...And Blast Off!

Do you want to know what my dreams look like?

They look something like this.

Or maybe...

 

Funny Tragic Crazy Magic

List Price: $13.99 

Add to Cart

Authored by Sheena Boekweg

Edition: First EditionKeep your head down.

Don't make waves.

Don't let anyone know you're a freak.

LARISSA ALVAREZ is a witch. Magic was useful enough to make her pretty,

but beyond transformation runes, Larissa has ignored her mom's pleas to

learn about her magical heritage on the grounds that it's just too weird.

But when her family is killed, and the powerful book of runes Larissa

was supposed to inherit disappears, she realizes she's not going to

survive without magic. Worse still, she's falling in love with her only ally,

her best friend Joe, who has a secret that could kill them both.

Now magic is the only way she can reclaim her heritage and save the

boy she loves. Larissa dives into the world of magic she's always ignored

and finds herself caught in the middle of an age-old war between

Witches and Mages.

She may be poorly trained.

She may not have anyone to trust.

But it's time to start making waves.

Publication Date:

Apr 01 2013

ISBN/EAN13:

1482793792 / 9781482793796

Page Count:

306

Binding Type:

US Trade Paper

Trim Size:

5.06" x 7.81"

Language:

English

Color:

Black and White

Related Categories:

Fiction / Romance / Fantasy

this.

But mostly...

They look like this.

Funny Tragic Crazy Magic is now available here, here, and here. And now on goodreads.

~Sheena

p.s.
Next week, I promise to talk about something other than my book. Like writing stuff. For realsies. And thanks A-Z Challenge people, especially Arlee Bird for starting up the challenge. I'm looking forward to meeting so many new people!

In Which I Get Good News...

Thursday. Last Thursday.

I'll set the scene for you. 

We received an offer on our house the day before, and after 21 showings I was ready for the whole "Let's sell the house!" phase of my life to shift to a "Let's go have our teeth pulled!" phase which  seems less uncomfortable.

 On top of the worry about where we would live if the offer was accepted, and the worry that the offer would fall through, two weeks before I had decided I wanted to self-publish FTCM.  I had a deadline I wanted to launch the book, and I had to get the final comma/grammar check done that Thursday, in order to  start selling by the deadline. 

I was really, really, close. Everything was formatted, and my husband designed this amazing cover for me.

Full size so you can appreciate the gorgeousness.

We were 99% ready to go, and I was so excited.  So that's where I was last Thursday. Final formats for my book interrupted by checking real estate websites to find the dream house. I was in a happy cheerful land of my own making, lazily skipping along to the blissful sounds of my girl Beyonce.

Then I checked my email. I saw, through the great deals and updates for blogs I follow, a return submission from Angry Robot books. After checking out a few emails, I clicked on it, expecting the rejection.

Dear Sheena, I read in a sing song sarcastic voice that seems to make the sting of rejection hurt less. Thank you for submitting a sample from Funny Tragic. 

This is where it got weird.

 I enjoyed what I read, and would like to read more.

Wait, what? I asked, taking a break from my sarcastic inner voice. I sometimes get so into the weird voice, I don't fully catch what I read. I reread the first few sentences again, and then went on.

Please send the full novel to...

Wait....What?!

I read the entire email once more and then jumped away from my computer. I stood there, looking at the computer screen, frozen like a twitching bunny in front of a semi.

I called my husband, who asked, "What does this mean about self publishing?" I stood there, trying to remember how to speak English. "We do this first." I answered eventually. 

I called my mom and screamed at the phone when she didn't pick up. Then I emailed my Proser buddies, told Facebook, and Hatrack, and basically every person who could possibly care that a publisher enjoyed what they read and wanted to read more. When we found out the counter offer on my house fell through, I was buoyed up by the brilliant balloon that is "I enjoyed what I read and would like to read more." that I don't care if I have to clean the house for 21 more showings. 

I didn't think that it would happen. I had given up hope.  Now this random positive email doesn't mean that they'll publish my book, but it does give me my hope back.

Hope is scary.

I think self publishing is a brilliant way to get a book out to new readers. It's fun to have full control over your book, over the design, the formatting, the approval. And I'm married to a marketing/ graphic designing/ brilliant man who helps me format, and designs beautiful covers for me. It makes sense, for me, to self publish. It seems logical.

