Interview With The MBTI Types


I’m listening to Taylor Swift’s “Girl At Home” as I try to formulate a proper blog post. For some reason, none of my writing seems to be measuring up lately; it’s as if all of my work has been going through a deadly drought, and all of the words inside of my have withered and died.

I feel as though I should have developed something by now, a “voice” in my writing, or had a book or two published, or learned something grand and marvellous about life and the universe, whereas the reality of the situation is I feel empty and full of absolutely nothing. I go to the library before work, inwardly lament over the fact that I have to go to a job I do not like, then spend the rest of the day trying to reconcile myself to the horribleness of my job and the long commute back home, then get home and collapse onto my bed and fall asleep. I barely get any energy and time for writing except during the long commutes, during which I often get dizzy because of motion-sickness. Nothing I write feel as though it comes from the heart anymore—everything feels forced and bland. I don’t know if I’m even making much sense anymore.

To make up for all this negativity, I have decided to compile a list of reactions the different personality types have to the INFP personality type—imagine it as an interview, where each MBTI type gets asked the same question: “What do you think of the INFP personality type?” Each type then answers according to his or her personality; I tried my best to incorporate some of the “voices” of the particular personality types, such as making the sentences spoken by the more logical types more crisp and short, the creative types using more flowery language, etc. Hope you like it!


“Well, I think we are a good personality type to be around, although we tend to be daydreamers and can be quite messy at times, not to mention not very good at talking to people we have crushes on. We’re also more prone to creativity than actual IQ or intelligence. What do you mean, I need to be less modest?”


“They’re alright. They’re quite clever and creative—very good at writing those little stories of theirs, or imagining scenarios—but they’re a little too impractical for me.”


“I love INFPs. We got along tremendously well. Like, for instance, the other day, I was talking with another INFP and we both spoke at length about how we both loved glow-in-the-dark jellyfish. Isn’t that marvellous? Who doesn’t like glow-in-the-dark jellyfish?”


“They’re good enough. Creative. Very good at writing. Not logical. If they had more logic, then they wouldn’t get into the messes they get into.”


“Yeah, what’s not to like about the little daisies. Quite charming and adorable. Such daydreamers, got their heads up in their clouds all day and dancing with the angels. Would I ever fall in love with one, though? Hmm, not a chance.”


“INFPs are very nice. Creative and smart. They’re good. Yes. Good.”


“To be honest, I don’t really understand them, they spend all their time by themselves or with books or watching films, and seem to like the company of animals more than they do people! And to not like going to parties, or hanging out with other people, well, that’s a bit weird, don’t you think? At least they’re quite smart and creative.”


“I adore INFPs! They’re absolutely wonderful, magnificent people. Full of life, of imagination and ideals—although if they’d just do a bit of work in turning their dreams into a reality, that would certainly make things much easier for them!”


“INFPs and I do not get along. They are far too wishy-washy and impractical for my tastes. And the mess! Do not get me started on the mess.”


“I do really like INFPs. I feel quite protective of them—they seem like such delicate, sweet souls, who need some shelter from the harsh elements of the world.”


“I like INFPs. They are smart and creative. Although they could do with a bit of help on the practicality front.”


“INFPs are the best. Well, it’s hard for me to hate any personality type, so there’s that. I think they’re very smart, creative and deep thinkers. They just know a lot about themselves and the world around them. They’re quite unconventional, too—you won’t find them doing things the same way others do, and I like that a lot about them.”


“Don’t understand them one bit. Got their head stuck up in the clouds all day. Bit of a crybaby. ‘Nup, not my cup of tea.”


“INFPs are sweet, they really are. They’re such daydreamers, and full of such great ideas, they’re so creative and I love that. It’s really fun to bounce ideas around with them.”


“INFPs? Who are they?”


“INFPs are fine. A little quiet, though, for my tastes. Actually, it’s hard for me to notice them much, I’m often too busy dancing in the limelight.”


On Depression and Why I Have Been Absent


depressed.jpgThe truth is, there has been a reason for my absence on my blog, and the reason isn’t a good one.

I haven’t been feeling too well.

