I think I have a severe case of Post Story Depression.
Whenever I finish a story, I find myself getting seriously disappointed, bored, and overall dissatisfied with myself.
Showing posts with label Perspective. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Perspective. Show all posts
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
You don't know me.
Something just occurred to me, and I wanted to get it down.
Do most people feel as if their parents know them? While I've been doing college application essays, and other people have been doing the same, I feel like that issue has been coming up a lot....
At first, I wrote an essay that I thought would turn out well...I sat down and said, I"M WRITING MY COLLEGE ESSAY....STARTING NOW. My mom read it and hated it. She was like, it doesn't sound like you.
I must admit, I ended up agreeing with her, but at first I got super pissed about it and it ended up being a two-week long argument. She said my essay was too negative, dark, and unappealing. I responded by saying, "Well clearly you don't know me then. But I know myself, and I know I'm in this essay, and if you don't like me this way, that's too bad." But she won the argument, and I edited the essay over, and over, and over again to make it "positive" until I realized I'd edited myself out completely, and I was trying to write in the voice of a stranger. The idea I'd had, the idea I'd been enthusiastic about for months, the idea I'd anticipated writing eagerly, became ugly, and later I couldn't stand it.
So I scrapped it, eventually. And I was super upset, so I was writing about how I was upset about that....and then that became my new college essay.....@_@ super circular and ironic. And after that, I wrote two more essays, and as of yet the three essays all feel like me, I think. I hope.
My mom likes these better. But still, there are times when she points at a line and says, THIS ISN"T YOU, and I say HOW WOULD YOU KNOW. This whole back and forth process has been stressing me out. It made me wonder if I was abnormal or unreasonable, if I was the only one having these huge arguments.
But then I heard a lot of people talking about the same things, and it made me think that the college essay really is a sort of pressure cooker. People get pushed by everyone else on all sides--do this, do that, take that out, I don't like this, you should be that. So it's critical to truthful, good writing to be honest to yourself. Follow intuition. If it feels wrong for you, it's because it is wrong for you. It doesn't matter if you don't know exactly, explicitly, precisely who you are. Somehow, if there's something that clicks, even if you don't know what, you should follow through with it. An essay about yourself should be something that you can smile about, not something that you hate. It should be something easy to write, not something that you worry about or something that makes you feel insecure.
People don't, people can't, know all about you. People can't know all about me. The writer needs to take control, because they're the only ones who can easily, naturally, beautifully lay themselves out on the paper.
Do most people feel as if their parents know them? While I've been doing college application essays, and other people have been doing the same, I feel like that issue has been coming up a lot....
At first, I wrote an essay that I thought would turn out well...I sat down and said, I"M WRITING MY COLLEGE ESSAY....STARTING NOW. My mom read it and hated it. She was like, it doesn't sound like you.
I must admit, I ended up agreeing with her, but at first I got super pissed about it and it ended up being a two-week long argument. She said my essay was too negative, dark, and unappealing. I responded by saying, "Well clearly you don't know me then. But I know myself, and I know I'm in this essay, and if you don't like me this way, that's too bad." But she won the argument, and I edited the essay over, and over, and over again to make it "positive" until I realized I'd edited myself out completely, and I was trying to write in the voice of a stranger. The idea I'd had, the idea I'd been enthusiastic about for months, the idea I'd anticipated writing eagerly, became ugly, and later I couldn't stand it.
So I scrapped it, eventually. And I was super upset, so I was writing about how I was upset about that....and then that became my new college essay.....@_@ super circular and ironic. And after that, I wrote two more essays, and as of yet the three essays all feel like me, I think. I hope.
My mom likes these better. But still, there are times when she points at a line and says, THIS ISN"T YOU, and I say HOW WOULD YOU KNOW. This whole back and forth process has been stressing me out. It made me wonder if I was abnormal or unreasonable, if I was the only one having these huge arguments.
But then I heard a lot of people talking about the same things, and it made me think that the college essay really is a sort of pressure cooker. People get pushed by everyone else on all sides--do this, do that, take that out, I don't like this, you should be that. So it's critical to truthful, good writing to be honest to yourself. Follow intuition. If it feels wrong for you, it's because it is wrong for you. It doesn't matter if you don't know exactly, explicitly, precisely who you are. Somehow, if there's something that clicks, even if you don't know what, you should follow through with it. An essay about yourself should be something that you can smile about, not something that you hate. It should be something easy to write, not something that you worry about or something that makes you feel insecure.
