Dreaming Dreams

by Brenda on August 13, 2014

A Writer's DreamsI wonder as I always do about living my dreams in Technicolor. I fret about the possibility of my dreams being overwritten by fate’s ruthless pen. Even considering the likelihood of not seeing the fantasy of living out my days penning stories for others rocks me to my core. My lower lip quivers, my heart quickens—not in the way it does when I see tall, dark, and come-hither—and requires a handful of tropical fruit flavored Tums to beat down the panic.

It’s the sort of feeling that tears at the fabric of the rose-colored sheets lining the imaginary room where I create my magical realities. Having an outlet keeps me in harmony, but it also reminds me dreams are only dreams unless I force myself to see them outside of my head. It’s takes a strong heart muscle (strong enough to withstand disappointment), reckless abandonment (enough to push and challenge the status quo), and dedication (the relentless, industrial, gritty resolve kind that weathers doubt and rejection). Every dream deserves at least this much.


And even then…


It might not be enough. Or it may mean the dreamer (me) has to double down and keep at it. Being a flawed human I sometimes complain to the Universe when it takes more than it gives. I have been known to wallow in a deep cup of pity me for the length of a breath or the time it takes for me to finish a glass of wine or shot of espresso. Over coffee this morning was one of those moments. I received two of my least favorite kinds of emails,

Dear Applicant….

Thank you for applying …

Dear Brenda Moguez

Thank you for allowing us to consider your book, however….

It’s probably crazy to do engage in two activities that I have no control over simultaneously, but what kind of life would I be living if I didn’t reach for what is outside of my reach? You’re thinking, safe, secure, free of rocky roads, and heartache, right?

Nah, you’re saying what I tell myself after I’ve finished rolling about in the emotional debris left behind after a hearty kick to my ego, BORING. The truth of the matter is this…


A dream is just a dream until it’s not…


But it is also the one thing in my (your) jurisdiction. I (you) can double-down, keep painting on my (your) imaginary canvas waiting for magic, and driving forward, rolling over the obstacles, or I (you) can have a second cup of pity me and give up.

I had my doubts this morning when I opened my email. Maybe it’s not your destiny to be a writer, the sultry voice in my head suggested. I seriously considered the words my alter ego whispered while sipping espresso. She might be right, but then again I’ve heard similar words before and proved her wrong. I took another sip of coffee and reviewed a few of the highlights of my past:

  • I’ve finished school, and broke through the glass ceilings Latin women occasionally bump up against
  • Reinvented myself in four industries and mastered their respective disciplines
  • Found the courage to declare myself a writer
  • I gave my heart away, not once, but three times
  • Forced myself to be less of an introvert (a continuous work in progress)
  • Submitted, published, and survived numerous rejections
  • Completed two novels, a few novellas, and have a third novel in motion

Not too shabby of a list to show for myself, but not exactly my own private Idaho—seeing the two novels and others published is in the original blueprints for happiness.

I swallowed the last of my java lingered a moment longer before moving on. The truth is I have to make allowances for the reality that I may never see my dreams play out exactly I as originally imaged them, but then again a dream is a dream until it isn’t.

Mine’s still playing out, how about yours?



Love Bites on Fridays

by Brenda on August 8, 2014

Finding love, one nibble, one bite, at a time.Love Bites

What the heart has once owned and had, it will never lose.

Love is eternal.

Love endures time.

It takes hold of your heart and doesn’t let go—ever.

Love bites.


Our Table

This table, our table, my table, the back of your hand table, each groove, every stain, knick, and dash, even the pen gouges, is our table. We found it in a barn that subbed for an artist’s gallery-home, where passerbyers, after hours of being lost on the country roads in desperation pulled into the long gravel drive and stepped out of their car only to realize they stumbled upon a wonderland. And so it was for us.


She was standing at the barn door, her blue-black hair flying recklessly in the evening wind, while pulling at the door to shut out the world.

“Are we too late?” I asked.

Her smile was conflicted.

“Come on Chuck, they’re closed. I think our hotel is down the motorway a few miles,” I said.

Her Oxford plumy accent shook me in my clogs, “We are indeed closed, but come in for a glass of Claret, sit a spell. We’ve had boring foot traffic this entire day and welcome the possibility you promise.”

I couldn’t help myself and laughed. “We’ve been driving in circles all day going left when it should have been right and fighting with teeth and claws, and now it’s gotten to snorting and grunting. I assure you we are anything but promise.”

“That is exactly what we need. Come in quickly because I see headlights coming down the road.”

Chuck and I exchanged looks, and walked quickly towards the barn not knowing why or what we hoped to find, but in the moment we passed through the barn door the anger that had built in our chests at all the wrong turns dissipated the instant the souls of our feet stepped onto the waxed cement barn floor. We froze and gaped openly at the beauty of the handmade wood furnishings. She pulled the door shut instantly closing out the world.

“Phew! We made it.” She bolted the door, walked to the middle of the room, and called to a giant of a man standing over a table. “Edward, we have company,” she turned to us and whispered. “Quickly tell me your names and follow my lead.”

We did as she bade.

“Lila and Chuck are old friends from California. Lila and I shared a dorm room my second year. Pour the wine and show them the new table.”

That was all he needed to know. He turned, nodded, and then poured from a corked bottle. We chatted while we drank and enjoyed a crusty baguette and a half brick of sharp Irish cheddar while Journey played overhead.