But dreams aren't logical. Dreams have their own timing. And no matter how scary, how much logic you can put between you and your dreams, you just have to do it anyway.

Speaking of which, check this link for fraggles, Ben Folds Five brilliance, and the best pep talk I can come up with via the internet.

I'm still dreaming.

~Sheena

What I'm working on now: Ironwood letters. For serious.

I'm a Writer/ I'm an Actress

I'm the one in the green.
And in the grin.

This is my favorite picture of me ever. It's a copy of a copy, so I apologize for the low photo quality.

 This is me in my very first play. I love this picture, because I can see my joy reaching deep down to my fingertips.

I love acting. It brings me a kind of joy I don't feel doing anything else. There's something about reading an author's words, and knowing exactly how they should be spoken, knowing exactly what kind of inflection will bring the audience to laughter, and what kind of pause will bring an audience to feeling emotion, that I can't really explain. It just feels natural to me, like it's ingrained into my spirit, like I was created to do it. It's something that I can do without trying, and it's where I shine.

I was in at least one play every year from the time I was that old, until nine years ago. I loved it.

While I was in High School though, I learned something that filtered my perception on acting. People don't like you when you are better than them at something. Boys don't like girls who are weird, and when I was seventeen, I learned that acting was weird.

But I didn't care. Acting was part of who I was. When I played a character, everything made sense. I could speak, communicate, feel, shine, without even trying. I was the best. I could be in a room with a hundred kids, and I was the best. When you're a teenager who hates herself, being good at something meant I had hope, a reason to exist, a way to keep going, even when life sucked.

When I got to college, I wasn't the best anymore. I didn't understand where all these talented kids came from, or why they kept stealing the parts I should have been given. Reality snuck in, and I had to work my butt off, just to be noticed. I saw so many people who were so talented, so driven, living in a culture they created of alcohol, parties, infidelity, homosexuality, and creative genius. As a sheltered  young Mormon creative girl, I was lost. I wasn't good enough to fit in with the brilliance of the culture, and I wasn't bad enough to feel comfortable with the questionable morality. By trying to figure out who I was, and what I'd be, somehow I lost the joy in acting that I knew as that little girl in the picture.

That's where I was when I fell in love with the handsomest man that ever existed. We created children and a life that has brought me a different kind of joy. A brilliant beautiful happiness, that I wouldn't trade for anything; not for Broadway, or SNL, or any other dream I once had.

For nine years now, I haven't been in a play. For nine years, I thought I was okay with that. I expressed myself through my writing.  That should have been enough.

But in those nine years, I've been sad.

 I've been tired, and false. Something was missing, and I pretended so hard not to know what it was.

 I found myself trying to play the character of the Perfect Normal Mormon Woman, and hating myself for failing. I was so busy trying to fit myself into a mold that no one told me to try on, that I didn't understand why I felt broken all the time.

This last week, I tried out for a play. I tried not to. I really tried not to. I came up with as many excuses as I could for why I shouldn't do it, and I have plenty. But I still did it.

Maybe it's the nine year break I took, but that one hour of being the person I was created to be made me feel joy all the way to my fingertips again. It's not Broadway.  It's not living the dream. But I'm being authentic. I'm being the person I was created to be, and it feels SO good to stretch out of the mold no one used to create me.

Dream. Do it for the love. Do it because you can. Do it because when you shine, when you are the person you were created to be, you give permission to other people to be themselves.

But mostly, do it because it makes you happy down to your fingertips.
~Sheena

Olympian Effort

I love the Olympics.

 I always have.

This is me
 in the
Paige Turner Era.

 So much so that when I was a kid, I used to pretend I was an Olympic Gymnast named Paige Turner. 

(For realsies. I was born to be a Proser.) 

I don't know exactly what it is I love about the Olympics. Maybe it's the pageantry, or the history, or the fact that every nation is joining together in peace to try to be their best. Or maybe it's the Olympian's themselves-- dreamers who've sacrificed so much for this one day, for one race or competition, and success or defeat is one stuck landing, or step out of bounds, away.

I think writing is like that. There are more Prosers out there than there are Pros. More writers will not receive medals, or awards, or even shelf space than there are writers who will.

And that's okay.

In fact, that's kind of awesome.

