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Tuesday, October 01, 2013

Connection and Healing by author Sofia Wren

My guest today, Sofia Wren, author of 'From Doormat to Manifest Goddess', has been very, very patient with this writer. If you haven't noticed, I have been horrible with time management this year. And it only seems to be growing increasingly worse.

Here's to crossing my fingers that my mind find's its way back from vacation sooner rather than later. In the meantime, please show Sofia some love! Her story is awesome and touching.

Writing for Connection and Healing
by Sofia Wren
I needed to write, I needed to express the pain that had built inside of me and which sought release.
About a year ago I began to write From Doormat to Manifest Goddess. It started out with my pen scribbling and scribbling memories from 2009.
---A sensitive 22 year old girl seeks the identity of the strong woman she is to become. She convinces herself the only way to find answers, love, and control over her life is to become a Dominant Woman in the Philly BDSM scene. But she finds more than she bargains for....
Some people would have thought it irresponsible to have moved on to a new story before I had finished editing Line of Isis, the mermaid fantasy which had been my baby for the previous two years.
But when we are called to write---who are we to stand in the way of inspiration?
To me this story had been waiting to be told since I lived it in 2009-2010. It was the year I became a woman, a true coming of age for me. An odd one, definitely.
I just wish my na├»ve youth hadn't ended with heartbreak and disappointment. I just wished it hadn't been a process of feeling unacceptable, unlovable, and strange. 
And so I began writing, pulling the memories like pieces, trying to fit together the pieces. For a long time I kept asking, how could it all have gone down differently? What did I do wrong? Did anything go right?
Until finally in the process of writing, editing and exploring, I realized that the woman behind the pen was OK all along. That neither that period of my life nor the book needed to be perfect. It just needed to happen.
I realized I didn't want to live in the dark my whole life, to use a pen name that no one would ever know was me. In the process of writing I changed from Wren Doloro to Sofia Wren, using my birth name and pen name together. Soon this name will be what I use for all business communication.
In the writing of my tale, I found myself able to gain objectivity and to step out of it. I found out how to be a Manifest Goddess, to live a life of my own design, and I learned to obtain everything I need and desire.
After much angst, I decided the best way to tell the story would be to make it fiction, because outside of my ego, the book could grow and become something more powerful to every woman who reads it.
And so I prepare to do the final final revision before a professional edit. I'm ready to let this story go--the journey of a strong woman in a world not ready for her.
By publishing this work, I hope to change the world. This is my journey From Doormat to Manifest Goddess.
To hear more please join my email list for the latest news. As a thank you, you will be one of the first to receive access to the free ecourse The 7 Mistake Luminaries Make and How to Shine Through. This will be delivered when my new site will be launched in the next 2 weeks at www.sofiawren.comSofia Wren is a Renaissance woman: writer, intuitive counselor, and content coach. With her heart felt services she can help you heal your story, inspire your spirit, and write a beautiful world into being.
Her work includes 1-1 holistic life, business and writing coaching, energetic assessments, Oracle card readings, and Breakthrough Days. She is a honors graduate from Bryn Mawr College, a nerd for writing & business techniques, a Law of Attraction coach, and a priestess of ceremonies.
Please contact to apply for a free 20 minute session to see how she can help you to express your light. 
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An excerpt From Doormat to Manifest Goddess
by Sofia Wren
Why did I always have to fight to get my due?
As I stood across the desk, I watched my boss circle the top number of the column and begin to write me a check in silence. I had provided pages of calculations to prove that I had been underpaid this August.
To be truthful, I suspected I had been underpaid for months. But that I couldn’t prove. The checks had all come back from my summer job with hours rounded nicely. 20 hours, 30, maybe 25.
Except that I knew that it never balanced out so nice and even in my reality. Too bad I hadn’t tallied the real hours myself until now, I thought, sucking my teeth. My previous time sheets were lost to the void.
My dentist-cum-shopkeeper employer turned the check over to me with a bright, “Here ya go, Sam.” The check was for the amount of $231.25, the number he had circled, but not the total owed to me. He owed me twice that. I felt shock reawaken the fit of adrenaline already flowing through me.
“But sir,” I began, confused. Surely a dentist understood math, “There are other numbers in the column, and this is the sum.” I pointed to the figure in the universal recognized spot below the line.
