On dreams and inspiration:

I had been sitting on my bed, trying to think of an interesting prospect to write about, and ghosts of past stories had flashed through my brain- the ones I had forgotten, given up on, or simply lost interest in.  One such story lingered in my head, though.  This was an idea from a couple years back that I had sketched out a few chapters for.  The reason I had dropped it, however, was fairly unusual.  Since the idea had come from an odd dream I had had, I knew exactly where I wanted the plot to go, until the point I had awakened.  The problem I was having was bringing my convoluted dream to any kind of logical conclusion.  If I could come up with a good ending, the story had potential to be excellent.  But to this day, ideas pertaining to that particular plotline elude me.  And ironically enough, that's what inspired me to write about inspiration.

I'm sure you've heard this before, but I'll say it again: inspiration strikes in many ways.  Personally, I come up with my best ideas when I bounce things off friends, adding to them as we inspire each other.  But it's different for everyone.  Maybe it helps you to talk it out, or sit somewhere quiet and meditate.  That's awesome.  Maybe you carry a notepad with you, because ideas pop into your head randomly.  That's awesome.  You're awesome.  No matter what, don't let anyone tell you you're 'doing it wrong'.  There is no 'right'; there is no 'wrong'.

Now that that is sorted, more about dream inspiration.  

I consider dreams another resource for myself.  Their stories often go places I would never have thought of in my waking hours, and the imagery is incredibly vivid because I've lived them.  The only problem is that they rarely have conclusions, and when they do, they never make that much sense.  But such is also the beauty of inspiration through dreams; they don't write the stories for me, they simply help me open my mind to broader things.  They let me experience an idea, so I can later flesh it out into something more concrete.  In this way, I've found that dreams are yet another tool one can add to their writing toolbox, another thing to help one's stories be the best they can be.  I hope you all can find as much inspiration in your subconscious as I have.  

Sincerely, Abby.

Hey guys!  I thought I'd start the ball rolling this month with some fiction.  This piece is actually part of a longer (currently unfinished) story, but it can also stand alone, so I thought I'd share it.  Feel free to leave comments and constructive criticism, as I, like everyone, am trying to improve, and grow my skills as an author and storyteller.  Now, without further ado, the prologue of my story Like Magic, titled Don't Mind Me.

I was sitting at my desk, trying desperately to complete a page of Calculus, and failing miserably. Now, don't misunderstand me, the math was not difficult.  Despite loathing the subject, I was actually rather good at it.  No, you see, the real problem was that there was no way I would be able to focus when a cute guy was sitting across the room, checking me out.


It's only fair to tell you that I haven't had much luck with the opposite sex.  Quite frankly, most of the time I can't tell if a boy likes me or hates me.  There was something about this one, though.  Tall, thin, blonde hair, and the glassiest blue eyes I'd ever seen.  When I looked at him and our eyes met, I felt like I could see right through him.  I pretended to scribble a bit down in my math notebook, hoping he wouldn't notice the glances I was frequently sending in his direction.  After a while, though, I couldn't help but chance another.

His eyes caught mine, and I started to get lost in them.  A deep, stunning sea of blue.  A few moments later, however, I checked myself.

What is wrong with me?! I thought, shifting my eyes to the page once more, and feeling a slight blush.  I picked up my pencil and chewed the eraser, a bit of a nervous habit I had.  Then, feeling self conscious, I set it back down.

I peeked over at the boy once again, sincerely hoping he was no longer looking at me.  He was, however, and this time wearing a self-satisfied smirk.  I kept my eyes plastered on my textbook for the rest of the period.