After the excitement and joy of yesterday, today felt especially mundane and boring and average and...BLAH. I mean, it was a normal day, like how I've spent most days of my summer: read, do research, watch a little TV/YouTube, walk. But I guess it just hit me that most of my days really are incredibly boring. Meh. I'll get over it, it was just a big change from yesterday.
This also means I'm really not sure what to blog about today.
(........Five minutes later........)
Okay, so I know that both Kristina and Haley shared their writing in recent BEDA posts. And I was also asked recently by someone on Formspring if I'd ever thought about being a writer. So, today I am going to discuss writing. Yep.
I've been writing stories for as long as I can remember. When I was a little kid, I would make up short little stories in my diaries. The first "novel" I remember writing was a joint project with my sister. I was 10, and we were moving houses in the middle of the biggest blizzard I've ever experienced in Colorado. Since everything was packed and we were just sitting in this HUGE, empty house, I guess we just decided to sit down and start writing in some notebooks that weren't packed. I remember that it was a crime/forensics story, but I don't remember the plot at ALL right now. I think it's still on our main hard drive or our back-up hard drive, but I can't go look for it right now. But I promise if I find it, I will share it.
Throughout the end of elementary school, and especially during middle school, that was what I did on the computer: I wrote. None of the stories had much of a plot (which is why none of them were finished), and they weren't the most eloquent or well written pieces. But, hey, I was 10-14 years old. No one is that great of a writer then. But when I was younger,* I had my ways of escaping reality: reading and writing. It was fun to create my own worlds and my own characters and have power over where the story was going. Posting my stories on Fiction Press and getting feedback was my first experience in social networking. However, I can't seem to remember or find my old fictionpress url, so I guess we're out of luck finding the stories THAT way. Ah, well.
The one novel I ever finished was my NaNo novel this past year (my first year doing it). Now, I have since gone back to read it and realized it's mostly a lot of awful writing that doesn't flow or make sense, but I also think I managed to capture a lot of strong emotions. Since this is the one story I can find, I'm going to share a (short) passage at the end of this blog.
Writing is honestly the only way I know how to express myself. And clearly it's been an outlet for me for at least 7 years, if not more. Writing, essentially, is thinking on paper. You can go back later and learn who you were at that time in your life. Remember the experiences, the laughs, the pain, the tears. When I write, I'm not hiding anything. Going back and reading something I've written is almost like entering my own pensieve.** Writing lets me be myself. It reveals truths to me that I try to hide from. I can explore my thoughts and feelings in a safe place. That's what NaNo was this year--it was something I really needed to write, and it showed me so much about myself that I'd tried to pretend wasn't there before.
Still, I don't know that I want to be a writer. I don't have the patience to wait and see if I would get something published. And I don't think I'm quite talented enough to make it in the world of young adult authors. I'm content just writing for myself and sharing it with a few close friends. As long as I don't lose my ability to express myself with writing, I'll be happy. :)
Excerpt now. The novel is called "Please." I don't really want to give a back story, but it's very close to how my life was from end of 2008-end of 2009.*** The one small piece I'll give you so that he beginning of this passage makes a bit more sense is that the main character (Audrey) is a ballet dancer.
I stare into my eyes, getting lost in the deep green. Earlier, the makeup artist covered my face in lipstick and eyeliner and shadow to match my costume. All of that makeup highlighted my eyes, brought them out on my face, made them look bigger. More important. Finally able to be seen.
They have something to say, if I'd just listen. Because in my eyes, I can see everything I've been trying to hide from myself. The sadness, the pain. The love and the hope. The wants and the fears. The person behind the mask.
I look away from the mirror. It's too much. I can't cry here, not now. Not with all these people. I don't think I could endure their stereotypical responses and hums of "It'll be okay," when they don't even know what's wrong.
So I swallow my tears and make a point of not looking in the mirror again.
I don't know who I am anymore. If I can't see myself, I can't know myself. So I don't look. Because the truth hurts too much. And maybe I don't want to know.
I recognize that was a very short passage. If you'd like more, I will post more. But only if people ask.
On a separate note, SIX of my friends had their birthdays yesterday. I know thousands of people have the same birthday, but it's weird to know SO MANY people born on August 11th.
Right. Off to wander the internet/do a little more research.
Cheers!
Inspirational quote/photo of the day: "I must write it all out, at any cost. Writing is thinking. It is more than living, for it is being conscious of living." ~Anne Morrow Lindbergh
*Well, not just when I was younger. I do those things to escape now, too. But I don't have as much time to read or write anymore.
**It also usually makes me laugh hysterically about how I used to be. But AFTER the laughter dies down, I actually have some time to self-reflect
***Really, though. The story is incredibly, almost freakishly personal, which is why I haven't shared much of it before. And I'm not sure if I ever will share the whole thing. I hope you at least enjoy reading the short passage.
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