Hours passed. The sun set signaling it was time for us to go, but neither one of us wanted to leave.

“Come on, Lila, we don’t want to over stay our welcome,” Chuck puffed in disappointment as he stood.

“No! Dinner?” Please stay for the night. I’ll call Mattie and let her know you’ll be staying with us tonight.” She knew the manager of the hotel where we were staying and took care of the reservation.

Chuck slipped his hand around mine and squeezed. It was indeed a night of promise, the sort that comes along without warning and swirls around until even the atheist reconsiders faith and celestial beings.

We spent the night at a simple farmhouse table made of pine, eating, drinking, and singing. We took turns selecting music from Edward’s vast collection, and sometimes when the music called to us, we danced around the table. At dawn, still sipping wine, we watched the sun come up over the fields before finally climbing the stairs to our bedrooms.

A month later the table we bought from Edward and his mistress, arrived by ferry. We spent have spent years loving around that table, cooking and inviting possibility into our home, our lives, and our hearts.


Personally, I am a novice when it comes to love and of the opinion that the definition of love is as unique as the skin it is in, don’t you?


Falling In Love

by Brenda on May 22, 2014

photo-22I can’t recall the exact moment I became enamored with love. I just know for as long as I can remember it’s enthralled me. Even after trying it on for size, falling hopelessly, and later gluing the shards of my broken heart back together I continued romancing the elusive vixen.


Four silly little letters once combined in a specific order can rock a person’s universe unlike any other of the letters in the alphabet. As a united unit, the letters L.O.V.E. can alter a person’s appearance. Some say— likely non-believers—that love is not tangible or physical, but I disagree.

Have you ever witnessed a person—yourself included—in love’s firm grip?  Can you recall the look in their eyes and how they carried themselves? It’s noticeable. Equally visible is a lover on the wrong side of a passionate relationship. A fractured heart is undeniable. But when it is good, love is discernible in the eyes and body: bright and hopeful, taut and upright. But when the bottom falls out, those baby blues are dull and dejected, and the body is slack and hunched.

Love is not limited to a singular type, size, or duration. Hostile borders do not intimidate it. Nor can any keep it contained. It has a force of will so great none can resist its provocative wink–Julius Caesar and Rhett Butler, to name a few who fell under its spell. Once love is entwined with the fiber of our being it regulates our life force. When it leaves—often for no particular reason—it’s no wonder a person can’t function. Most of us fail a few times before accepting it’s a complex emotion with layers, stages within phases inside of nuances. As a writer of romantic stories, I keep a short list and prefer exploring the broader junctures:

Wrapped in love’s cocoon
Picking up the pieces


I liken this to June Carter’s song for her husband, Johnny Cash, “Ring of Fire”. She wrote it when she was falling for the man in black.

I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down and the flames went higher
And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire

Wrapped in loves cocoon
There are books, poets, and singer-songwriters who’ve written hundred of thousands of songs on this phase alone. One of my favorites is “Iris”, by the Goo Goo Dolls

And I’d give up forever to touch you
‘Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be

Picking up the pieces
For me there is only one voice that can sing broken heart and that’s Patsy Cline. “I Fall to Pieces” pairs nicely with any of reds. I’d not argue that there are other songs and singers who’ve cornered heartbreak. Taylor Swift and Adele have made a living baring their souls in verse. But Patsy and me go way back…

You want me to act like we’ve never kissed.
You want me to forget, pretend we’ve never met.
And I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but I haven’t yet.
You walk by and I fall to pieces.

As harrowing as a loss can be we’re not wired to walk away from the flutter of romantic passion. Myself included. There were a couple of times in my life when I came close to entering a convent but my foolish heart had other ideas. She kicked me to the curb when love was in the air, immune to our tattered past. Damn if I didn’t try to pull her in at the start of something I knew was doomed. Didn’t listen to a single warning. When it was all over, it was that cracked heart of mine, Patsy, and me filling the glass with a hearty red.

Eventually, love would come to bewitch and define me as a writer. I didn’t choose to be a writer of love stories. I tried fighting it. A writer friend reminded me that I have a knack with matters of the heart and way of saying what a woman feels on the inside but doesn’t dare utter to the outside world. I never thought it was attribute, more of annoyance. I’ve envied other writers, the literary types who can articulate in abstract, but’s not me. My friend was right about my writing voice. Thanks, Kelly. 

I never tire of rediscovering the rush of falling, the loss of self in the moment, and the wretched aftermath–on the page. I’ve been here. I’ve swallowed the pain and washed it back with hearty guzzle, and damn if I didn’t swear to myself, never again. Ha! Truth is I can’t resist a good love story.

Did you every throw caution to the wind, even if the odds were stacked against you and give way to romance?

For the one I lost but have never forgotten. xo


The Reluctant Extrovert

May 7, 2014

It never occurred to me, at least consciously anyway that I was an innie—someone who prefers the comfort of their own thoughts, stands outside the circle of a crowded room, and would rather shuck oysters under the blazing sun than make small talk—and not an outtie. I had an inclination that I preferred the cool […]

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Being True To Yourself

April 9, 2014

And then it comes, the blaze of our first kiss. It is a bottomless kiss, soft and tender, hard and unrelenting, hungry, but not sated. He pulls back but only long enough to whisper, “Is this what you had in mind?” His kiss is with the agility of vast experience. As I lose myself inside […]

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