Without going into the boring details, the long and short of it is that a lot of bad things have been going on in my life, most of them negative, and they have caused me to spiral into something Anne of Green Gables might call “the depths of despair”. For your convenience, I will hereby number them.

1. I sent my book out to publishers and won’t receive a reply until the end of September, maybe even October, and I have the deepest, most certain feeling I will not get accepted, because my book is not good enough. At all.
2. I am not enjoying my job—not one bit. In fact, it has been so stressful I have come back from work and exploded into tears because of the stress that built up during the day.
3. I am now writing a sequel for my as-yet-unpublished children’s novel, and everything I write is, well, absolute crap, nothing is working, and I want to turn my life upside-down and shake out all the dust and spiders because nothing is working, nothing is working, nothing is working.

That just about sums it all up. I wish there was more. I wish I could tell you something brilliant and miraculous had happened in my absence, but the truth is, I just happened to fall down a deep, dark hole, and I’m still trying to find my way to claw out of it. It physically hurts to breathe sometimes, and to exist; even the words I am typing now, on this laptop, feel as though they are clunky and unattractive, like I’m making bad figurines out of clay instead of dazzling sculptures every time I type a single word.

There’s so much inside of me and so few words to describe it all. I can’t put into words my thoughts. What kind of writer isn’t able to do that! A bad writer, that’s what. I feel as though my depression is making me see everything through the thick, stickiness of honey—everything feels heavy and slowed-down. Like I said, I don’t feel too good. Not enough to take a couple of dozen pills and be done with it—my depression is nearly never so dramatic—but enough to make the days a little greyer than usual, and my life a lot more dark.

By the time you read this post, I will be still reading a book a close friend of mine recommended to me, called “Turtles All The Way Down” by John Green. Lately, the only way I survive in this world is by medicating myself with books, lollies and films, keeping myself distracted and therefore the pain of living at bay. I hope the next time you read my words, you find me in a much better mood. This is possibly the shortest post I have ever written. I hope my words find you well, dear dreamers, and that you are walking in light far away from the darkness I now live in.

Death of a Writer’s Heart


I live life in a perpetual state of feeling like something is exciting is going to happen, only it never does.

Lately, I’ve been sending my precious, little book to publishers left, right and centre, hoping one of them lands a hit. I think it’s fair to say I’ve sent my book to at least six different publishers. Hoping. Praying. And waiting—-I will have to wait for months to receive a reply, if there is any at all. In the meantime, I read my manuscript over and over again, obsessively, picking at its flaws, wondering if the writing is too simple and concise because I wanted it to be accessible for children, wondering if I should just jump off a cliff and be done with it (not literally, but you get what I mean).

I can taste publication. I can taste it, the way a bird can sense freedom when you lift the latch of its cage. Right now, my fate is in God’s hands—and in the power of the words I wrote. I think it’s fair to say I’m not a complex writer. That’s why I write children’s books—my writing just isn’t complicated enough to write adult fiction, at least the kind that publishers want to sell. I just have this feeling, this awful, drowning feeling, that I’m not good enough, and never will be. That the subject matter of my children’s book, that of a little girl who is hit by her father, is too sordid and ugly for kids to read. That everything I have worked for, up until this point, has been for nothing.

What do you do when you’re not good enough? What do you do when salvation is the only hope, when the wall in front of you has to be broken through or else you starve to death behind it, and you can’t break through it? What, then? Death. Death and death. In the non-literal sense, of course: if I don’t ever get published, the truth is, slowly, over time, I’d turn into a living corpse. Walking through the days with a lumbering gait, my heart dead in my chest. A zombie, of the worst kind: that of a person whose greatest dream has eluded their grasp.

Not good enough. Sometimes, the pressure of it is enough to make me scream. I don’t actually scream, though. I don’t have the energy to. I’m quite a placid person, on the outside. Outsiders don’t seem to understand what publishing a book means to me. Since I was five years old, I have wanted to be an author. Five. While other children dreamed of being ballerinas or princesses or superheroes, I dreamed of one day writing a book and seeing it on a shelf at a book store or a library. When others worshipped basketball players or famous singers, I worshipped Roald Dahl, who is, by far, my most favourite author in the whole entire world, and whose steps I hope to follow, big shoes to fill though they may be. This dream, of becoming a writer, is so firmly embedded in me, that to kill it would be to kill my soul, too, my heart and my body and everything in between.

