A Charted Path to Success is Nice

Do you ever have the sense that what you are trying to accomplish is similar to grasping at the piece of tiny flotsam in water? It is inevitably frustrating and a very slow, deliberate process. And what if you are unable to determine what that piece of flotsam is? Do you really want to try and pick it up? Or would it be better perhaps to let it float on by down the drain? In other words, what if you really don't know what it is you are trying to accomplish? Should you let it go? Is there a point without purpose? But then if you do relinquish that attempt because you lack reason, you are likely to have missed an opportunity. No. If you don't know what you are trying to do with something, you need to figure out what it is before you get your hands dirty. On the other hand, you need to get your hands dirty before you know what you want. Decisions, decisions, decisions.

Ever wish for a conclusion before reading the plot? When you know what the ending is, it makes the journey so much more comforting and simplistic. In addition, if you know the ending of the journey, you can decide whether or not to take that ride. Some would jump on that rickety jeep, no matter where it goes, or how dangerous the road may become. Others would choose to wait for the fully-loaded vehicle that can tell them the weather on the way, how long it will take, and whether there are alternate routes. They then will decide to take the ride knowing all the particulars ahead of time or not. Removes the guesswork and may provide a massage on the way! It is similar perhaps to letting others decide for you.

When I think about writing. I like the idea of just having fun with the words and learning to explore the world of words again. It excites me. Then, I realize that I really do not have a roadmap for this process. There is absolutely no proven method that works to achieve success and skill. It is different for every individual writer. When I hear an author asked where they get their ideas or what motivates them, I don't get that connecting "Aha! So THAT'S how it's done!" There are just too many individual people, and there is no one person exactly like you. So, therefore, that route to success is all subjective and personal. This can make the process infinitely frustrating. I love the process of writing for myself, but then I realize there is so much I do not know about it, that how on earth can I ever find my way through it's maze to personal success?! I think I need that fully-loaded vehicle to help me determine where I am going and the reasons for it, before I take a chance and pick up that unknown piece of flotsam floating past me in the water and continue on another way, if there is one.

Bad Choices

He leans over groggily to shut off the stupid alarm as it blares mercilessly into his foggy brain, but not knowing where it is, misses it a few times before finally catching hold of it. For a stunned second or two he is unsure of where he is. Then it comes to him: in pieces and flashes of images first, then rushing like a flood over him. With a sigh he falls back into the stiff mattress, and he curses from the shots of pain that spread across him like rapid gunfire. Grunting softly, he gingerly moves his bruised body, wincing with every motion. "Stupid idiot", he mutters to himself. Sighing again, knowing that cursing himself won't do any good, he just lays there with frustration settling on his grizzled face. Then, "What in the bleedin' hell you bouncin' aroun' like tha' for buddy?!" shatters a metallic voice beside him. Laying there, he prays silently she won't speak again, but will let him attempt to gather his brain at his own pace."Oh, don't tell me you are rockin' for some more o' that lovelness from las' night?! My goodness, I figured you was plum done out!" continues the nasal sound beside him. Dreading to look over, the weary man just lays there in silence, hoping this is simply a gaudy nightmare that will dissipate eventually. He decides on his own that he is mistaken based on the grey-faced looking woman that suddenly covers his vision of the spotted ceiling. Instinctively, he cowers away from her and wonders why on the round green earth that he inhabits comfortably enough, he would choose this lovely creature to while away an evening of drunk and high amusement. He mused to himself, aware her mouth was moving but not caring what inanities came out of it, perhaps it had something to do with the promises of lemon pie she had made among other suggestions that appealed to his morbid mind at that time. He always was a sucker for pie when high! He chuckled to himself, then winced again. Deciding it was time to end this macabre situation, he slowly rolled away from her, ignoring her insulted look. He couldn't be bothered to care. This tired and suddenly nerved man simply wanted to escape her pawing hands and what looked like a spiked belt dangling off the edge of the bed. Deciding to make his exit immediately and before any other promises were made, he continued rolling and swung his legs determinedly over the edge of the bed. Ignoring the shooting pain that jumped into his legs when he hit the ground, he grabbed his things, rapidly got into them and ran out the door with a final, "Thanks!" over his shoulder. His last glimpse of her was of dirty sunlight escaping into the room through a partially covered window, lighting up her shocked face and a prone body still reaching to him. With a guilty conscience, he didn't stop however. He ran, without a second backwards look to the now shut door. "Coward", he thought bitterly to himself. "What will it take for me to learn?"

