Dreams are what we build our lives on. They are part of who we are, and eventually of what we become. Dreams that we do not work towards die off.
I am by nature a dreamer. I am doing what I have always wanted to do. I am writing. Is it exactly as the girl I was at nine imagined? No, not really. I am working on making it into what I need it to be.
Over the course of my life I have had other dreams. I have always been a simple person. The biggest thing I have dreamed about is being stable, having a home of my own. Note I said home. For me there is a defined difference between house and home. House is where you live, it is not yours but instead owned by another. A home is somewhere that no one can make you leave. I am nearly able to achieve that dream. And it has been a long time coming. I have been dreaming about my own home since I was fifteen.
The topic came up from a meme going around Facebook. The meme asked if I hit the lottery what is the first thing that I would buy? Well I discussed it with Joe… And he said that the question is a wee bit unfair as it depends upon how much and when. Right now… If I hit for real money… My priorities would be different than they might be in a year. Right now… I would buy two vehicles, pay off my home, and effect some minor repairs. Then I would pay for the utilities for a year and stock up supplies for to help me through. Then admittedly I would stock up on craft tools. ..💜
If you could win the lottery, what dreams would you fill?
So I am an artist… In multiple ways. I craft unique writing and jewelry pieces. I draw, and I take pictures of nature that are pleasant to look at. I write music, and create digital pieces that are interesting. I do covers for books and word art. Yet, many times because I am not some million dollar paid illustrator or painter I have been told that calling myself an artist is inappropriate. So it has the question coming to mind… What then is art? What makes an artist?
For me, an artist is one who creates art… Well art is really subjective. Art is a thing that is created merely for to create happiness in the soul. At least that’s what it means for me. What does art mean to you? And what is your favorite art form?
I have a wonderful psychic as a friend. She does readings to help with her family’s finances. If you need a reading she is who I suggest.
Go check her out!
I am a fearful creature. It comes from living a life stuck in fight or flight mode. Well here lately, due to a wonderful writing coach (Hi Debbie!) I have been taking a closer look at my fears. She asked me “will this actually kill you? If not then you should be willing to try it. ” She has gently encouraged me to see what is not helpful, and then release it.
Phobias are knee jerk reactions. Primal, dark things that eat at us. And rarely things that we can easily face. I myself have two phobias. Claustrophobia and Acrophobia. The Claustrophobia I know can kill me, I have been in the position where I was sure it would. I often try to challenge my fear of heights. Do I have other fears? Well sure, but phobias are so much bigger than just a fear. We all have little fears. Anxiety is often manifestated in little fears. And well fear is the hearts response to certain events. Does that mean that we should hide? No! Facing the fears is part of how we grow.
So in that thought, designing a great character involves knowing more than just their motivations. You also have to know the why of them. What are they afraid of? What do they love, and why do they love it? And if you are looking for insight into your own character, ask yourself the same questions. Learning more about the why helps us to understand all of it.
I have many stories, I think that we all do. Some of us, the ones who have been through hard moments, we hide the stories. We have been taught to feel the shame of those stories. To feel less because of them. And I refuse.
My memory is still very fragmented. I blocked more of my story out to save my mental health than I remember. Yet, I remember enough. I am a survivor. I was abused. I was raped, multiple times. And when I asked for help I was told it never happened. I was told that I was crazy.
I might be crazy, but it did happen. I have been brave before, I told the man who abused me as a child that I would scream if he came near me again. I was eight or nine. I’m not entirely sure of the exact age. He locked me in the trunk of his car and told me I would die there. I believed him. He convinced me that no one would ever believe me. The sad part is he was right. It took me until I was thirteen to gain the courage to tell anyone. To my shame, I was told it was not true.
So much of my life I have been fighting for my sanity and my life. I am in my fourties, and for the first time in my life I am not crazy. I know my truth. I will always be the person who was made from the hell I walked through. But I will not hide my truths any longer. I am not going to let those truths break my spirit anymore.