The growth and death of dreams 

         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? 

Recognised during my lifetime

               I took one of those internet quizzes… you know the sort. It was supposed to analyze my writing and tell me which famous author my writing most resembles.  I was tickled to see it claim my writing most resembles Edgar Allan Poe. It also tickled my Joe. When I feel like giving up on publishing,  because of what seems to be so little interest,  he has always pointed something out to me.  Two of my most favorite writers were virtually unknown in their own lifetimes.  Edgar Allan Poe and Emily Dickinson. I admit that the thought has kept me from giving up.
                       Now I believe I have mentioned before the fact that I have issues communicating sometimes.  I mentioned Joe’s amusement to my sister,  and I think it came out wrong.  She came to my defense quickly,  telling me how much of an honor that was. She claimed I was recognised.  I see this from her view.  Yes,  some know and enjoy my writing.  However,  it often feels like I am failing. I am terrible at marketing my work.  And very few of those close to me even see what I do worth speaking of.  So I am not recognised in a way I see it. To me,  being recognised means that I at least have any one who knows my work enough to do a review.  So far the only sales have been to family (my sister aforementioned). I am not about to stop writing.  I have no choice,  writing has always been a major part of who I am. Still writing does not mean I have to publish. So that which keeps it going is the idea that even if it is unappreciated now, it may still touch those it needs to later.