Illusions

Sophia stares into the blank screen in front of her, seeing only her pale reflection, and wonders what it might help her understand of her mind. It stares back blankly, never changing, never offering her assistance, just reflecting her own image - static, cold, empty. What is wrong with this ridiculous thing that it will not do as it should? Why won't it change? Why doesn't it help her understand? But it remains still as ever.
Sophia reaches out to the screen, her hand trembling as if something will jump out at her, yet still moving towards it, sure she will remain safe behind this wall of real and make-believe. The screen suddenly shimmers, and she yanks her arm back with an alarmed yelp of shock. It was not supposed to do that! Or perhaps, as the thought dawns on her, it is trying to teach her something. She looks closer at it, leaning in until her pocked nose touches the chilly wall. Yet, now it does nothing. Sophia begins to get angry at it. Why isn't it moving now? As she contemplates the screen, she realizes, the change did not come from the screen. Merely, there was a reflection from behind her of something shifting. She turns her head around carefully, her straggly blond bangs, partially covering her view, to look behind her.
It is an orderly, shuffling past with several containers precariously held in his two fragile arms. This looks like a dangerous activity for him to be attempting in her opinion, so she uncurls her scarred legs to stand up and help him.
Her legs don't respond. Why can't she get up? Confused, Sophia tries again to shift her legs. Yet, her body will not respond. Why can't she move? What is going on?! Beginning to sense the old panic and fury welling up inside, she jerks her head suddenly to the side as if to shake it off her. Yet angry now, and intensely frightened, she tries to move her hand. It flops to one side of her, barely responding. Wasn't she able to move it before? What is going on? Bewildered and frightened, she yells out suddenly, afraid that her voice has faded away without reason.
To her instant relief, the orderly looks up in alarm at her gutteral yell. He puts his items down carefully, regards her for a moment, and as if trying to decide whether he should do something about her obvious distress, moves carefully towards her, putting out both his hands, palms up, to let her know he means her no harm. Not actually touching her, Adam gently motions with his hands to be calm. "Breathe", he tells her and snaps his fingers in front of her face.
Startled, she jerks away from him.
"Breathe", he says again to her.
Sophia lets out a gasp, and realizes she had been holding all her air inside. Fighting tears, she tries to do as he says, and takes a shaky breath in.
"Again", he commands, this time demonstrating with his hands, breathing in and out.
She does as he suggests, and realizes the panic is subsiding a bit. She continues doing this under his direction for a few more minutes, until she breathes normally once more.
Once she is relaxed, he gently touches her shoulder. Sophia jerks back again away from his touch, freezing her body. Watching him warily, her breath comes once more in jerky gasps. Backing away from her obvious alarm, he motions for her to again breathe. She draws breath in slowly, staring at him, watching his hands cautiously.
"I am going to help you stand, Sophia", he says calmly.
She nods at him almost imperceptibly, and with revulsion watches his hands come closer.
"Sophia, I am only going to help you stand. Please let me know if I can touch you."
"Yes," she breathes out reluctantly. Fighting her terror, she allows him to take her arm and help her up off the floor where she had fallen.
Once standing, he immediately pulls his hands away.
In confusion at his sudden withdrawal, she stares at him, "You are afraid of me?"
He gives her a shadowy look, and comprehension dawns on her, "Oh", she whispers softly, "You are afraid I will bite you as I did Markus." Then with a matter-of-fact tone, "No, he held onto me too tight and was pushing me."
Looking doubtful, Adam still kept his hands away from her reach.
She smiles at him humourlessly and then with a voice tinged in cold venom at the memory of Markus did, "If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done so much sooner than you could have prevented, as Marcus found out rather painfully. How's his fat finger doing anyways?"
Turning away from Adam towards her chair without waiting for his response, and not really caring to, Sophia begins to understand a little bit of what has happened. She was not actually paralyzed, for she is able to move without difficulty. The problem is with her head. She cannot understand why her mind does such things to her. Why it confuses her so. But with a sigh, she knows: it's the whirling anger and panic that consumes her and leaves her breathless.
She allows him to help her back into the chair, although cringing against his touch through her thin white gown. She does not want to alarm him enough to push that little black button on the back of his wristband. She's had that experience before, and will not go through it again, unless it is necessary. Shaking off the memory of all those arms around her, holding her down, aware of the anger already building up inside her, she instead focuses on the fact that she is in control after all, and is only in this hospital until she heals both in mind and body. The accident (though, she knows it was not technically an accident) will require a great deal of time before she is ready to face her other worlds again. Frowning, Sophia admonishes herself aloud for letting such a thing happen again.
Looking up quickly she notices the orderly looking at her with worry reflected in his eyes as he helps her down to the tattered green chair. She winces from the searing pain she was slowly becoming aware of that is travelling up her legs and arms from the fall to the ground. She hopes those burns will heal soon.
Sophia looks back at the items he had been carrying before coming to help her, and he shakes his head in the negative.
"You are much better off sitting down and letting your body relax after such a fall. I will be just dandy carrying the boxes back myself."
Sophia snickers at his use of the word 'dandy'. She hasn't heard it used since...well...those other times, "I wonder if he would still use that term around me if he knew," she muses to herself.
She hesitates lightly, considering telling him just to ruin his day, then her eye catches what she hadn't noticed before. The puzzle is shimmering at her, as one piece off to the side flashes brightly in the gentle sunlight, which is cascading over the newly built green pool on the table in front of her. Looking at it, the damaged woman realizes why it was she became focused on the screen The puzzle had become too challenging, the sun was making her tired, and so she let her eyes and mind wander, then dragged herself from where she'd fallen over to the television, while in that usual trance. Sophia understands how she is supposed to try and not let such things happen. She remembers the consequences of such actions. Yet, sometimes she gets confused and cannot help but revert to old habits. It is comforting in so many ways, at least until the panic and anger sets in. She firmly tells herself she will try harder next time. She has so many tools, both physical and mental, she can use to help her avoid such a distraction.
With new determination, she looks back at the shimmering piece she suddenly noticed that will fit so nicely into a perfectly shaped hole. Moving her arm carefully over the puzzle, afraid to disturb the pool of fish she has already brought to life, she picks up the errant piece that lay off to the side and then just as cautiously, places the piece with a satisfying click into the correct position. Sophia sighs contentedly, then finds the next one.
Sophia hears him grunt and with a quick look around, sees Adam pick up the boxes he was carrying earlier. She turns her back to his mundane task, letting this beautiful world of glittering fish in a deepening pool consume her thoughts and mind once more.