I tell my kids all the time that I believe in them. I tell them that they can do anything they want to do, be anything they want to be.  Rock Star? Absolutely! Doctor? Sure, I'll just pay for that medical school with my imaginary shoe box full of money. Olympic Gold Medalist in swimming?  Yes, but that means you'll have to learn how to actually put your head under water, Child of Mine.

Truth is though, they probably can't do everything (Brilliant and perfect though they are). 

Am I helping them by lying to them, or am I hurting them?

One of the problems that happens when people believe in you, is that their belief turns heavy when reality starts poking in her head. It can  start to feel like you aren't working to achieve a dream for yourself, but because your teachers, or parents expect you to. And then, when you can't, or even when you don't want to do your dream anymore, it feels like you are failing them.

 There is nothing so soul crushing, I've found, as realizing you aren't being everything your parents and teachers dreamed you would be.

I've started to change my words. Now, whenever my children say they want to be something, I say, "I just want you to be the very best YOU you can be."

Do you think, even for a second, that the slowest Olympian's parents aren't beyond proud of their child? Can you think, even for a moment, that the athlete who places last, or who doesn't qualify for the final race, isn't an Olympian? 

 An Olympian isn't an Olympian because of a medal they wear. What makes a person an Olympian is the effort that brought them there-- the sacrifices, the heart, and the stubbornness.

A writer isn't a writer because they've been published either. What makes a person a writer is the effort, the heart, and the stubbornness that they won't give up. What makes a writer is...writing. Simple. So often our dreams, and the dreams of others reflected on us, can get in the way of the words. So often, fear of not achieving dreams, and often fear of ACTUALLY achieving our dreams, gets in the way of putting words on a page.

Advice for today: stop focusing on the pressure of the podium, and just be your best. Have fun. Break the rules. Go crazy.

We can only do the very best we can, so be proud, because your best IS enough.

~Sheena

The Long-Awaited Beyoncé Post.

I've been challenged by my friend Maurine to write more honestly, and from the heart. 


So here goes.


I'm secretly Beyoncé.

Same Person

Several months ago, in the first official Proser post, I mentioned how I think I'm like Beyoncé, and it wasn't a joke. I hear her music, and it's like our brains are the same brain. I close my eyes, (and my curtains), and I get to booty-shaking.


Yes, my kids do laugh at me, ( how'd you know?).  They don't see what's happening in my head. In my mind, I'm wearing a leotard, and the spotlights are bright and trained on me, and everyone watching is thinking, "Dang, that girl is talented."


The difficulties come when I'm in my car, and one of Beyoncé's songs come on the radio. There are no curtains in my minivan, and I can't  listen to  Beyoncé  without singing along. I shake my hair, and shimmy my shoulders, so every car around me gets a free  Beyoncé  show.


Aren't they lucky?


But the other drivers aren't grateful for the Grammy Award quality show that's going on in my head. No, there is sometimes laughing and pointing, and I suddenly realize that I am a white girl/ mom/ driving a minivan/ making a fool out of myself.

My Hero Lucille Ball.

It makes me feel like Lucy Ricardo.  Lucy wants, more than anything, to be in show business. The problem is, she's not a good singer, or dancer, or actor. She is all desire, and ambition, and light on talent.


I feel like that.


 I want to be a writer, more than anything. I've always been this way. I started my first novel in fifth grade for crying out loud. I'm trying. I write almost every day. I submit my stories, and my novels. I'm doing everything I can.


But most of the time, I feel like I'm putting on a costume, and looking ridiculous, as I stand with my heart on my sleeve, and every drop of talent I have don't have on display.  People laugh. People ignore me. I make a fool out of myself. I fail, even though I want so hard to succeed. 


I can't stop, because I believe in myself to the point of delusion. In my head, I think that everyone who reads my stuff will think, "Dang, that girl is talented."


But that's not what happens.  I realize occasionally that I'm ignoring my children/house/ reality, so I can look foolish.


My soul sister  Beyoncé  know what I'm talking about.

Sweet Dreams.

My guilty pleasure, I ain't going no where

Baby long as you're here I'll be floating on air

'Cause you're my

You can be a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare

Either way I don't wanna wake up from you

(Turn the lights on)

I mention you when I say my prayers

I wrap you around all of my thoughts

Boy you're my temporary high

I wish that when I wake up you're there

To wrap your arms around me for real

And tell me you'll stay by side

Clouds filled with stars cover the skies

And I hope it rains, you're the perfect lullaby

What kinda dream is this?

