Hi There!

If you’re a writer like me, you know how hard it is to write about yourself and make it sound good. So please, as you read this, keep my weakness in mind 🙂 If you’re good at it, please leave me some tips to help me improve! Although I probably won’t write about myself as much as anything else. At least not to this extent.

My name is Destiny. I chose the nickname/username/pen-name/whatever-you-wanna-call-it “Dollfaced Writer” because my mother sometimes playfully calls me “Dollface”. As I continued to wonder what having a blog would be like, I realized it would be a pretty name to use. Then in my senior year of high school my Creative Writing teacher introduced us to a poem that I simply don’t remember well enough to google apparently because I’ve been attempting to find it for the last ten minutes with no luck. Anyways, it was a famous poem about the realistic viewpoint of the life of a doll (if it had a mind to think) inside a dollhouse. Is it depressing? A little bit, but I loved it. It sealed the deal on the name I had chosen to use as a writer besides my real name. In no way, shape, or form does it imply I have the face of a doll. That would mean it’s porcelain or plastic, and honestly that would be extraordinarily creepy.

To give you, the reader, an idea as to what level of writing or what kind of writing you’ll be reading, I’ll give you some backstory. Backstory always enhances a story. Or it makes everything confusing, but I promise that’s not the case for this blog. So, here we go:

My experience as a writer didn’t start until I was eleven years old. However, as a child I learned how to read in one night and couldn’t stop. Reading is most certainly required in order to become the true author you want to be, so I’m glad I took the time to do so in my school years. In sixth grade, my teacher insisted that we write short stories once a month in English. My friends and I decided to be overachievers and made one huge story together. It turned into a series that the class looked forward to hearing every month. Talk about an awesome start.

After that I tried writing stories on my own. Of course the first three were totally horrible and I shredded them a few weeks ago while I asked myself what possessed me to keep the garbage. Aside from them, I actually wrote a few notebooks worth of stories that even now bring tears to my eyes because for some reason I decided to become a very deep, depressive writer. Maybe the stories in sixth grade about raising dragons with my friends on a deserted island and fighting against evil dragons that lived in a volcano there became boring to me?

While going through hormonal teenage years, my writing improved with every story I wrote. Essays in school became second-nature, even enjoyable to my classmates’ disbelief. Not to brag, but my writing was breathtaking in not only their eyes, but also my teachers. Through my high school years, my English teachers used my work as examples and assured my parents I had a future as a writer. I couldn’t believe my ears. Me? A writer? They believed in me like that? It was the best encouragement I could have besides God’s voice booming down and telling me Himself.

Now, having been part of the work force since I graduated several months ago, the stories have come to a halt to be perfectly honest. Even while taking Creative Writing, the stories just wouldn’t pour out like they used to. Poems, short stories, or anything the teacher asked for came easily, but not a full-blown novel like before. Not that the “novels” I wrote earlier were anywhere near being novel material, but I can say confidently they have the potential if I could just find time to rewrite them.

But I can’t rewrite them all without knowing the time I’d pour into them would be worth it.

I think I just found my problem. I’m being too realistic. And that’s exactly why I needed to start this blog: to be reminded why writing meant the world to me. No matter what was going on in real life, my stories kept me sane by keeping me insane. By that I mean I could escape through them. I could create a world that made sense, unlike the one we live in.

So I ask of you, reader, to help me with that. In return I hope to make reading this blog worthwhile. Thank you for giving me a chance to share what I call my purpose and gift with you. Of making sure every word has the chance to make a difference.

Your Fellow Dreamer,

Dollfaced Writer


Akira’s Story – Chapter One: It Can’t Be

As I open my eyes to the fluorescent lights above me, fear overwhelms me. I sit up and my head is flooded with pain. Bad idea. I lie back down and feel a tug on my arm from an IV. I wince at the sight of it.

Obviously I’m in a hospital, but I don’t remember why. I don’t have recollection of any accidents or mishaps. The last thing I remember was sitting at the table while Mom made breakfast. The boys were still sleeping as usual, and I was running late for my class at the university. Everything about that memory is normal, so what happened? Did I have an accident on my way to class and can’t remember? Mom and Dad are gonna kill me!