Finding Hope

I sit here at my computer in my most recent classroom, thinking about the little girl I once was, and how she believed so strongly that she was a fabulous writer. To that little girl, stories were her own private little world, and she developed a passion for the written word. She became the girl who sat in the back of the classroom with a rather volumous book in her hands, hidden beneath the cover of her desk. Rather than listen to her teacher talk irrelevance, she would dream constantly in her seat. It often got her into trouble, yet nothing her teacher could tell her compared to the incredible worlds leaping off the page and pulling her in, demanding she become part of it. She would drown herself in these worlds, one after another. Her mother would ask her, "Tell me what the story was about." Because she could not say, the belief was that she was not getting any meaning from what she was reading. Yet, it was rather because she did not know how to verbalize what she had read, at least not in the few words her mother insisted upon. As she was reading the brilliant worlds that were not her own, she would dream about doing the same thing herself. This child would wonder at the possibilities that could be created from simply thinking about them. What was not possible when it came from the simple will to believe in it?

A child can dream and make those dreams possible. Can I? I have become so far removed from that girl, who at the age of 13 or so gave up what she once loved to do, even though it once provided her with so much unadulterated pleasure. It was entirely her own, requiring only time, and the simple tools of a pen and piece of paper. I wonder what happened. I wonder why I have never seriously tried to do it again. There have been a few half-hearted attempts to do it again. However, without faith in the purpose or meaning in it anymore, that girl grew into a woman who became afraid to dream as an adult. The mere thought of attempting such a task is daunting now and creates dread at the idea of sitting down to attempt writing again.

Recently, I began thinking on what matters to me and how I could improve my constantly evolving world. Sadly, I realize that there is very little I have attempted to pursue with passion beyond work and bills. However, now I find myself in a position where I would like and am able to expand my horizons. I once again have found hope in the future. Thus, the cautious woman I have become has begun thinking about what matters to me, and if I were in a position where I could do as I wished - what would I choose to do? A truly powerful question if one pauses to honestly consider the possibilities. For me, I realize that I would write to improve the lives of, and offer consolation to, others. Whether I was successful or not (though it would mean a great deal to know I am successful at this mountainous, and possibly frivolous, dream), I would choose to do something I have layed aside and kept dormant for many years. I realize it would indeed be a sad regret to me, should I (out of fear or insecurity), choose to spend the remainder of my life without at least trying as hard as I could to achieve a dream I once had, although a child: To become a published author.

The child I once was had so much to tell the world. The adult she has become, has so many stories to share. The child believed in the power of the written word and what it could achieve. She believed it was a gateway to other places, and the adult I am realizes it has a healing or enlightening power. The girl believed she could be the kernel of truth that might grow sideways as well as up that could excite others, and make them laugh or cry. A story was fun, even if sometimes sad. It took you away, and allowed you to dream without borders or boundaries. Maybe if I learn to dream again, I might be able to show others how to as well.

Wish me luck and help me open the door I closed so long ago. Share ideas, thoughts, and your own dreams. I'd love to create something with you in mind.