People don't, people can't, know all about you. People can't know all about me. The writer needs to take control, because they're the only ones who can easily, naturally, beautifully lay themselves out on the paper.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Intruded
For some reason, I had a hard time with this assignment and really thinking of what to write. Do I focus on the fear? the descriptions? the vulnerability? Focusing on a lot of things at once kinda makes my head explode. So here's the result of my brainsplosion.
POV 1:
She was dicing the carrots at two in the morning when she heard it. She stopped mid-dice and cocked her head to one side, one hand on the knife, held up in the air above the chopping board, the other resting on the edge of the board and holding down a half-chopped carrot that was screaming bloody orange.
Silence. She set the knife down and scratched her head, itchy from the red hair dye that was setting and drying against her scalp. It was probably nothing, she reasoned, but her pounding heart told her otherwise. Still, her mind prevailed. Get the onions. She turned slowly, mechanically, forcing herself to swallow away the sense of vulnerability that was choking her. Once she had the onions in hand she whipped back around towards the sink.
Thunk, thunk, thunk. Her knife kept time with her sinking heart. Suddenly--a slip! and she whirled around, back towards the fridge, checking to see if anyone was watching, as her quivering mouth nursed her bleeding finger. Really, she resembled a little kid trying not to wet her pants during a scary movie. Just take away the hair dye and the smeared mascara, and she looked about five-years-old, at the moment, complete with the runny nose. Ugh. She blew her nose and used the glossy refrigerator door as a mirror while she rubbed away the mascara. All the tears were making it run. Probably, it was the onions. But she kept the knife close while she rubbed, just in case the tears were the result of legitimate fear, and not the onions.
She loosened up a bit as the stubborn mascara came off. But suddenly--there it was again! A squeaky swish-swish sound. She almost jabbed her eye out when she heard it, and before she knew it, she'd grabbed the knife, and her ridiculous legs were throwing her forward, heart in mouth, past the corner, and into the hallway that led to her violated house door.
POV 2:
His teeth were....itching. So he'd good-naturedly gotten up, up from the soft spot on the floor where the carpet hadn't been flattened and matted yet. He'd go out to the front yard and grab a stick fallen from the tree in the yard, perhaps. It was a simple enough goal, the kind that you don't plan for. Like how Mommy got up from bed in the middle of the night to make vegetable soup because she was hungry all of a sudden and dyed her hair at the same time, because she wanted it to be nice in the morning.
But he had to belly-crawl his way through the small kitty door. It was growing a bit tight, grabbing his middle a bit on all sides. Eventually he pulled his way through. But again, his feet were still too big for him, and his tail too heavy, and he stumbled down the short cement steps. Before he knew it, he was stuck in the brambles. His breath wheezed and squealed in pain. Forget the stick. He wanted Mommy now. Cowed, he bobbed and staggered back to the kitty door.
Desperately, he nosed the door open a little and began to inch forward a little. It was easy enough, at first. But the thorns and burrs were starting to hurt, and the kitty door made a terrible protesting sound every time he moved, and the middle was impossible, sticking the pointies even deeper into his fur. He was stuck on all sides, uncertain of how to back out or move forward. Not even the smell of vegetable soup was enough.
POV 1:
She was dicing the carrots at two in the morning when she heard it. She stopped mid-dice and cocked her head to one side, one hand on the knife, held up in the air above the chopping board, the other resting on the edge of the board and holding down a half-chopped carrot that was screaming bloody orange.
Silence. She set the knife down and scratched her head, itchy from the red hair dye that was setting and drying against her scalp. It was probably nothing, she reasoned, but her pounding heart told her otherwise. Still, her mind prevailed. Get the onions. She turned slowly, mechanically, forcing herself to swallow away the sense of vulnerability that was choking her. Once she had the onions in hand she whipped back around towards the sink.
Thunk, thunk, thunk. Her knife kept time with her sinking heart. Suddenly--a slip! and she whirled around, back towards the fridge, checking to see if anyone was watching, as her quivering mouth nursed her bleeding finger. Really, she resembled a little kid trying not to wet her pants during a scary movie. Just take away the hair dye and the smeared mascara, and she looked about five-years-old, at the moment, complete with the runny nose. Ugh. She blew her nose and used the glossy refrigerator door as a mirror while she rubbed away the mascara. All the tears were making it run. Probably, it was the onions. But she kept the knife close while she rubbed, just in case the tears were the result of legitimate fear, and not the onions.
She loosened up a bit as the stubborn mascara came off. But suddenly--there it was again! A squeaky swish-swish sound. She almost jabbed her eye out when she heard it, and before she knew it, she'd grabbed the knife, and her ridiculous legs were throwing her forward, heart in mouth, past the corner, and into the hallway that led to her violated house door.