“You didn’t get paid $400? Well, how did that happen?” He asked accusingly, not so nice now.
“I don’t know.” I stammered. I’d always had a bad feeling about this guy. It was weird, a dentist who rode a motorcycle and ran a store that sold bags?
He was large like he worked out constantly, with huge broad shoulders. Usually his voice boomed in a friendly way that raised my hackles and reminded me of my summer read, Devil in the White City. People thought the devil seemed like a nice guy, too, and no one guessed at his crimes.
“I’m going to need to check those numbers.”
“Please do,” I offered, “You have my cell phone number.”
I walked out into the sunshine of historic downtown but my stomach churned. Half was better than nothing, except if I’d been jipped hundreds more earlier that summer... I fingered the folded paper and sighed. I wished life were fair.
This was my last walk down Randal street for the summer. Down at the Annapolis harbor people were out in droves, clogging the streets and shoveling down ice cream. I found my car and headed home to finish packing.
After I told my Dad about my boss, I waited for his response. I expected him to be as aghast as me. But instead he looked defeated as he licked a roll up cigarette closed, “It sucks but maybe you should just leave it. It’s not enough money to go to court or anything.”
Disappointment filled me and then anger. I didn’t even know what to say, and so I climbed the stairs to my room.
As I grabbed boxes and carried them out to the car, my mind whirred, processing. My anger fueled the physical activity and built hotter.
All this time I had refused to act on my instinct. Now how was I supposed to motivate the cretin to pay up while I was at school? Sure, it was possible he would do the right thing, but what would I do if he didn’t? I should’ve spoken up earlier, god, why had I been such a coward? I stuffed bags of clothes over the boxes of books and disassembled furniture. For months I’d held back, acting like payment in full was a delicate favor rather than my right.
I never spoke up soon enough. Maybe my dad’s attitude was the reason I never told him about all the shit my stepmom used to say. I blinked the tears back.
Heart pounding and nerves alight, I jogged upstairs to snatch the blankets and pillows from my bed. The floral purple quilt always felt too girly, but no one asked me my opinion.
On top of the clothes, I made a nest of blankets and pillows to support my new harp. Dad had bought it for me for my birthday. It was the only instrument that had ever been easy to play and I loved it, but now I felt ungrateful. I half didn’t believe myself—that the problem had been my stepmom, and not over-sensitive me all along.
Maybe if I had opened my mouth he would have opened his eyes, maybe then today I’d have more courage, and more money in my pocket.
But as I closed the trunk, I doubted he would’ve seen anything but what he wanted to see. And it would’ve all been the same, maybe worse. I hated arguing, what did it ever get me?
Purse over my shoulder, I gave my dad a hug. I stepped back to observe the shoes that refused to walk away. My throat choked and strained to say, “You know, you’re my only parent. Aren’t you supposed to tell me to stand up for myself?” My eyebrows lifted, questioning.
He didn’t have an answer.
The drive was three hours to Bryn Mawr College. I was going back my old dorm, Brecon. Even though it was the on the ass end of campus, I’d requested it every year. That’s where my friends were.
Yes, I refused that paid residential advisor job I worked so hard for. It was in another dorm. So I said no. I couldn’t leave my friends for Senior Year.
For now, though, I was alone with my thoughts. As I gassed the pedal, I ran memories back and forth through my mind-- All the times I let other people walk all over me. Jobs where I was unhappy, girls who spread rumors, men who didn’t treat me right. Tears sunk down my cheeks.
I thought about Joe, the guy who dated me for three months before telling me he planned to date other people. He wanted to find his “Every Woman.” Clearly, I wasn’t it. I wasn’t enough, something about me had failed to please. But on our second date he’d bought me flowers.
And then there was last summer in Massachusetts when a guy sang my praises on the phone and begged me to come home. So I did, only for him to ignore me until he wanted to get laid a week later. Why did people do this to me? Why did I let this happen? Wasn’t there supposed to be some reward for being a good person?
I just wanted to be loved and treated right, but as I sobbed, I felt so far away from that dream.
After combing my life, I had only one real conclusion—that I must be more fucked up than I’d realized. I needed counseling, I decided. Maybe that would help.
I never did get that money. I called over and over. Finally I got my friend Mary to sit next to me for my last call. The guy picked up and said he’d ring after the customer left, an excuse he’d used a couple times by now. I asked for an exact time.
Mary agreed that she didn’t like the nasty way he asked “Why?” I had an SGA meeting that night is why, and papers to write.
He never did call back, but other things soon carried my attention away.
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Thank you, Sofia!