Dear sorcerer, grant me peace. Each night I conjure images and sounds, swaddled in warm blankets. Addicted to the sweetness, dreading the bitterness that follows, I wake with an empty heart. O, good sorcerer, enchant me with the peace I seek. 

Pray tell of a spell to prevent my waking.

Recently, I quit my job. I hated my boss, I hated the hours, and I hated that I left my dreams in the dust. So, I quit. Instead, I work twenty hours a week and barely make enough to keep the collectors from towing my car.

I tricked myself. If I want to live comfortably, I need to write. I need to do freelance work and write every. damn. day.

This is all well and good, but doubt settles over me. I love writing, but am I good enough to purchase? Writing has never been about money for me, but I've made it about that now.

And I feel myself withdrawing, growing frustrated. It feels like a chore.

I want to create fiction. Facts aren't my niche, but facts are what pays. Sometimes, we have to do the stuff we're less passionate about to reach our dreams. At least this time, the work is related to writing. At least this time, it will help me to reach my goals.

I can never stop writing, even if I never reach a point where I can live off of this dream.

There is no evil in the mind

Of an eight-year-old in the creek.

A young boy feels no need to unwind,

Or heed the days of the week.

Those days beneath the bridge I played

Now seem so far away.

With soap in hand and bills unpaid,

I wade waist-deep, dismayed.

My home is clay beside the water,

My bath between the banks.

Last year, they called me "globetrotter,"

Charities gave me thanks.

This world makes little sense to me,

But at least I can speak my views.

Freedom of Speech uninhibited,

When a man has nothing to lose.

Her dreams now rot and wither,

her family all decay,

but that's what happens at Holly House,

when Molly comes to play!

She wasn't in the cellar,

and not beneath the floor.

The chimney here's been all sealed up,

So, Molly's at the door.

If you look into her face,

She'll give you one sweet kiss.

In seven days, alone you'll be,

And taste what Molly missed.

-This poem was originally published on its Facebook page. It was created as part of the premise for a novel I'll eventually write called, "Holly House." The picture is of my niece.-

You are perfect.

Perfectly normal.

But that person is strange?

Listen to my counsel:

Nobody's perfect;

Normal is comparative;

Strange? Your opinion.

So chill with the competitive!

What makes us alike

Outweighs our differences,

So stow the judgment

Based solely on appearances.

Mellie hit the brakes for the thousandth time. If she missed this seminar, the company would never hire her. She let off the brakes to creep along with traffic.

And they stopped again.

"Excuse me, ma'am."

Mellie jolted. A man stood next to her car, crouching to look in at her.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said, grinning despite his worn overalls and badly stained T-shirt. He carried an olive-toned knapsack on his back. "I was hoping you could spare some change?"

"Oh," Mellie said, "Yeah. Yeah, hang on."

With disappointment, she found only pennies in her cup holder. Mellie remembered the thirteen dollars in her pocket, the last of her money.

Hesitating briefly, she handed him eight bucks. "Here, I hope this helps."

"God bless you, ma'am."

"No problem," she said, and drove forward.

Traffic finally broke, but then a lady tripped as she crossed the street. Several large packages tumbled to the ground. Mellie glanced to the clock on her car's dash, sighing, and parked. She sprinted over and helped the woman collect the thin, rectangular parcels.

The brown packaging paper nearly ripped completely off of one.

"Is this a Cremble?" Mellie asked, admiring the fine detail of the oil painting. "I used to paint a little, as a hobby, you know."

"Not many recognize Cremble." The lady smiled, reaching in her purse and handing her a pamphlet. "Stop by the exhibit over here on First Street later."

Mellie thanked her and returned to her car. She loved to paint. She remembered in high school, how she dreamed of painting for the rest of her life.

She started backing her car out, glancing at the time.

A guy on a bicycle pounded on the trunk of her car, cursing at her. Mellie slammed on the brakes, watching the cyclist continue down the road.

She drove forward, put it back in park, and stepped out onto the street.

For as long as she remembered, she considered adulthood synonymous with money. Happiness, the same as money.

No.

Mellie strode down First Street, into the art exhibit. Cocktail dresses and suits filled the room.

"Excuse me, ma'am." The homeless man grinned. "I hear you enjoy painting?"

"Um, well..."

"This exhibit is a fundraiser to help those in need," the woman from the street explained, stepping into view from behind the man.

"Earlier, I was conducting a social experiment. I wanted a video to use for this evening," the homeless man said. "Would you care to say a few words?"

That was four years ago. Now, as she stands in a room of her own art, she reflects. If she denied the Assistant Dean of Hollister Arts Institute those eight dollars, or ignored his assistant when she tripped, Mellie's dreams may have withered.

Luck is not a mystical or random force; it is a return of that which you place into the world.