I wish I could sit down with a world-famous publisher and editor, and have them go through my manuscript with me, to point out all of its flaws, to show me where I went wrong. And then to tell me that, of course, with some work, they can publish it! My daydreams involving being a writer are numerous. I imagine myself selling the movie rights of the book, travelling to America to meet the movie producer, seeing my book as a film (I can already imagine the entirety of the book perfectly as a film), seeing my book on shelves in libraries and book stores. You can’t imagine what it’d be like to see my book on book store shelves. I would cry and collapse, almost as though someone had stabbed me in the heart.

What if I’m not good enough? What if wanting something isn’t enough? What if?

These are the questions that are slowly starting to kill me.

Celebratory 350,000 views!


I feel half-drunk.

In reality, I’ve only been medicating myself with gummy lollies. Every time any bit of depression sits in, I pop another lolly. Not great for one’s teeth or blood sugar, but it’s better than other substances I could be ingesting.

Good news, though! As you can probably tell from this blog post, I have officially reached 350,000 views or “hits” on this blog, Dreaming. Living. Loving. Or It’s certainly a milestone, and to celebrate, I’ve been scrolling through my own past blog posts. If you’re new and don’t know much about this blog, I’ve been blogging for six years. Yep. Six years. WordPress even sent me a notification telling me this.

It’s a funny feeling, looking at my past blog posts—I started writing this blog when I was around fourteen or fifteen (more likely fifteen), and now, I am officially twenty years old, turning twenty-one in two months, yay for me (not), and, re-reading over the posts, I feel as though I’m reading the words of a stranger. Sometimes, I remember writing the words, how I felt when I wrote that particular post or that one, but most of the time, it feels as though someone else wrote them entirely.

But most of all, I read over comments and my heart was filled with this overwhelming joy, that I was, have been able to, and still do, manage to connect with people all over the world just by typing my heart out onto a laptop screen in my little bedroom in some small suburb in Australia. That, my friends, is something quite special.

So here’s to you. This isn’t about me. It’s about you, all the people who have ever read a single post I have ever written, the ones who left comments, sometimes comments that rivalled the posts themselves, who have left likes, who have cared, who have listened and noticed and realised and understood and loved and dreamed and lived. Thank you.

And of course, this wouldn’t be a post by yours truly, dreamerrambling (or Anne), if I didn’t explain why I was popping lollies like they were sleeping pills. I’m not suicidal. Far from it. I’m just—a teensy bit depressed. That’s all. I recently sent my children’s book out to quite a few publishers, and hope that one of them will pick up the book and declare they want to publish it. I’m more sure of this book than I have been of anything in my life. I know it is good. “Hive”, the one I published on Wattpad, is nothing compared to this book—this book is polished, well-written (or so I think), and of publishable quality. Now we’ll just need to see if any publishers out there agree.

Since I started this blog, since the very beginning, I have expressed my wishes of becoming a proper writer and getting published. It has been six long years, but I think I’ve finally written the book that will take me to that dream and more. It’s a good book, is what I’m trying to say. It’s a unique book. Imaginative. Interesting.
Pray with me, will you?

Thank you. Thank you for everything.

The Girl Who Could Speak To Animals


No-one knew she could speak to animals. The dog-whisperer, they might call her. Other names. Worse ones. Words that would mean she wouldn’t be able to stay with her mother anymore, would have to be taken away, to somewhere where men in white coats would prod and poke at her, trying to find out the secret to her gift. Continue reading

An Update On This INFP’s Life


I’m listening to the song “Strawberry Fields Forever” by The Beatles as I type this; it’s a very sad, trippy sort of song, and I can’t help but fall in love with its whimsical, mournful sound. In fact, it’s so distracting, I almost forgot what I was meant to write about in this post—an update on this INFP’s life. My life, my thoughts. How very interesting. Ah! Welcome to my silly, little world, dear friend, and may you find it a pleasant enough place. Continue reading