Doors, I dreamed about doors. I will tell you what my dream was: I was on some kind of a game show. I did not see the announcer. All I could here was the announcer’s voice and he told me to walk up this plank into this corridor and I had to make a choice and there would be someone there to help me make my decision. I walked up the plank to the corridor where there were four doors there. One down below me, one to the left, one behind me, and one to the right, and I had to choose which door to walk through. Then all of a sudden Gene Simmons was standing there with me talking to me about the choices I had to make. Then suddenly the door below us opened and his son was standing right there. I grabbed the guys hand and we walked through the right door. As I walked through the door I felt liberated, I felt like a new person, and I felt like I made the right decision for my life. Suddenly, I was given treasures and I was taking them up to the bar to be valued. The guy at the bar said that they were not able to value them because they were too precious. I was like okay. I can handle that. It did not derail me.
Last night I started reading a book called “You Are A Writer” by Jeff Goins. In the first chapter he suggests telling yourself, even advertising the face that “You Are A Writer”. I will be reviewing this book later on in my blog after I have finished reading it. And you can download a free copy at Amazon into your Cloud Reader, which is how I am reading it.
Before I went to bed I changed my work to writer and listed my blog which I started a year ago to inform my friends and whoever wants to read it about my disease and what is on this girls mind. I have not been faithful to writing, I never saw myself as a writer. I have been told since I was a teenager that I had great ability to express myself through writing. Which I do, admittedly, I feel more comfortable telling someone how I feel in writing then I do in speaking. My sister Joy is a writer; she lives the writer’s life. She wears I am a writer on her body like a cloak and everyone in the family knows that is her passion that is her calling. She reads the thesaurus, dictionary, writer books, and everything writers like it were eye candy and I don’t. I don’t enjoy the writing process; I don’t enjoy the editing process at all. She does, she loves it, though she has fears of her own, one of her fears is not be called a writer. When I think of writer, I see her face on the statue standing before me. I am not Joy. Joy is not me. We are two different people, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have talent in writing either. I am seeing that now.
It is strange to me how a simple thought can hold you back from what you want to do, want to be, want to accomplish in one’s life. I am taking my dream as a clue that I am walking through into a new chapter in my life and I have the choice and I made the decision and it is the right one for me.