On Writing, Dreams and Real Life

Ever since I can remember I’ve had a driving need to create. When I was a little girl, barely able to spell I rewrote a kid’s book in our house. I thought it was boring so I drew some pictures on one half of the paper, wrote the story on the other half and folded them in and stapled them to make a book. I had to have my mom help with some of the spelling. 🙂  In between then and now I picked up painting, drawing, music and writing, trying to find somewhere that I could fit in.  It turned out I had exactly zero talent for drawing, a bit of talent for music and halfway decent talent at writing.

Stories enthralled me. Characters from books have been my best friends ever since I can remember reading.  Anne of Green Gables, Eowyn from the Lord of the Rings, and Jo from Little Women are just some of my childhood favorites. I knew them more than I knew people. And the older I got and the more I read, the more I decided I wanted to write my own stories.

I was 13 when I did NaNoWriMo for the first time. Failing of course, since it was my first time trying to write that many words in so little time. I wrote around 12,000 words total that month, but found that I loved the community and loved the challenge. The next year I wrote 45,000 words and the year after that I finally won. And it wasn’t just the winning that made me happy, it was sitting in my chair staring at the document where I had put the words “The End.”  I had done it. I had created a story entirety out of my own head and it was beautiful.  I mean it was a first draft, full of plot holes and misspellings and terrible grammar mistakes, but it was all mine, and I was in love.

As I grew older, and adult life became deathly real I tried to find other things to do with my time and energy.  My family traveled the world as missionaries and that seemed like a worthwhile cause as any. I tried and ultimately found mission life was not for me. A couple years later I got married and found myself coming face to face with my depression and anxiety.  I’d always known I had something that I wasn’t quite right.  Mood swings and finding social situations terrifying were just not normal. So in the midst of all this I went back to my stories, finding comfort in my ability to create something. It made me feel less like a failure in life.

Today I’m still not sure what I’m doing with my life. I guess that’s what this whole post is about. I’m writing daily. Poetry, short stories, novels and blog posts. I’m getting help for my anxiety and other issues. I’m happily married.  But at my core I’m still not sure what I’m doing. Is it enough to just keep on peddling my writing? I don’t know. For now I’m just going to keep on doing it.  Because at the end of the day writing, creating, living like this makes me happy.

This was sort of a rambly post, but it’s a topic I’ve been thinking about over the past week. And while we’re on the topic of my writing, please consider checking out my Patreon and maybe supporting me.

Thank you all for reading.

Let me know in the comments about what makes you happy.  Let’s talk about dreams and real life and how to put them together please?  



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