These are a few of my entries from my own writing journal. Most of them do not make a lot of sense, but rather illustrate the importance of practice. I thought I would share them with you so you could get an idea on how to utilize your own writing journal. As you will see, I have included dream entries as well as just random writing tangents. I feel that the record keeping of dreams improves a writer's sense of wonderment as well as imagination.

Please forgive the disorganized look of this page, but I felt it most appropriate for the subjects.

Dream Entry

There was this river, a medium sized one, with little to no current. There was a young woman in a row boat with a baby beside her. A man, who I knew to be a serial killer, was after them.

The young woman’s husband and the baby’s father stood on the other side of the river. He had come to help, but he did not bother to get into the water after the killer. On the other side of the river stood another man with a boy about six years old. Somehow I knew him.

I watched the scene from above. The killer was swimming to the boat. The woman knew that the killer was after the baby and her. She knew that he wanted to kill her and then steal the baby so it could be part of his sick ways. The woman suddenly took out a fish knife and sliced the baby’s throat.

I heard a voice, like a voice over in a movie, say, "She knew that the only escape for the baby was death, so she took it upon herself to show that baby mercy." I wanted to cry.

Suddenly, the killer seemed to change his mind. He no longer swam after the woman. He just went straight to the bottom of the river. He had killed himself. The husband broke down and cried, but he never went to his wife.

The wife got out of the river on the other side with the man and the boy. The man was crying and then he said, "You remind me of my dead wife." The little boy only looked at the woman.

Suddenly I was the woman and I hugged the man. I told him he had to be strong for his little boy and that he had to have faith. I put my cheek next to his and I was crying too. I placed my head behind his head and cried with him. I kept whispering, "You have to have faith in something."

Musings

A small brick building lays nestled between two larger stores. Two glass doors, old fashioned and trimmed in wood give a charming welcome to those passing by. A medium sized, wooden sign with the words, Baked Books burned into it in an antique style hangs loosely above the doors. In the two large display windows are layers of books, old and new mismatched titles, sprawled in an unorganized fashion upon the large wooden window sills. A small gray and white Siamese cat naps comfortably in the afternoon sun between the books. The words, Open Monday through Saturday 6 am to Midnight, are painted in the form of a semi-circle in a dingy gold color upon the right glass door. Black and white flyers from local events and artists are taped to the inside of the left door. A small set of sweet sounding chimes ring as the doors are opened to let out the fresh smell of coffee beans and baking dough. An inspiring piece of classical music from a foreign movie plays subtly through the two speakers hung inconspicuously in the corners of the room. The quaint business is filled with mismatched tables and chairs, of bean bags and small comfortable sofas. Aligning the brick walls are rows of tall wooden bookcases, overflowing with books, magazines and newspapers. A few books with no place left on the shelves sit upon the tables and sofas. Atop the bookcases are dozens of dark green plants, their healthy branches dangling lightly over the edges. Two older men sit speechless over a game of chess at the first table, a tiny plate of freshly baked oatmeal cookies rests beside the box of their captured pieces. A married couple sit peacefully upon a small sofa, locked in a quiet conversation as they sit with their cups upon their laps. A young woman reads a dog-eared copy of A Tale of Two Cities as she lays graciously on a small velvety sofa. A man dressed in a fine business suit skims through the titles of the nearest rack of novels while he sips his cappuccino. At the rear of the store is a long wooden counter with soft leather stools installed all along, save for a small area where the counter is lifted to pass through to the kitchen. An older man perches snugly upon one of the stools as he drinks his coffee and chats with the woman working behind the counter. An old fashioned cash register resides nicely upon the far end of the counter, sitting along side it is a large coffee cup and saucer with the word, Tips painted upon it. Above the register hangs an old blackboard with the day’s menu items scratched upon it in many pleasing colors. Below the list of menu items, a quote from Albert Einstein is scribbled - "Imagination is more important than knowledge." Above the blackboard hangs a singular American dollar bill set up in a small wooden frame. Upon the frame it is handwritten in black marker pen, "In God We Trust." Behind the counter stands a large modern coffee maker - espresso machine, a glass case filled with fresh pastries, and a soft drink dispenser. A doorway leads to the kitchen behind the counter. The sound of a man and baby laughing can be heard from somewhere beyond the kitchen. An older woman emerges from the kitchen with a large tray of pastries, a proud smile upon her face. The fresh scent floats to the senses of those inside the store. Memories of her childhood come to the younger woman behind the counter. She looks at her surroundings, pleased by the simple activities going on around her. She closes her eyes and breathes in the warm air. With a feeling of beloved peace and undying gratitude, she smiles.

Dream Entry

I was with a woman who reminded me of the woman who plays Monica on Touched By Angel. We were somehow crossing a body of water, like an ocean. I’m not sure how we were crossing, if it was a bridge or a boat. But we were crossing the water. I looked towards the land we were traveling to and noticed two pick up trucks. One truck was moving very fast, from out of the water and onto the beach. The other truck was stationary, and was right in the path of the other truck. It didn’t move and I could tell that they were about to collide. The first truck hit the back of the second, but it wasn’t serious. It only nicked it. Then Monica and I were suddenly on land and we were walking up a small hill. On the hill, we came across what looked like an archeological dig. We found something in the dirt. It was partly covered with dirt. At first I didn’t recognize it. I asked the woman what it was and she was a bit surprised I didn’t know what it was. "It’s a cross," she said. Then I realized I knew what it was, but I had just forgotten. I was happy that I had found it again, like I had lost it. Then I was suddenly inside this mine in the hill. Somehow I knew that Steve and Cinder were in it as well, but I couldn’t see them. There was this open space in the mine, like a window out to the water. I looked out the window and noticed I was a long way up from the ground. Then I saw the pick up truck coming towards the bottom of the hill. For some reason I knew that if the truck went inside the hill, that the roof of the mine would cave in. The ground was too far down to jump, so I realized that I was going to die. Somehow, that didn’t really bother me. The truck somehow drove inside the mine, and the roof started to fall. But it wasn’t like a normal cave in, the roof was like the bottom of an elevator and it slowly made its way down on top of me. I was slowly being crushed, and it didn’t bother me. Instead, I said a simple prayer. "Thank you, Lord," I said. "I am coming home now." As the ceiling slowly pressed down on top of me, I wasn’t scared, but I felt a little relieved. Then all of a sudden, I was outside the mine, on the ground. Monica was there. She had saved me somehow with God’s help. I suddenly remembered Steve and Cinder. Monica called out to Cinder and she came jumping out of the mine. She landed fine and she was well. I asked her, "What about my husband?" Monica looked at me and said, "He made the wrong choice."

A Common Cold

Congesting demons prey upon you like packs of hungry wolves. Spirits dance around, seeping through your air, hoisting their bows towards your vigor. They spin like fireflies around your swollen head. Surroundings no longer provide courage. Exhausted and beaten, your physique attempts to breathe again and again. The spirits sit on your congested chest of airless flesh. They beat and tear at your head playing with your strength. Alas, it feels the hungry demons cease their torture. Panic stricken, you attempt to breathe again. A long inhalation, a beautiful exhalation. Relief creeps upon you. Suddenly, a tardy demon dances before the passage. You fight for control. It is only one demon. Yet the demon is strong. He pulls your weary eyes closed and you know that you have lost. The spirits crash into your chest once more. You lose your last ounce of strength, and bitterly you give in. It’s over now, the demons have won. A forceful rush of air escapes and releases the torment from your chest. You reach for a tissue as someone beside you says, "Bless you."

Writer’s Block

Cascading nothingness whirls in an ever quickening vortex of confused ramblings. The shifting scrawl attempts at expression, but the exertion fails. Virtual ideas hover in the recesses of conception like taunting, torturing specters. Inspiration cowers among cobwebs like a child seeking respite from the blows of an abusive parent. The necessary capacities and faculties are painfully available, yet lie dormant in useless abandonment. Recalled completions compound the torment of stalled existence. The continued process invites frustration and insanity. A lingering plodding wait is the lone solution.

Vampire

You wake, hoping for non-existence. This might be the last time. Perhaps pain will rest with the sun’s delight. But the sun is down and the moon is full. Pleasure is yours and the victim is seasoned. Darkness sheds the smallest fears upon the neck of a helpless one. You feel the hunger, it takes control. Your hope is lost. It’s the night’s divinity that pulls you through. The heart is big, the veins are full. Louder and louder, as the wind shifts his scent. Eyes connect and spirits dance. That blood is yours, he has no chance. The skin is bare, the teeth are sharp. Texture of an apple, so crisp and ripe. How sweet the life blood, how fresh the soul. Drink, drink. How simply he has lost. How quickly it is done. You feel relieved, you feel alive. Go once more to prey on the poor. You laugh, taken over by the night’s control. "Ha! You indigent defenseless ones, how effortlessly controlled! How easily killed by our sun’s death light!" Dance, dance. The sky is blue, sunrise soon. Then run away to your cave once more, and keep on hoping, keep on praying for your non-existence.