Tag Archives: Dreams

Crossing The Sea

19 Mar

The page feels extra blank today, and I think maybe I have nothing to say.

But that is a lie, because the thoughts don’t stop rolling.

I try to live in the present, but my mind takes me far in the future.


To the smell of salt on skin, and tiny hands pressed into mine.

To walking by a paperback, my heart printed and on sale for $9.99.

To a place a young girl can rest her head, now only haunted by nightmares not reality.

To bad days and good days, love growing and an aching missing.

To emotions I can’t anticipate, or I will be overwhelmed now.

To all the things I’ve wanted so bad finally coming to pass, only to want more.


To wondering at the woman I have become, and I who will continue to be.

Hopefully stronger.

Hopefully less afraid.

Hopefully less prone to believe the bullshit and the lies,

or to put up with them.


Hopefully more myself than ever before.

In love and content.

Creating and thriving.

A peacemaker and a fighter.


Today, this is as vulnerable as I am going to be.

Hinting and scratching the surface of tension that floats upon the great wide sea within me.

But the question remains: How do I cross this ocean, that separates my dreams and my reality?


The only thing preventing me is a a few hours of time, and a few miles of fear.  

To All My Dreamers

21 Feb

To All My dreamers,


This one is for you.

To those of you that wake up with a gnawing passion to create something, anything.

And when the gnaw fades into hunger and doubt,

You can’t help but think,


“What the hell am I doing?”

“What have I done with my life?”

“What am I really accomplishing?”

“Maybe I should just give in, and get a real job.”


These words are poison and you know it,

But you let them sink in long enough to make you sick,

Then you release them.

Because something in you won’t give in.

Something knows it would be a slow and miserable death.


Because that thing

That thing you just have to do,

Is what makes you fully human

And fully immortal, all at once.

It is what makes you bleed and break and laugh and cry,

And start all over when you’re not giving it everything.


That thing

Causes you to realize you are made up of dirt and stars, 

To see your humanity face-to-face,

And to rise above it into the endless sky.


To those who’ve been ridiculed, criticized or even worse, ignored.

To all whose expressions of art drip with beauty and meaning, yet they are treated like common trash,


I see you.

I see your excruciating struggle to birth something the world has never seen,

Only to have it be discarded.

I see your swollen eyes, your ripped manuscript, your time spent in the mirror questioning yet again if you are good enough.


Please believe,

You are.

Please believe,

Someone in the world needs to see the way you express how to be human. 

Someone needs to know they are not alone.


But also please know, the world owes you nothing.

Not fame or recognition, wealth, a platform or “success.”

But once you really believe that, you will be free to create.


So please, Dreamer, don’t ever stop creating.

Don’t ever stop imagining.

Don’t ever stop dreaming.

Don’t ever stop pursuing that thing that makes you fully alive.

Don’t ever give up who you are for “the easy road.”

Don’t listen to those voices that tell you that you can’t or you shouldn’t,

Especially when it’s your own.


Wake up another day. Be thankful for a full mind, a heart, hands, and a voice.

Be thankful for the gift that runs through your veins and drives you to be extraordinary. 


 Go, create something beautiful.


How To Kill Your Dreams

6 Mar

So here I am again. Trying to write some kind of truth.

There’s this long blog entry sitting in draft mode in my wordpress dashboard, that I’ve been working on for too long. It’s one of those things that seemed like a good idea to write, but when the words come, they seemed disingenuous.

So I’ll try to be honest here.

Does anyone else get really exhausted when following your dreams?

My dream, since I was three, is to be a writer.

Sometimes it’s a love-hate relationship.

(Maybe everything wonderful and beautiful in life is?)

Obviously, the love is greater than the hate. I shouldn’t even use the word hate, maybe it’s a little strong.. how about passionately dislike?

Does anyone else spend all this time creating something incredible and than have moments where you ha… passionately dislike your work?

Day in and day out I am attempting to craft words and sometimes it’s just mentally exhausting. What’s mostly mentally exhausting is the self-judgment and doubt I allow to come in and take over.

Every so often I imagine what my life would look like if I took the easy way out.

You know, spent my time doing something easier. Something I didn’t necessarily care about, but something I didn’t passionately dislike either. Something I could be apathetic about, not use my mind, just sort of melt into it and do it without really struggling through it.

That lazy part of me feels like this would be amazing. Just you know, to chill for a little bit. Work somewhere where I actually got a consistent income, not be broke all the time, save some money, not feel the pressure to do anything noteworthy or spectacular.

After all, my life has been so intense. I am always jumping from one crazy venture to the next.

It’s like I am always thrown into risk without even stopping to ask myself it that what I really want.

Maybe I am being dramatic. I tend to be that way. What was I even writing about?

Oh yah, contemplating killing my dreams for comfort.

Ouch. That one hurt. (The truth does.)

As I get older, it feels harder to hold on to the energy I had as a youth.

And… the faith….

I used to have no problem believing big things.

Lately, it’s like this weird, older, responsible version of myself is suddenly trying to clip my own wings,

“But Brooke, you need to be practical. Don’t assume things are just going to happen for you. You’ve had your adventures, it’s time to settle down a little.”