This just took a turn for the sad,  ( Beyoncé  will do that). I'm not trying to get sympathy, or support, or even adulation. That's annoying. I'm just trying to be honest as challenged.


See, that's part of the difficulties about having dreams. Not everyone who dreams will have their dream come true. Not everyone who dreams is good enough for it to happen. And you don't know which person you are, so you can't stop trying, just in case. Years pass, and there's no guarantee that all that effort will pay off.


Sometimes dreams are actually nightmares, dragging their victims around by their hopes.


 Either way, I don't wanna wake up. Because in my head...it's beautiful.


 So I close the curtains so it's just me and the bright lights, (and occasionally a leotard,) and I get to booty-shaking. 


Talented or not, successful or not, I love to dance, and I love to write. Who cares about the destination anyway? I find joy in the dreaming.


I'm not gonna quit singing and dancing in my minivan when Single Ladies comes on, even though people may laugh. It might be the only time they laugh the whole day. Why on earth would I want to stop? 


I'm not gonna quit writing when the inspiration hits me either, because I write for me.


I don't need an ever after to be happy.

Idea Hunting

There are many things in writing that I struggle with: characterization, writing stories shorter than 10,000 words, pacing (dear god, pacing)….  But one thing that has always come easily to me: ideas.

In a magical, perfect world, ideas would rain from the sky, or grow on trees.  That hasn't quite happened to me, but back when I started writing seriously, I'd have crazy, full story-length dreams. For a new writer, it was extremely convenient.  But there were two problems:

1) Even the most perfect dream story was not entirely flush with logic, and some of the more bizarre (and cool) occurrences took too much time to explain within the story.

2) A few years later, I stopped having those sorts of dreams.

I'm actually not all that upset.  The dream stories were in general to be more trouble than they're worth. So I've had to adjust.  Lots of authors like to say that they find inspiration everywhere, throughout their everyday lives. That has certainly happened for me... but it just seems to take way too long. So instead of waiting for ideas to come to me, I've learned to go out hunting for them.

My current favorite source is writing prompts. Prompts tend to range from a simple concept (such as that anthology Dark Faith I was writing for, to detailed descriptions of plots or even worlds.  The ones that work best for me are the ones that provide multiple seemingly unrelated objects or concepts that I can combine as I wish. 

Pictures can be another of my favorite sources of inspiration. The journal With Painted Words has a monthly contest where each story must be inspired by the month's picture. But that's the only journal I know of. One of my other favorite sources for pictures is Wikimedia Commons and their annual featured photo contest (here are the 2010 winners). 

For example, the following picture pretty much demands its own story. (click for larger size)

photo by Mayquel, from wikimedia commons

It looks abandoned, so whose laundry is that? And why do the top floors look like a separate house, like it once sat at ground level, until the lower floors rose from the dirt, pushing the old house up closer to the sky?

Once I find a prompt, I sit down at the computer and pour every thought I have onto paper, until I find an interesting one (like a house rising slowly from the ground, still brown with dirt - why would that happen? Fairies? Aliens? House is alive? It's a reflection of someone's subconscious?)

As another example, the Liberty Hall Flash Challenge (link below) once had this as their prompt.

Cazadora de Astros, by Remedios Varo

I got a poorly written flash story out of the challenge, but the idea from that challenge keeps growing and changing, and now it's slated to be my next novel.  (Melanie, I think you read it when it was a novella - this is "Swallowed the Moon" I'm talking about, in case you remember). 

As a bonus, Remedios Varo is now my favorite artist (she's a surrealist, a contemporary of Salvador Dali).  Basically every single one of her paintings is a story.  Here's a page with a bunch of her works, or you can do a Google image search to see her many, many gorgeous paintings.

Not every prompt leads to a novel.  But one of the things I've found about writing is that pretty much every aspect of it takes lots and lots of practice.  The same is true with hunting down ideas - I have pages and pages of half-finished prompts and really terrible ideas.  But the more I practice, the faster I come up with ideas, and the easier it is to identify the great ones.

 Here are some links to good sources of prompts. There are far more out there than I have space to include.