I sit up again, slowly this time, as someone who looks like a nurse walks in with her head down to look over something on a clipboard. She happens to look up and gasps at the sight of me. Before I can say a word, she races out of the room calling for a doctor.

Oh no, was the accident that bad? They’re that shocked I’m awake? I bet I totalled the truck. I bury my face into my hands and groan: Dad bought me that little truck. If I had destroyed it in some stupid accident, I wouldn’t forgive myself. As I’m preparing for a dozen lectures and making up a million different apologies, the nurse and the doctor walk in. He nods at her, then stares at me.

“Miss, how do you feel?” she asks softly as she makes her way over to my IV. Before she removes it from my arm, she smiles at me and waits for my answer.

“I feel,” My voice cracks so I clear my throat, “I feel fine, besides my head hurting when I sat up. Why, do I have a bad injury?”

Her smile slowly fades as she removes the IV, “No, you’re in complete health. Your head will clear up, it’s had a lot of trau-”

The doctor clears his throat. She tightens her lips and places a band-aid on my arm after wiping it clean. Once I’m bandaged she seems to try collecting herself while smoothing her blonde hair, “She’s all yours, doctor.” She smiles slightly one last time at me then quickly walks out of the room. The doctor turns his slim body to close the door behind her, then fixes his dark eyes on me once again.

He’s not creepy looking, but he is definitely terrifying. He seems serious and critical as no smile appears as he walks over to my bedside. There’s a million lines on his face but no laugh lines whatsoever around his straight lips, though I’m not surprised because he shows no reassurance whatsoever as I flinch when he touches my head. He simply glances at the clipboard, probably the one the nurse had before, and raises his eyebrows to make a new line on his forehead.

I gather up the courage and ask, “The nurse was about to say trauma, wasn’t she? What happened to my head?”

He bites his cheek and says with a surprisingly younger voice than his grey hair lets on, “I can answer that question in two ways if you’ll simply rephrase it. Many things happened to your head. Inside and out.”

“I’m assuming it got bruised from the accident, so what happened inside? Is it bad? Why aren’t my parents here?” I ask anxiously, trying to ignore the little game he’s playing.

He hangs the clipboard up on the end of my bed and says, “As I said, many things happened, especially inside. Many things are going to happen as well. Whether it’s bad or not is up to you. About having visitors, it’s best to wait until you’re ready.”

I can’t stand these cryptic replies, “I’d like some answers. If it is that bad to where I shouldn’t have visitors, why don’t I still have an IV? Shouldn’t I be surrounded by equipment?”

I’m shocked when he smiles and says, “Why? Did you think this was a hospital?”

My jaw drops as he seems to waltz out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The metal on the clipboard shines and catches my eye. I need answers, and that clipboard has them. Despite how badly my head hurts as I do it, I crawl to the edge of my bed and snatch it. As I skim through the pages, I find that I don’t understand anything. It has to be a mistake. These papers must be someone else’s because the information isn’t true.

I throw the board on the floor in frustration as I read the last page that has a list of updates since what I guess was my first examination here…two years ago. I continue reading the updates, trying to get over the shock, but it doesn’t help. I keep reading now and can’t stop. The updates get worse and worse because they aren’t about my condition at all.

These papers have nothing to do with my injury, if I even had one to begin with, or an accident I probably never had. They’re about my family, my past, and my hopeless future. After the last update, I feel like I can’t breathe.

They say you don’t understand what you have until it’s gone.

I understand now.

