Freelance Writing

I never intended to become a free lance writer.

In fact I still don’t know if I could do it. You’re your own boss, you manage your own schedule and your constantly looking for work. Is that a job I can do? I’m honestly not sure. If I don’t try at all though I know I’m going to regret not following my dreams. I love writing. I love writing about love. I love writing about space, about people, about fairies and animals. Writing is such an open world that we’ve barley scratched the surface of and to me that’s so unbelievably fascinating.

I binged watched Steven Universe and one of the quotes that really stood out to me was how human lives were all so complicated. Yet they were so simple. The sights we see, the sounds we here and the lives we live are all so similar and so different. That’s absolutely incredible.

Follow your dreams. Be happy. Love yourself



When I was six years old I would draw pictures on sheets of printer paper, staple them together, and call myself an author. It was harmless enough and my mother smiled because of the creative side I could show off from such a young age. Until I told her that I wanted to write books for a living. She frowned, turned to look at me, and told me that being an author was probably never going to work. I thought that when I grew big and strong that would be my purpose. To make others smile through my words. I didn’t ever stop writing though. I never stopped and no matter what anyone told me I kept going.

When I would sing in the car everyday on the way home my older brother would scold me and tell me I needed to stop. I would try mimicking the beautiful voices in hope one day I would sound just as great as they did. I sadly never met that dream, because everyday I was met with opposition and despite my desperate attempts I felt belittled, I was mocked, and my purpose for singing so often was completely gone. Why should I sing when all I did was make everyone else unhappy? So I stopped singing. I stopped singing and to this day I regret it.

When I was eight i remember painting snowman and other various things. If my purpose was to let my creative side out through song, then it would be through a paintbrush. Right? I painted everyday. I painted bugs, snowmen, and whatever I could think of. I showed my mom and just like my writing, she told me chances of being what I want to be is slim to none. Being a painter would cause me to constantly be broke and she advised me to find another dream. Unlike my writing I stopped. I stopped getting better. I stopped trying and that’s what killed me. Never stop doing what you love. Never. I should have kept going because painting made me happy. Painting was an outlet for my emotions and feelings I should have never gotten rid of.

I lost myself in the words and thoughts of others around me. It took me nineteen years to realize what anyone thinks of what I do doesn’t matter. It’s making me happy. I am happy. And that’s all that should matter. That’s all thats going to matter.

That I’m happy.


He wore tank tops and basketball shorts, and when he smiled those dimples made my heart race. I was only seven years old and I could have sworn I was in love. Not just with him, but with so many others. I was in love with the lunch lady that smiled at me and told me happy birthday. I was in love with my first friend, because every day she brought fruit snacks and always gave me a strawberry because she knew they were my favorite. I was in love with my grandma, because she held my hand every day to and from school. I was in love with the girl that saw I was down and spent all her classroom tickets on a doll I had wanted for so long.

I’m in love with the tree in my grandma’s backyard because everyday me and my cousin would sit under it and have a picnic.¬† I’m in love with soccer and running because almost every day my cousins and I would run around and play together, hitting a ball against the fence and scoring goals. My life is filled with so much love, from me, from everyone else, and for so many things. My mother loves pink Macrons and freshly brewed chamomile tea. My dad loves lakes and fishing poles. My sister in law loves her daughter’s smile and her sister’s laugh.

When I was twelve years old I fell in love with kind words and gentle hugs. I fell in love with the smell of fresh noodles and hours of video games. I fell in love with the joy of having new friends and big open fields. Love was everywhere. Love was in the way my best friend hugged me after a hard day. Love was the way my parent’s kissed my head when it was time to go to sleep. Love was the way she brushed the hair out of my face when it was getting into my food.

Love was when I was fifteen and his eyes were diamonds and his kisses were gold. Love was when his hugs felt like heaven and he smelled like chocolate milk and home. Love was holding hands and the walks in the park every morning. Love was every moment with him, and every call with him, until love left us. Love left us cold and distant, but once upon a time it brought us warmth and together.

