Reflections of Jaguars and Sea Serpents

I woke up this morning with a terrible head cold from a terrifying and exciting dream of magick and monsters lurking in the shallow depths of a flooded parking lot. I was chased, I was powerful, but I was free. It was as horrifying and dangerous as it was thrilling and amazing. Its downpouring outside and I wonder about bodies of water and portals to hidden worlds and take notes on mythology and things to look into for a possible story idea or ten.

I also look into the reflection and see my beautiful animal guide gazing back at me.

I'm sitting on my couch with my new laptop in hand, movers for the apartment across the hall going up and down the stairs making Tuscany jumpy, rain pitter-pattering on the skylight overhead and grey skies choking out what little sunlight we get this time of year, and its not sad or lonesome, but actually instills a great sense of awe.

This same time last year I was nervous and timid and so very, very afraid. It may not show much in my blogging updates, as I tend to speak only on subjects I feel strongly about (usually strongly upset about, but its that sense of anger that pushes me to speak my mind so often), but for a very long time I was simply petrified that I wouldn't be good enough, that in every relationship I had to try so very hard to cover up and hide so that the person I was with would never see me for the wretched human being I truly was.

I don't feel that way anymore.

This past year has not been easy. Leaving my last relationship was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, to truly grow the hell up and put bills and rent and all of my life's needs in my hands only, is not something I felt confident in doing. But here I am, 9 months later and I'm still going. And though things are tough financially, spiritually and emotionally I'm not just getting by, I'm thriving.

I know I am not where I want to be. Sigil stands as of late last night somewhere around 36.8k, and its probably going to take somewhere from 90-100k to complete properly. Its a hefty urban fantasy with a great deal of world building as well as cultural history to convey properly the history and lives of my demons. The shop could be better, and I could be fitter, I am simply prone to distraction and like to believe I am a better multitasker than I truly am. (Read as- I cannot actually write or create as quickly with Netflix in the background as I can with simply music)

Despite how little I have accomplished physically, I've accomplished a great deal emotionally. I am happy, for the first time in a long time. I don't feel angry more often than excited, or lonesome more often than warm. Of course I have my stresses and there are still days where I question the base natures of my sanity or general lack there-of, but they do not outnumber the smiles and the laughter. For the longest time when someone would ask me what my goal was, I would tell them it is just to be happy. Now I can say I simply want to gain knowledge and skill to be successful in the passions I live for to create a life of my own that satisfies me to the marrow of my bones. 

For that to happen, I need to get crackin on the shop, bang out Sigil (maybe I'll shoot for a first draft by Mabon?), and perhaps find even more gainful employment. It certainly does not hurt to look. 

I tend to fall quiet in the colder months, so this little space of mine may be void of my presence from time to time, but rest assured the silence is here is merely myself working elsewhere.  I'll try to keep posted as I move along, but the great shift is upon me now, and though I have truly have no idea what it brings, I am elated to see where it takes me.  

Don't Waste Your Time, Or Time Will Waste You

Time is so precious. Every damn moment goes by at such an incredible speed that is at times difficult to comprehend. But every single one is precious, because it won't happen again. Sure, you can try and recreate the scenario, but it will not be the same. Time is the gift that we never get more of. There are no seconds, no do-overs. 

Recently, I had an experience that, although this morning in front of my computer I can laugh about, at the time I was terrified, and strangely, humbled. During the Super Storm that dumped three feet of snow on my little town, the fire alarm went off in my building. My heart slammed into my rib-cage  and even though it turned out to be nothing more than a faulty sensor, I was shaken to the core. If my apartment had gone up, what would I lose? I began to reconsider what really mattered, and just how freaking short our lives really are.

Everyone wants different things out of life, and I completely respect that. Some of us honestly just want decent paying jobs and the ability to relax and enjoy themselves, and that's cool. Whatever makes you happy, do that. But that's just it. You have to work to get there. Whether its writing a book, buying a house, or losing weight. You can't just sit on the couch all day thinking about it. 

I've been through a lot in my short time on this earth so far (23 years is really nothing when you think about it), and if my experiences and those hard and horrifying times have taught me anything, it is that life is entirely too fucking short to waste it on doing anything less than your absolute fucking best. Draft a plan to make your dream reality, its the only way to get there. 

Don't make excuses. 

Tell the ones who matter how you feel. 

Take a risk. 

Whatever you do, don't let life pass you by. 

Why I Write Like a Lefty – Assorted Tales of Familial Bonding

For the life of me I cannot honestly remember who pointed it out to me, but I remember it happened during a writing course in college. Sometime junior, maybe senior semester, ish. It may or may not have been Creative Non-Fiction. I just remember writing the thing for the class like everyone else, and someone pointing out I hold my pen “wrong.” I have heard this throughout my life for as long as I can remember. I explain that it’s just how I’ve always held it. And then they said “Its weird. You write like a lefty.”

And then it hit me. And I remember the class being very quiet and me exclaiming “SON OF A BITCH!” and being beset by many glares and a smiling professor who said simply “Write it down!” That was probably Call Me Steve of Creative Non-Fic. More importantly, it was the moment I finally figured out why I write the way I do – my brother is a lefty. He taught me how to write without my even realizing it.

Son of a bitch.

 Now I think about these things as my brother is due to set out on his biggest adventure yet, moving across the country to Arizona. As I write this he is probably just cruising through the west end of Massachusetts, his journey begins today. But it’s not the childhood things he taught me, or that trick with peanut butter after alcohol (for which I was ever grateful for all throughout college), it’s the little things he does without even realizing.

My brother taught me to believe in myself by making me promise to get him an Aston Martin when I get published. (Don’t worry bro, I’m working on Sigil the second I’m done here. You still wanted a Vanquish, right?). It was this crazy bastard who stood up for me at every turn, went to the ends of the fucking earth to make me smile. He begged, borrowed, and stole just to make my day.

He has a funny way of doing that, but he has that effect on people. You will meet him, and suddenly you’re dreaming bigger, seeing brighter. Rob’s a special kind of guy like that. He’ll teach you that you can rock anything with the right confidence, fake it until you make it, and above all else, that you are fucking worth it. That’s why he’s driving right now, probably blasting either dubstep or Black Keys (Dubstep Black Keys?), because life is too damn short to settle for anything less than the very fucking best you can be. And at the end of the day, the only one holding you back is yourself.

Never hold back, never give up, never give in.