My Life Starts Over

me in a random selection of words

Category: Writing


I want to create.

I wan to design websites.
Nifty websites with vibrant colors, cool little graphics and hidden trinkets.

I want to develop video games.
Giving out tasks and watching over talented people build greatness from thin air.

I want to write stories.
Stories so vast, so detailed, so intriguing, no one ever forgets them.

But fear holds me back.
The fear of realizing I’m not capable of attaining any of my dreams.
The fear my dreams are only empty promises.
So I settle.
The longer I settle the more my fear takes over and I feel useless.
A never-ending cycle of me dashing my own dreams.


Random Dialogue Generator – Writing Prompt Day 3

Bold is the generated dialogue.

“Could you be happy here with me?” She asks the man lying next to her. Her hand caressing his frozen cheek. “I’m happy with you,” she stands up and spins around to look at the rest of her collection, “all of you.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I’m almost done. Don’t worry.” She closes the door to the 11’7″ x 19’3″ freezer and walks up the stairs, delighted about her progress. She truly cares for them. Each and every body tells a different story: John Salter, 6 foot, shoulder-length black hair, single, guitarist in a new band; Kaleb Bartley, 5’10”, short, brown hair, single, writer fresh out of graduate school; Malorie Walters: 5’8″, wavy, black hair, dating a gorgeous red-head, works in a bakery across town. They all mean something to her; they aren’t just experiments to her. She reaches the top of the stairs and closes the door behind her. The computer in the other room dings, alerting her of a new message; a new person wanting to join her collection.

What do I mean by “wanting”? Do they know they are messaging a psychopath and they are volunteering to her “cause”? Or are they just showing interest in her and messaging about a date?

It’s been only three days, but I’m really loving this “One Exercise a Day” idea. I think every writer should try this. I may try writing some poetry too.

Random Scenario – Prompt Day 2

You’ve bought an old chest of drawers and discover a piece of paper stuck inside. What is written on that piece of paper?

Again was scribbled on the old piece of paper.

“Again?” I said out loud as if an explanation would appear. Looking and feeling my way around the empty drawers, hoping to find the rest of the puzzle, but nothing.

I sat down on the bed, staring at this discolored, scrap of paper. Thoughts of scary movies popped in my head. The one where the little girl buys an old jewelry box from a garage sale worried me the most.

Is this it? The start of some inescapable horror story come true? I got up and put the the piece of paper back in the drawer, hoping it would calm the horror gods and convince them to spare me.

It’s short, but I think I like it like this. I could always use it in another story. I have plenty of unfinished ones that could use this. Or maybe start a new story; the piece of paper is pretty intriguing: where does it come from, what does the rest of the paper say, is this some kind of time-travel or repeating-day story? I could do so much with it.

What does your piece of paper say?

One Exercise a Day

When I’m at my 9-5, I have moments filled with nothing to do–very long and boring moments. Usually I fill that time with imgur (they . . . they have so many things), but I think the best way to use that time is to write. I found a couple of websites with creative writing prompts and random first line generators. Since I have a hard time sparking my own imagination, I’ll let a computer do it for me.

One a day, any length. I think I can do this.

Prompt #1: Random First Line Generator (the random line is in bold)

He didn’t want to go out on such a night. Snow swirled from the sky and turned into a brown slush on the street. But the cat needed food. The cat he never wanted. He stumbled upon the girl on a rainy night. She was hiding amongst the garbage by the corner store down the street. He heard her small meows coming from the dump and felt bad. He would have felt like a complete ass if he had just left her there. Plus, winter was around the corner. When he approached her, she duck behind a black bag filled with a horrific smell and green leakage. Her green eyes peeked above the mound of stench, grey ears pointing behind her. The sound of his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth encouraged her to come up. After that night, he still hated cats, but this one was different.

Not the greatest, but it’s a start.

My Writing Problem

I think I’ve finally figured out what my writing problem is. Why I seem to have writer’s block continuously. Nothing is on the line. No pressure. No deadline. A video game developer announced it was looking for a writer for a new game. Immediately my creative juices started pumping and I was constantly thinking about the short story I never finished (despite being in love with it). I added more to the story, fixed a lot and was able to come up with a more detailed backstory. I was motivated. Even though I didn’t get the main writing gig, I was offered to freelance for them, which is a big deal since I’ve never written for anything other than myself.

I guess my only motivation (when I don’t have a deadline) is my career and wanting to be successful in a field I love. Apparently, that’s not enough for my imagination to boot up. I’ve even tried setting up my own deadlines, but it’s not enough. College had to be my best years of writing. My latest short story is the only new story I’ve written since graduating in 2008. Now I’m addicted. I scour Twitter looking for new requests for writers. I need a challenge. I work better under pressure, a lot better.

I’m going to try to ween myself off of this pressure high. I’ve decided I’m going to write at least one post a week on my other blog. Hopefully this will help me get in the groove of writing whenever and not depending on some career-changing deadline or a super important grade. It’s not fiction, but it’s something. I want to continue writing my short story–I need to–but I think maybe the fear of being a crap writer is making me hesitant. It’s a good story, but can I pull it off? I’m scared it reads like a child wrote it. Like I lost the ability to turn my words into art. It’s hard for me to explain.

I just know I need this. I need to stop trying to convince myself I’m not a writer. I am and always will be a writer. Nothing can change that.


I think about nothing.

And when I think about nothing, I feel amazing.


I love it.

Floating through the world with endless possibilities and no worries.

Then it stops.

Reality kicks in.

And I remember bills, work, money, strengths, weaknesses. Loss.

Sometimes I feel like crying. For no reason.

Cry just to let it all out. The emotion, the pain, the feeling.

I hate feeling.

I hate caring.

It weighs me down.

And reminds me I’m human.

Poem: Regret

It’s been a while and I’m still whole.

Not in pieces like I thought I would be a couple of years ago.

It all faded before my eyes without me knowing.

I knew, sometimes, but you were always there to blind me,

with your crooked smile and empty words. I fell.

So hard. So easily. No one’s done that to me in a while, and I was hooked.

I hate me. Regret you. Can’t forget.

A never ending circle I’m trying to break.


Is it just me? Or are you also…

Never mind. That would be pointless. To think, hope you’re a disaster like me.

Fumbling through memories that snatch me away from reality as quickly as they bring me back.

It’s always the hurt one who is left with all the pieces, emotions, feelings,

unless someone tells me different.

I Want you. Hate me. Regret you.

A never ending circle I’m trying to break.

And then forget.

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