• Hatrack River's Writers Workshop has a contest section (run by its members; anyone can start a contest).
• Liberty Hall Writer's Forum runs weekly flash challenges and short story challenges.  You email them for the prompt each week - and if you're just gathering ideas, like me, you're not required to enter.
• Polluto has some of the most detailed prompts I've ever seen.
• Penumbra has monthly themed issues.
• I like the idea of the Ancient New Anthology, where they ask you to present a society that has one invention way ahead of its time (I wanted to do a medieval society with genetic testing, but then I started to wonder how they would get the energy to run the equipment, and if that counted as two technologies, or if I could make that stuff up, and could you really do it without computers, and then I had a headache and had to go lie down).
• With Painted Words has a new picture each month as a prompt.
• This anthology has a cool picture as a prompt.

Happy idea hunting.

Sun Tzu's The Art of War

I’ve been reading Sun Tzu’s The Art of War.

Happy Valentine's Day.

It's been interesting. As a writer, I'm used to putting two armies at war, (good and evil, love and conflict, humor verses dread), and I've learned more than I expected.

But the thing that taught me the most was on the very first page of the introduction. This is a biography of Sun Tzu by Ssu-ma Chien...

Sun Tzu Wu was a native of the Ch'i Stat. His ART OF WAR brought him to the notice of Ho Lu, King of Wu.

 Lu said to him: " I have carefully perused your 13 chapters. May I submit your theory of managing soldiers to a slight test?" 

Sun Tzu replied: "You may."

 Ho Lu asked: "May the test be applied to women?" The answer was Yes, again in the affirmative, so arrangements were made to bring 180 ladies out of the Palace. 

Sun Tzu divided them into two companies, and placed on of the King's favorite concubines at the head of each.

He then bade them all take spears in their hands, and addressed them thus: "I presume you know the difference between front and back, right hand and left hand?" The girls replied :Yes.

 Sun Tzu went on: "When I say "Eyes front," you must look straight ahead. When I say "Left turn," you must face towards your left hand. When I say "Right turn," you must face towards your right hand. When I say, "About turn," you must face right round towards your back." Again the girls assented.

 The words of command having been thus explained, he set up the halberds and battle-axes in order to begin the drill. Then, to the sound of drums, he gave the order "Right turn."

 But the girls only burst out laughing. 

Sun Tzu said: "If words of comment are clear and distinct, if orders are not thoroughly understood, then the general is to blame."

 So he started drilling them again, and this time gave the order "Left turn," whereupon the girls once more burst into fits of laughter. 

Sun Tzu: "If words of command are not clear and distinct, if orders are not thoroughly understood, the general is to blame. But if his orders ARE clear, and the soldiers nevertheless disobey, then it is the fault of their officers."

See...
 love letter...Valentines Day...
it all makes sense.

 So saying, he ordered the leaders of the two companies to be beheaded.

 Now the king of Wu was watching the scene from the top of a raised pavilion; and when he saw that his favorite concubines were about to be executed, he was greatly alarmed and hurriedly sent down the following message: "We are now quite satisfied as to our general's ability to handle troops. If We are bereft of these two concubines, our meat and drink will lose their savor. It is our wish that they shall not be beheaded." 

Sun Tzu replied: "Having once received His Majesties commission to be the general of his forces, there are certain commands of His Majesty which, acting in that capacity, I am unable to accept." 

Love letter...Denied.

Accordingly, he had the two leaders beheaded, and straightway installed the pair next in order as leaders in their place. 

When this had been done, the drum was sounded for the drill once more; and the girls went through all the revolutions, turning to the right or to the left, marching ahead or wheeling back, kneeling or standing, with perfect accuracy and precision, not venturing to utter a sound. 

Then Sun Tzu sent a messenger to the King saying: "Your soldiers, Sire, are now properly drilled and disciplined, and ready for your majesties inspection. They can be put to any use that their sovereign may desire; bid them to go through fire and water, and they will not disobey."

...

I find that fascinating. So often I've read books that spend a ton of words watching a soldier learn how to use the sword, or a gun, or train physically for whatever task they must accomplish. I think that can be a waste of words. I think anyone anywhere could kill another person, with anything, if they have the correct mindset.