“One Way for Rosalynn Beaufort”

       It was odd for me to write about a random character I’m not necessarily acquainted with. Usually it takes quite a while to grow on a character and learn everything about them before I can write. But Rosalynn’s character came naturally for me during a Creative Writing assignment. It’s short, but I hope it makes you smile!
       “You’re too young to leave home.” Pa said, trying to sound firm even though his eyes were flooded with guilt.
“Please, Pa, I’m sixteen now. I’ve been saving up my babysittin’ money. I have enough to go halfway.” I clasped my hands together, “I wanna see the world.”
He shook his head and muttered, “Halfway to New York.” I sighed and dropped my hands to my waist. His manner softened, “Lynn, if we had the money, I’d let you go. But I won’t allow my only daughter to travel without a good wad of cash to get her by. I’ve been working my whole life to provide for this family…” He went on his usual tangent about how he had managed to keep us safe and fed through the Depression; I leaned across the store counter and rested my chin on the heels of my hands.
Pa was just saying, “…aside from that, most girls your age would be looking for a husband. Your mama raised you to be a housewife, not a beggar,” when HE walked in.
He was a few inches short of hitting his dark haired head on Pa’s excuse for a storefront. The bell jingled as he opened the door and stopped as it smacked shut behind him. He looked around the store and weaved through the aisles slowly, careful not to tear his business suit or dirty his shiny shoes. I watched as he browsed through our little store, struck by how young and handsome he was.
Pa finally sighed and said, “I can’t give you a one way ticket to the entire world, Rosalynn, but I can let you pick anything you want from this store. You name it. What would you like?”
The handsome stranger looked up from a shelf and caught my stare. In that moment, my heart had found another desire: to never lose sight of those bold blue eyes. I lost my balance for a moment, but Pa caught me and steadied my frame. The stranger quickly ran over, “Are you alright, miss?” His sweet European accent made me dizzy again.
Pa held on tightly to my shoulders, “She’s a little worked up. Wants to travel the world at sixteen. That’s her only birthday wish.”
The man seemed amused and smiled, “A young, pretty girl should never travel alone. My name is Humphrey, I take it you’re Rosalynn? Names like that are rare in London, at least the area I’m from.”
I blinked and tried desperately to catch my voice but didn’t.
Pa sighed with a soft smile, “Let me guess, you know what you want for your birthday now, don’t you?” He laughed and grinned at the answer standing handsomely before him, “What’d you say your name was, son?”

What Now Exactly?

Stories are amazing, I love them to pieces. But sometimes, inspiration comes from other places like our own world and our own hearts. Before running off into the sunset of make believe, I would like to start off with something I feel is important to share with you. As you read this you may wonder why I found this important to bring up, but to be honest I believe I found my purpose and find it my responsibility to encourage you to find yours.

You’ll never understand your purpose in life until you accept that you’re not supposed to understand everything. If you spend your entire life analyzing things and making things more complicated than they really are, then you’ll never discover why you’re alive in the first place.

If only we were born with a personal manuscript telling us how to live our life. If only it told us exactly what to say, do, and think every second of every day. If only it laid out every day of our lives for us, so we wouldn’t have to really struggle to live on our own instinct!

Wait, what?

The only thing close to that is the Bible, but even The Word doesn’t lay out our entire lives for us. It may lay out our eternal life for us and give us instruction on how we should strive to live to the fullest by being Christ-like, but it doesn’t list every single one of us and give each of us a direct plan. Though God has a plan for us, we have the unfortunate job of trying to find His voice to tell us where to go next.

But, is it really unfortunate?

I think not. Hear me out. A few paragraphs ago I said, “If only it laid out every day of our lives for us, so we wouldn’t have to really struggle to live on our own instinct!” Is that really what we want? Do we really want to have the “luxury” of never giving anything a second thought? To actually live life problem and crisis free?

We shouldn’t, because why would we need God? Or even less than Him, a purpose to actually make the journey of life worth while?

We need to stumble and fall while searching for our purpose. If we don’t, then why would it be so important? No decent tale, parable, or story was ever without conflict. No life is more interesting than one with hardship that turned out to be worth every tear or drop of blood. Remember Jesus? He knew it was worth it. He knew we were worth the hardship, because saving us was His purpose. Good things are worth fighting for, aren’t they? Then let’s fight, every day, for something we can’t quite see but are strong enough to put our faith into. Let’s honor Him by finding our purpose. If you don’t believe in Him, at least be encouraged by what I’m saying, because it comes from a place of love.

I encourage you to ask yourself, “what now exactly?” It’s the best question you can ask yourself, because you hold the answer God has placed inside of you.

Your Fellow Dreamer,

Dollfaced Writer