Yada Yada I know I am a horrible insecure person who needs to get off her self pitting ass and start writing again. However just a quick cutesy update about that story I was revising? The one I had 14 pages for. Well bam! 136 pages of my hard blood, sweat, and two months of sickness. I embarked on an dangerous endeavor, NaNoWriMo, last year and hit my 50 K words. Also in the process I made myself ridiculously sick and wasn't able to resolve my story in 50,000 words. I thought with this year I could do NaNoWriMo, finish it, and then start on the second half of the story but that never happen. I only got to six thousands words.
The insecurities just keep rising and rising especially with the impending colleges and graduation looming over my head. The funny thing is though, I made it into my number one. The school I have been wanting to go to since I was in the seventh grade apparently wants me too. Of course not enough to ensure me some cash for the mounds of money I would have to throw at them to go. Isn't that proof enough that I'm special? That I'm not just a pretentious snob with no talent? Mediocre at best. Yup I'm still a debbie downer, sorry folks that seems like permanent trait on my wacky gemini personality.
I just feel like it was a fluke, and I don't deserve to go there.
Anyways my dearest Bates is doing a blog/diet thing for her New Years' resolution, and me, knowing how lovely those are, decided that if shes going to post something every day I might as well. Whether its me just bitching or actually posting something worth reading, well... who freaking knows. Anyways I just didn't want her to go through it alone so for about a month I will be posting something everyday.
So here's a taste (mostly my perpetually self bitching diary) of where I'm at with my writing as of late.
Not for all of my life but for a great portion of it I’ve wanted to be a writer. It came so natural to me, not the elegance of words, no the apraxia made me stumble at simple compound sentence and syntaxs that actually made sense. It was a mindless activity which ideas flowed from, where I created characters and worlds that didn’t quite go all together. I was happy there. Not worried whether or not I was actually good at, just happy to carry on with my journals and write. Why can’t it go back to being that simple? Why must I over analyze every single god damn thing I put down. Just the idea of putting words together terrifies me and turns me into a contemplative sloth. My identifier has always been writer. Now I feel like I have to scratch that word out and replace it with loser or coward. One usually follows the other in my head. Why can’t I ever finish what I started? These are usually how my midnight musing go. I miss sleep.
“What does that mean” I asked my faced press against the comforter in an uncomfortable position that result when three people try to share a single bed.
“Nothing” She responds not knowing the effect that those words would have as my heart skipped and a chill pierced through me, the net of incompetence entangling me in its snares forevermore.
Because I am nothing. An empty shell of wasted potential of false crocodile tears where no real emotions could ever be borne.
I think as a child life infuses you with some much emotion of pain and wonder that it threatens to overtake your body and tear you apart and then once you intake that first breath you die. Those powerful emotions that push your will to live and create the faux delusion that you are actually something special, significant, that you actually matter will like glass, shatter. Something that might have once been beautiful and unique ends up being rubble and trash discarded across the floor in millions of pieces.
“It’s just like when people say ///// is being ////”
“No that just usually mean I’m being weird”
Yes a weird and beautiful creature set free from the throes of mediocrity while most of the world will descend to living unremarkable lives.
And I will be one of them. My life oblivion itself. Because without knowing it, she was right.
Of Course Math Angst
Too Long have I been trapped
a midst the intangible throes
of mathematical expression.
My stifle cries,
by linear equations.
Damn your practicality against
the dreamers and uncertainties.
So afraid of the unknown.
Just Angst itself, hopeful angst, but angst all the same
Okay I’ll admit it.
I am nothing more but a whimpering coward.
I fear failure, so I fail to live, to brush past the insecurities pouring into my soul and corrupting every desire, every secret hope that I posses. That I am more than just average, a cliche, common occurrence entangled in the mold of mediocrity.
I am a writer, and I say such utterance with no fear but perhaps a tinge of doubt. But isn't this what I love? So damn the thoughts of all other who think differently.
And yet… because this is what I love so dearly it makes it that much harder to break out of these self prescribed shackles. There lies in the reaches of my computer a book, filled with so much promise and love left unfinished. Characters still trapped in dungeons and lovers left searching blindingly. I can not forego this any longer.
I have to stop being afraid.
Me contemplating conforming to society. This one actually got some likes on Tumblr
I kind of feel like I’m just wandering around, stumbling on my feet with no sense of direction. No aim or real goal. I just want my life to have purpose again. I just want to write like I use to, with no hesitation or doubt just full speed ahead. But I can’t do that anymore. It’s going to take time, and I’m not exactly the most patient person in the world, and yet this is what I love to do. I want to be that lady struggling in a cramped apartment with cats hanging out in her jammies and writing fantasy, poems, short stories, my excuse to runaway with imaginary friends. I can’t see myself shut up somewhere in a cold office and yet everyone else seems to envision that future for me.
that’s not the kind of life I want to have, but as with the flappers of the 20’s and the romantics during the Enlightenment, people expect me to go through my phrase of passion and defiance and crumble down into a conformist. I want to say that, that will never be me, but now I’m not so sure. Those eccentrics probably thought it would never be them either.
Aren't I just a bucket of sunshine?