Writer Warrior

We’ve been talking a lot about focus here at The Prosers, and this story really struck me. I feel like one of those women sometimes. Embarrassed, like I’m dressed up to be a writer, but really I’m just a giggly young girl. Whenever I feel unfocused, it’s because, I now realize, it’s not a life or death thing if I become a writer. 

My family won’t suffer if I don’t, the world won’t even notice if my name is never on a spine of a library book that some fourteen year old girl will pull down. It’s not life and death for me.

But it might be for that young girl.

 I can remember several books that saved my life when I was a teenager, and several more that just distracted me from how hard my life was. And I lived a privileged and simple life, with no great tragedy.

But, even that isn’t enough to really change my focus, and turn me into a soldier.

The truth is...It is a life and death thing. Everyone of us are going to die someday. I’m going to die someday.

 I refuse to die with my stories still inside me.

With the publishing world the way it is right now, anyone can publish a book and get a few readers. Anyone anywhere can find an audience IF the have the correct mindset, and push through till the sound of the drum.

I need to stop being embarrassed, or weak, or scared, or too busy, or not dedicated. Because someone needs to write the stories in my head, and no one else is going to write them, except for me.

I wonder now, what happened to those concubines, those one hundred, and...now seventy eight women, who were trained as soldiers. What happened next? There's a story there, a cool story, and if I'm not going to tell it, then who will? 

I don't want to be forgotten, and I don't want those girls, and the other characters who show up in my head, to become forgotten either.

And I'm the only one who can protect them.

One in a Million Special

So I grew up with this kid Johnny Madsen. We weren't ever close friends, mostly because he was a really cute boy, and as a boy crazy girl, that meant I didn't ever talk to boys.

Logical, right.

Anyhow, I remember Johnny Madsen often because of my fifth grade teacher. One day in class she asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. Everyone raised their hand and said things like, "I want to be a doctor," or a firefighter, or a mom. I raised my hand to say that I...Sheena then Dabel... wanted to become a movie star. Luckily for me, the teacher picked on Johnny Madsen before she picked me. Because Johnny said he wanted to be in the NFL.

The teacher, (I don't remember her name, but I do remember her really horrible haircut.) then proceeded to explain why that dream was foolish. She said that in classrooms all around the country there were kids dreaming of becoming professional athletes, or actors, or singers, and it just wasn't going to happen for ninety-nine percent of them. For most of those kids, she said, the closest they are going to get to being in the NFL is to watch it on TV. Then she looked pointedly at Johnny and said, "Do you really think you are one in a million special?"

I remember this, because Johnny, this tall scrawny kid with a mess of black shiny hair and gorgeous eyes, got royally mad at the teacher. He was usually pretty quiet, but on this day, the normally soft spoken Johnny he basically yelled at the teacher and told her she was mean and dumb and wrong.

After she sent him to the principal's office, she looked around the room, "So how about the rest of you," she asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

My hand stayed hidden under my desk.

I think about her now, this nameless teacher with a bad haircut, as her voice tells me that I am wasting my time trying to become something special. I think about her as I get discouraged, and I think about her after I receive a vicious rejection.

What am I doing? Do you really think YOU are one in a million special?

And then I think about Johnny Madsen. That picture...right up there...that's of him playing in the NFL.

www.nfl.com/player/johnmadsen

Now it's true, not everybody who dreams get to wake up and realize that they are living their dream. But some people do.

But the fact is,  it's not something that you just wake up to make happen. I think about the hours and effort Johnny had to put in at the gym to go from that scrawny kid to that hulking giant. I think about the hours he spent on the field, the practices, the injuries, the hits he had to stand up and walk away from. He could have quit at anytime, but he didn't. I think about the stubbornness it takes to go from one in a million who dream, to become one of the few who are ready to become selected.

Now I can't choose if I will ever be "drafted" so to speak. But I can show up. I can practice. I can prepare, and hopefully when the day comes I will be ready to say, "Pick me, Pick me."

Hopefully, by then, I'll be ready.

Really, I don't think the odds are one and a million. I think it's much closer to fifty fifty. It'll either happen, or it won't. Fifty fifty.

But it'll be my choice if I'm ready.

So... Mz... whatever your name is... I, Sheena now Boekweg, want to be a writer.

Go ahead, tell me it's not going to happen.  See if the principal can save you from my wrath.

:)

p.s. How about you? Want to join me and say, I...[state your name] want to be...[state your dream]?