pressure, rules, ideals, beliefs that do nothing but hurt me.

Who cares where I got them. I’m using them on myself. That’s all that matters anymore.

I’m not good with messy when it comes to my knowing, my ability to be a perfectionist in all that I do and all that I show the world. But that’s just so damn fake. And I am so very tired of fake.

Messy is how it is. It’s all I’ve got. And I keep fighting tooth and nail to be more, to be better, to be prefect.

I’m finally realizing that I can’t do that.

Can’t be that.

No one can.

I think I have this picture in my head of how this world is but it’s utterly and madly incorrect. Laughably so. So naïve. Or ignorant. I’m not sure which. Maybe both.

I guess…

What do I want out of life?

I guess until I can answer that question, nothing will make much sense.

There are so many questions I’ve never asked myself. So many questions I don’t even know. It’s always been, ‘What does life want out of me?’

My advice? Don’t ask yourself that. It’ll screw you up in both the heart and the head.

Maybe, what do I feel? Or better, what makes me feel? No, that’s not the right wording. … Jeeze there’s a lot of these: …. What are those things called?

WHAT KIND OF WRITER CAN’T REMEMBER THE FREAKING LABEL FOR:

…..

o.0

Bleh!

What causes me to feel something authentic?

There. That’s the question.

What causes me to feel?

Bloody hell – what do I feel? When do I feel?

Good questions.

My fingers are freezing. My hands are freezing. Maybe I am feeling a little cold. It’s strange to be a stranger inside your own skin. I think that’s a song or something. Whatever. Its true.

Do you ever think we’ve over used and cheapened things to the point that what is cliché shouldn’t be? It merits being real but we’ve killed it. Buried it. Laugh at it. I think the only thing that’s real that isn’t cliché at this point is love. And even that has spins and takes that are cliché now.

Anyway. I don’t know what’s going on in my head. Everything inside my chest is confused, conflicted. All the wires are crossed. What’s supposed to be beautiful is sticky with blood that hasn’t dried yet. Lines are being drawn inside me, and they’re not where I thought they’d be. Maybe they are. Maybe I knew this was coming. Perhaps that’s why I pretended not to see.

Does that mean the pain of denial is simpler, easier, than the pain of learning to live?

I don’t want it anymore.

My heart pounds and I’m so unsure, uncertain. But its better this way. It’s right.

So what if I make a fool of myself. At least I’ll feel something along the way.

 

By the way, here’s that quote: “You don’t have a soul, Doctor. You are a soul. You have a body, temporarily.” It’s by Walter M. Miller Jr. and is often mistakenly said to have been said by C. S. Lewis.

 

This photo is from like two years ago, but I find its totally relevant.

Daphne Shadows. This photo is from two years ago, but I find its totally relevant.

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