I fell in love again with his long blond hair and beautiful German accent. I fell in love with the way the held my hand and let me lay on their chest. I fell in love with their smell, and the way the pulled me close and spun me around every time they saw me. Love never left us, we just love in a different way now. He’s a beautiful friend, and now a very happy boyfriend to a very lucky person.

I fell in love with long brown hair and deep brown eyes, the smell of green tea, and video calls until three in the morning when I met him. I fell in love with the way he hugged me, the smile he got when I placed kisses on his cheeks, and the smile on his features when I brought him gifts. I fell in love with someone and every flaw, because thats what you do when your in love. When you love someone you love every part of who they are. You love their flaws, you love their looks, you love everything they do, and thats because you love them. You love them for being who they are, no matter how loud or how sweaty they got.

Thats when I met her. I was in a green wig and she was tall, beautiful and nervous. She smells like fresh laundry, her lips are as soft as the first time I kissed them, and her arms feel like home. I fell in love with the way she lays on my chest and gets so comfortable she falls asleep. I fell in love with the way she forgets how much she can say and keeps going about everything she loves so much. From her stories to her worlds, I would listen, and she would stop because she would get so lost in her tale she became flustered and hid her face.

I’ve fallen in love with many people. I’ve fallen in love with so many things. I’ve fallen in love with books, food, magic, feelings, and myself. Love is never a short list. Love is so many things that I can never just tell anyone everything that I love. Because in the time I would speak I would fall in love with so many more things. I would fall in love even more with everything I would speak of. I would fall in love with the feeling of comfort between me and the individual, and I fall in love with their gestures and matter of speaking that my list would continue to grow on that very spot.

I’ve heard people say you need to reserve your love. That you need to keep it special and reserve it for things truly deserving. To that I say what a boring life to live. Love everything. Love the smell of coffee in the morning. Love the warmth of your bed sheets and calmness of night. Love the smell of new books and Dragon blood incense. Love they way your hair looks after the shower, love the way your makeup looks, love yourself, and don’t let anyone tell you what you can and can’t love. Love freely and with passion. Love with everything you have. Be open to receiving love and spreading love. Because love is so crazy and so different that love is never the same feeling. Love is complex, love is different, and love is free.

Roses on fire

Some people wake up to alarm clocks, and I wake up to crying. Currently there are three children living in the house and all of them are under the age of three. Every day I am greeted with one of three crying, and the same baby isn’t the one crying for a second day. It’s a routine now. Which baby is crying? Is it the infant or the toddler? My attempts of turning to the side and trying to head back to sleep are matched with louder screaming. These are not even my kids. I am glad to hear that my brother has beautiful healthy babies but I am not glad to hear them cry every single morning without fail.

Every day without fail I also wake up to see my girlfriend, my fast asleep on the other end of the video call, or a dead phone. If I’m really lucky I’ll wake up to her in front of me, and a small dog clawing at the door for attention. Mornings are not and I don’t think ever will be in slightest bit boring. If they aren’t filled with sloppy kisses they are filled with screaming children. I would rather have the kisses. The rest of the day could also go one or two ways. Fairly calm, with an infant crying out for milk every so often, or with them crying every ten minutes. When one baby stops crying the other one starts. That is no exaggeration.

Mentally things could go one of three ways. The first being rather smoothly and happily, with no nervous jitters and Rose incense. The second being a little bumpy with slight nerves and maybe going to bed early. The third, and the most chaotic, being not capable to leave bed because my entire body is completely weighed down and everything seems like a chore. This is hardest to combat because all of my senses are low if not shut down, and the fight your constantly battling to carry on with you day is becoming lost. Nothing is ever set in stone. Nothing is ever going to be set as one hundred percent calm. Nothing is going to be exactly how you want it.

That sounds kind of terrifying. It is. Yet it’s so many other things. It’s magical. It mysterious. It’s amazing. Because you don’t know that your life is going to be filled with choices and laughter. With friends and family and love. With kisses and tight embraces. Life is chaotic and never boring. Life is a mystery and it’s a mystery I never want to solve.¬† I don’t want to know when my girlfriend is going to kiss me because every surprise kiss is even better than the last. I don’t want to know when I’m going to find money on the floor because that takes the joy out of the surprise. I don’t want to know when she’s going to kneel on one knee to me because I want the sudden thrill of being engaged.

You can’t live trying to make sure everything is set straight. You can’t live trying to balance chaos. I’m not very old. I’m not very wise. I’m young enough to know the path paved in front of me is from my own accord, from my own accomplishments, and from my own failures. And I know that every single accomplishment and every single failure is one hundred percent a factor in who I am and who I’m going to be. Every single day of my life is new and fresh and a complete mystery. Every face I see, every snack I eat, every meal I have, and every word I speak has such and impact on not only myself but the people around me. I want the chaos of not knowing how much of an impact my words make on everyone.

My only wish is that they leave a good one.




When I was seventeen years old I would find myself in the hallway staring at a picture of my brother in his Military uniform, my reflection sitting beside him, and I would wonder when I would make my family proud. I was the youngest and still hadn’t accomplished as nearly as much as my older brother had. Relatives would ask me when I would be getting a job or when I would be getting married, starting a family, or even learning how to drive. All things my brother already had under his belt. I couldn’t help but find myself thinking He was the skyscraper and i was merely the shadow it cast.

Thats not when it started either. I entered high school right after he graduated. I entered the same program he had been in for four years, and immediately the teacher asked if I had any relatives in the corp. I nodded and said “Patrick”. His eyes opened wide and he said “You’re Patrick’s sister? Hey it’s Patrick’s sister!” For the next two years I was know as “Patrick’s little sister” If I performed badly I was asked how my brother would think. If I performed well I was told that I was following in my brothers footsteps. Nothing I did was of my accord. Everything was because of my heritage towards my older brother.

When I was even younger and I would show my makeshift books to my parents, they would read them and toss them to the side. Yet when a child my brothers age published a book at twelve, he was the one offered the encouragement to pursue writing, and I was left with a pen and paper wondering if I was ever going to praised for my own accomplishments. As much as I despised being compared, being forgotten, and how much I would beg for attention of my own I would give so much to be where things were so much simpler.

My brother is merely twenty one. My brother has three kids, a wife, and still lives at home. My brother is trying his best and doing everything he can to support his little ones and his wife but one man can only do so much. My brother isn’t as happy as he used to be. Now instead of trying to catch up to what he has and everything hes accomplished I find that everyone wants me to be completely different. My parents no longer say “Look what your brother has accomplished” and began saying “Please don’t end up like your brother” I find myself trying to be the child that learned from their siblings mistakes instead of looking up to them and finding that I could do great things too.

Looking back the people and family I look up to are now people my mother never wants me to be. My aunt who worked so long to go through college and get the degree she wanted, and is now on depression medication and fighting multiple diseases. My grandma, who held my hand and walked me to school everyday, who raised five kids and not once said she regret having any of them, stopped fighting for her life because her sons wouldn’t take the time out of their day to make sure she was okay. My mom, who was raised with no father because of a terrible accident, now seems bitter and wishes daily that she hadn’t had kids or had at least waited longer to even get married. I’m standing in the shadows of everyone’s failed attempts at being happy.

I light my incense, grab a pen and pencil, and try doing what I love. Because I’m not just their shadow of what could have been. I’m not my mothers desires. I’m not my brother, I’m not my aunt, and I am not my grandma. I’m not going to look at the world and pity the people who wasted time wondering what could have been. My grandma was a strong, beautiful woman. My aunt is so smart and so successful and I am so proud of her. My mom is so strong willed and so able minded that she could do basically everything. My brother is only twenty one and he’s in the army, he’s married to the woman he loves, and he has three beautiful children that smile and brighten up everyones day. Yet that leaves one question standing, who am I?
I am a writer. I am an artist. I am strong. I am building my life up and nothing anyone says to me is ever going to break it down. Because I am not the shadow of a my brother. I am not the shadow of my independent mother. I am not the shadow of my deceased grandmother. I am so many things. I am smart. I am creative. I am fast. I am so much more than anyone ever believes me to be. I am going to continue to be so much more and I’m going to make myself proud. My life is and will never be about my family’s mistakes. I am not my brothers failures. I am my own accomplishments. I am me. Nothing and no one is ever going to change that.