I used to yell at this woman, try to strangle her, but lately I am staring at her all glossy-eyed and hypnotized saying,

“Yes… maybe you are right… it sounds nice. I am just going to nap a little bit…”

Forty years later, I wake up and my life has passed me by. All the books I wanted to write someday are just figments of my faded imagination. All the places I wanted to go, all the things I wanted to do, are just stories from someone else’s life.

I don’t want to pull a Rip Van Winkle.

I don’t want to live my life asleep.

I don’t want give in to the invisible pressures of “growing up” and letting my dreams die.

But it’s so easy to do. So easy. It starts with the little things. The moments. The way I spend my day. The thoughts I allow in my head.

How do you kill your dreams?

One negative thought at a time.

One justification at a time.

One obeying the voice of “being practical” at a time.

One minute at a time.

So just in the writing this I am relieved. I am relieved I am currently cognitive enough to realize this as I the words flow out. I am relieved I am brave enough to put this on my blog.

Because the very act of letting these thoughts out is an act of rebellion against that part of me that would slowly let my dreams whither up and die. 

I won’t.

I won’t.

I won’t.

Because if I do, what’s the point of even existing?

“Hold fast to dreams, For if dreams die, Life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly, Hold fast to dreams, For if dreams go, Life is a barren field, Frozen with snow.” -Langston Hughes

Narcissistic Notes From My Seventeen-Year-Old Self

2 Nov

Most of the time I remember my teenage self as being super insecure, wanting to be anyone other than me.

Then I come across little gems like this:

I know that I have what it takes to be an author. I know I have what it takes to put  my name on New York Times bestseller. I don’t want to be an author, I want to be the best of the best. Ever. I wont settle for anything else. I have been thinking what does it take to write a best-selling novel? A totally original idea. No one wants to read about everything they have already heard a million times. I need a totally original idea. Something that has never even be thought up or dreamed of by anyone before. That is what will set me apart. I need completely original characters, completely original plot and setting. I need to write something that will grab at the reader’s heart, soul and mind, forcing them to stay up through late hours of the night just to read one more chapter. It need to have a crazy twisted plot that will leave them shocked in the end. I need to write something that will make the reader laugh and cry and stir up something deep inside them that changes the way they view themselves and the world around them forever. Lately I have been asking myself, “What does it take to think this up?” It takes an extraordinary imagination, a certain randomness. It takes a certain perspective on people. Further more, it takes a willingness and self-discipline to sit long hours at the computer writing and writing and living and breathing this story to make it come to life. I figure if I write enough, I am bound to come up with something sooner or later. Brooke Luby will be  written across the smooth cover of that certain book with the unknown title. I will do it.  Sometimes I will try to imitate a certain writer, thinking since THEY have a book published, THEY must be a truly great writer.  I need to learn to erase any writing style I have envied, any form I have been taught, then I will learn to think outside the box, then is when the true originality will flow and the 6 billion will see, feel , READ my soul but not completely grasp it because they can not. They may feel like they can relate, the may feel a connection, but there is one simple fact that will keep them from utterly grasping the words which they will soon all read- THEY ARE NOT ME.


I wrote that when I was seventeen, a few months before I graduated High School.

I admire my own inner tenacity, despite my “slight” narcissism and bad punctuation. (Which I, still struggle with: even though I’am super amazing! 😉 )

When I was packing to move a few months ago, I found a CD with the title scrawled in sharpie, “Writing & Stuff to Save.” It was a treasure trove of memories from my Senior year of High School; terrible half finished stories about suicidal teenagers, notes of advice to friends, and lots of really bad poetry. I had some good laughs. When I read the above statement, I giggled at how ridiculous it was, but I was also surprised at my boldness. Then I realized maybe I have lost something along the way.

Maybe in my desire to avoid pride, I’ve avoided seeing myself as the hero I am meant to be.

Maybe in my “maturing,” my attempts to see the world for what it is, I lower my expectations so I am not disappointed, putting to sleep the dreams of my childhood.

Sure, maybe that girl cared more about her name being out there then the beautiful and sacred process of writing , but she knew without a doubt what she was born to do.

At times I still know, but at times I let “practicalities” speak, damning voices of reason.

After all, I am 26 and I have no degree in literature. I’ve never even taken a college course. I still can’t spell. My grammar sucks. (As if you haven’t figure that out) I haven’t been published anywhere in print. Any attempts to be published have been rejected or ignored.

Of course, I haven’t tried that hard.

But right now I am working on an amazing book. I like to say that it’s one part retelling of a classic story, one part prophetic commentary on the church, and one part cookbook. It’s not my original idea, rather a collaborative effort that I am convinced came straight from God himself.

(Whoa, that’s a lofty statement. Not really. Even atheist artists will admit inspiration comes from something outside of their own minds, that they are simply willing vessels telling a greater story.)

So, this book may not make it to the New York Times Best Seller List, but at the end of the day I go to bed satisfied. I know despite the hard work, despite the times of not believing who God has made me to be, the times I participate in this awkward dance jumping between self-loathing and narcissism,

I am doing what I love.

I am living my dream, and it’s a gift to be able to do so.

So yes, maybe I can learn a thing or two from that funny seventeen year old still rattling around inside me somewhere, wanting desperately to fit in and stand out at the same time, really just wanting what we all want: to be loved and happy.

Maybe I can tell her she is ok, she will be loved, she will live an adventure.

She will write things like no one has ever written, simply because,

no one else is me.

%d bloggers like this: