Visualization

When I find myself in a bookstore--which, let's be honest, I often do--I like to mentally shelve my books. I find the E authors--there are never very many of them--and run my hands down the spines until I find where my name fits.

There. Somewhere between Emond and Everett; that's where my book would go--where it will go, someday.

It's weird, I know. But as dorky as it is, I still do it.

You know what else I do? I constantly pin pictures of home offices on Pinterest. I torture myself for days and days on end with this images of beautiful writing spaces, that I would love to incorporate into my own home but can't because I'm poor. (And also because I don't have that much space to decorate to begin with.)

I do these things frequently, for the same reasons that people make vision boards--I like to see my goals in a way that can often be difficult, because I'm not psychic, and can in no way see the future. I like to picture the way that my writing space would look like, if I had the space, time, and money decorate it as I see fit. I like to find where my name fits, because it somehow makes it more likely that it will fit. Like somehow, the spot is waiting for me, waiting for my future debut novel to slide on into the place it was always meant to be.

It works that way in reverse, too. I have hard copies of just about everything I wrote in high school--every short story, every poem, every brief excerpt of every vague novel premise I had. I keep every journal, every notebook, every scrap piece of paper I scribble on. It gets crammed into a drawer, and even though I never look at it much, it helps to have it around. For whatever reason, having this physical representation of everything I've worked towards makes it more valid. Like I've actually accomplished something, instead of screaming into the void of my own mind.

I always mean to make a vision board, I do. But it never works out--I keep putting it off, because it's too much work and I'm too lazy to set aside the time to do it. I almost don't think I will, because my goals and ambitions change so frequently that it'd be impossible to document everything accurately. I'd rather spend that extra time working towards it, and save the daydreaming for my commute. (And, okay, maybe my shift, too.)

I daydream a lot. But sometimes, it's nice to have something more concrete to look at.

Until later,

- Justyne

Colour

I spend more time daydreaming than anything else. More than writing, more than Sims, more than the time I waste on every social media site combined. I do it at night, as I'm falling asleep, and in the morning before I can be bothered to get out of bed. I do it when I'm commuting to and from work; hell, I do it while I'm working. I have enormous dreams and countless fantasies, all playing out in the confinds of my mind. There's a reason most of my internet screen names are "day-dreamer-101". It's the biggest and best way to describe my personality.

I also consider it to be super fundamentally important to my life and identity as a writer.

I've talked before about the reason I became a writer, but I only briefly touched on how I really got from watching and fantasizing about Sailor Moon to writing my own story inspired by it. Before there were words, typed into existence on my family's computer, there were daydreams.

Do you know how many times I dreamt up my first story before I actually wrote it down? Dozens, at least. Hell, the only reason I wrote it down at all was because the story changed every time I played through it in my head. I just wanted to remember what pieces I had already put together--the idea of actually being a writer came later.

Before writing, there was daydreaming. It's been the constant in my life, the thing that defines me better than anything else. It's the reason I read so much, why I get so emotionally invested in these fictional stories, why my dreams are as big and as bright as they are. It's my method for getting through a stubborn case of writer's block, the way I envision a story before I start it, and the reason I'm able to tolerate long commute times. It's the most productive form of procrastination I have.

When you're pursuing any sort of creative career, you need a big imagination--and what better sign of a big imagination than the ability to daydream so colourfully?

My imagination is one of my proudest qualities. I'm grateful that I'm able to dream as big as I did as a child, that this sometimes cruel world has not yet broken me down like it has others. It's not pure determination that fuels me to keep trying--it's the idea that it's possible, that any dream I can cook up can come true.

One of my favourite quotes

Without imagination, the world can be a very grey place. I'd much rather see it in colour.

Micro Fiction Monday: Code Yellow

“Code yellow! Code yellow!”

I dashed through the kitchen in my mismatched socks, feet slipping and sliding across the kitchen floor. I grabbed the door frame to pull myself to a stop and poked my head into the living room, my comb still stuck halfway through my knotted head.

“Citron or sunlight?” I asked breathlessly.

“Citron,” my roommate confirmed, hands pressed to the glass as she stared down into the park below.

“Ooh, I love citron!” I winced slightly as I pulled the comb through the last of my tangled hair, crossing the room quickly and climbing up onto the window seat beside my friend. I squinted into the crowd of people below, of students and early morning commuters and dog walkers that were up and out far earlier than I would ever be. And there, coming around the corner across the street at a steady pace, was Code Citron.

He was shirtless, now that the weather was finally warming up. I could barely see the faint outline of his earbuds, the cord bouncing in rhythm with his pace. His slightly too long hair bounced up and down, making me want to brush it out of his face, just for an excuse to run my fingers through it. His hair was blond, and I wondered—not for the first time—what colour his eyes were.

All too soon, he turned into the shaded park across the street, disappearing from our view into the clump of other early morning joggers. As soon as he was gone, we both sighed. This was the only perk to living on the 14^th floor.

**

The problem with people-watching—especially when it’s a really cute guy—is that you quickly lose track of time daydreaming and fantasizing about your “accidental” first encounter. This is why I took the stairs when the jerk from 14C wouldn’t hold the elevator, almost tumbling down the steps more than once. This is why I made a mad dash through the middle of the street, ignoring the blaring of car horns, hoping to cut across the park and save some time on my way to work. This is why I was checking my phone, nervously estimating how long it would take me to get to my destination.

This is why I collided with someone on my way into the park.

“Sorry!” a male voice proclaimed, as I rubbed the nose that had collided into his chest. “Didn’t see you there.”

I looked up, about to say something, but my vocabulary was wiped blank as soon as I saw who it was. Blond hair, shirtless, and what I now knew was a pair of sparkling grey eyes that held me locked into place.

No amount of daydreaming could have prepared me for this.

~~

Until later,

- Justyne