Little bit of advice, you aren’t so bad either. You’re not anyones shadow. You are your own person. So get out there and make something absolutely incredible.

Salt water


From what I can recall seawater promotes health, pushes goals forward, and even has some magic to it. Yet I continued to recoil from the mistress, as she leaned forward and brushed my thighs. There were plenty of people around me to make sure that if I in fact do trip and fall into the ocean for no one to find me then someone could stop me maybe. Hopefully. I sighed, turned around, and headed back to the shaded area where my friends reside.

A few of them smiled at me as I came up, holding up a can of soda and cheering, and I took my place next to my best friend. He grinned at me and I ruffled his short black hair. “Having fun?” He asks me. I nod and take a sip of his drink. He pauses for a brief moment before reaching over and touching my hair. “You haven’t gone in the water?” He asks. “No” He sighs and pats me on the head. “Come on. I’ll show you things are going to be okay” He stands up, ands takes my arm dashing towards the wide ocean. “Wait!” I try to say but hes set on bringing me to that ocean.

We arrive in the area I was before and I find myself in an even bigger issue. Turn around and ignore his attempts of helping me, or take his hand and face what’s eating away at me. He smiles at me, showing off his pearly white teeth, and I can’t say no. I take his hand and bring myself to step further into the water. It reaches my waist and I shiver, but my best friend is holding my hand and I find my self marveling at the colors. Something about the water seemed so pure, the blue so bright, and the sand so soft.

My best friend splashed some water over to me, and I did the same. We began laughing and giggling and splashing, saltwater hitting our skin. I found myself diving in to get my hair and face in there, as if the earth itself was bathing me, and washing away the mundane worries that plagued me. It was refreshing to have them sweep away from me even if it was only for those few moments I spent in the water. What had once been something so cold and foreign felt warm and just like home. The mistress of the sea hugged me with every wave, ran her fingers through my hair, and left kisses on my skin.

We’re enjoying ourselves so much we don’t notice how close the sun is to going down. I find myself in a different place than when I came down to the water again. Leaving was becoming hard when I found myself so comfortable and happy. A light punch in the arm brought me back to my sense, and I smiled. “Come on, we can come another time. You got someone to go home to” I nodded, stepping out of the water and onto the sand.

Fresh Laundry,Dragon Blood, and hope


Hope is defined as an expectation or desire for plans to come. Hope is not concrete. Hope is not tangible. Hope is in so many things. Hope is in everything, everywhere, and everyone. There is so much hope from the minute you step out the front door to to the minute you lay your head down.

Hope for me is the hugs from my loved one that smells identical to laundry fresh out of the dryer, because I can only hope to see her again soon. Hope for me is my Niece’s smile and laugh, because I can only hope that her life is filled with so much happiness. Hope is my mothers kiss on the forehead, because I can only hope she continues to be with us as long as she possibly can. Hope for me is my dogs jumping onto my bed and laying beside me, because I can only hope they will be healthy and happy the rest of their dog lives.

Hope for my sister in law is my brothers hand, when her baby is unable to breathe and her only hope is that she makes it out safely and healthy. Hope for my mom is a text message from her kids letting her know that we are alive and safe. Hope for my dad is his kids growing up happy and grateful for the things hes done for them. Hope is my aunt at the doctors office waiting for test results to say her kidney is still working. Hope was my grandpa on my grandmas deathbed wondering when she is coming home.

Hope smells like Roses and Dragons blood incense. Hope is the balloon in a baby shower that reads “it’s a boy!”. Hope is the phone call from a company you want telling you the job is yours. Hope is waiting on that paycheck after a long week of work. Hope is the smell of new books and keys to locked chests. Hope is the final key to the boss room. Hope is driving across town to make sure your best friend is still breathing. Hope is a mother, holding her baby for the first time, and wondering how something could be so small and turn into something so extraordinary.

Hope is a feeling, hope is moment, hope is a person, and hope is in all of us.