POV 2:
His teeth were....itching. So he'd good-naturedly gotten up, up from the soft spot on the floor where the carpet hadn't been flattened and matted yet. He'd go out to the front yard and grab a stick fallen from the tree in the yard, perhaps. It was a simple enough goal, the kind that you don't plan for. Like how Mommy got up from bed in the middle of the night to make vegetable soup because she was hungry all of a sudden and dyed her hair at the same time, because she wanted it to be nice in the morning.
But he had to belly-crawl his way through the small kitty door. It was growing a bit tight, grabbing his middle a bit on all sides. Eventually he pulled his way through. But again, his feet were still too big for him, and his tail too heavy, and he stumbled down the short cement steps. Before he knew it, he was stuck in the brambles. His breath wheezed and squealed in pain. Forget the stick. He wanted Mommy now. Cowed, he bobbed and staggered back to the kitty door.
Desperately, he nosed the door open a little and began to inch forward a little. It was easy enough, at first. But the thorns and burrs were starting to hurt, and the kitty door made a terrible protesting sound every time he moved, and the middle was impossible, sticking the pointies even deeper into his fur. He was stuck on all sides, uncertain of how to back out or move forward. Not even the smell of vegetable soup was enough.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Just Because
I'm tired. Sometimes I feel like I get so caught up in the "daily-routine-of-the-average-teenager" that I'm not really quite alive. So I think I'll just take some time to blog. Not blogging for homework, or blogging for class stuff. Just blogging, just talking. Just because.
Mentioning the whole every-day-routine deal in the previous paragraph made me think of something. To a certain extent, the "daily-routine" sort of freaks me out. It insights a sort of fear, and when I think about it for too long, I can actually feel my heart rate go up and my lungs start to hyperventilate. hm....I need a name for the thing I'm going to talk about next. So here goes:
The Daily-Routine-Factor. The Daily-Routine-Factor is the part of one's life that makes it like any other day. It might be good, it might be boring.
For me, it is terrifyingly boring. I think this is sort of at the heart of me not wanting to grow up. When I see adults, working from 9 to 5, with wayyyy less vacation time and wayyyy more stress, it makes me wonder. Is life this way for everyone? Is this the way life needs to be run? It seems like people spend the prime of their lives so they can spend the last few in satisfaction. But shouldn't there be another way to live, a way where not only the retirement years are enjoyable, but also the working years?
I guess the answer is yes, there is a way, but it's highly unlikely for anyone to be completely satisfied. So this really gets to an issue that's been on my mind since last year. Science or art?
Both things I enjoy, to some extent, both with their benefits and faults.
I can understand Science. In science, I think there's less of a risk, it's just about guaranteed you can find yourself an educated steady income in medicine. Research helps people. Science has a defined answer. You're right or your wrong. No uncertainty.
I can also, on the other hand, understand art. Art is risky, though. No certainty, 'cause it's based upon opinion, right? An artist puts him or herself onto a blank canvas, people look at the artist, splattered across the medium, and reach a decision. Art is subject to gaping, praising, disagreeing, burning, vandalizing, copying, inspiring, adoring, hoping, dreaming. But I'm drawn to art. Although pursuing art would probably make me worried about having to live on the streets and whatnot, over the years, I've found art to be increasingly amazing!!! Art's not just drawing, or painting, I think. It's writing, photographing, sculpting, doodling, sketching, folding origami, scribbling letters. It's creating, and creating is a powerful thing. You take an object, hold an idea in your mind, and try to inject the idea into the object to the best of your ability. You place a teeny weeny bit of your soul into each piece, and then the piece has a life of its own.
I think I really want a life that is open to constant change--always something new to look forward too, an adventure. But I also want to be able to fight for something that will help other people--cures to diseases, research on maintaining better health. Maybe somewhere the two overlap. I hope so.
Mentioning the whole every-day-routine deal in the previous paragraph made me think of something. To a certain extent, the "daily-routine" sort of freaks me out. It insights a sort of fear, and when I think about it for too long, I can actually feel my heart rate go up and my lungs start to hyperventilate. hm....I need a name for the thing I'm going to talk about next. So here goes:
The Daily-Routine-Factor. The Daily-Routine-Factor is the part of one's life that makes it like any other day. It might be good, it might be boring.
For me, it is terrifyingly boring. I think this is sort of at the heart of me not wanting to grow up. When I see adults, working from 9 to 5, with wayyyy less vacation time and wayyyy more stress, it makes me wonder. Is life this way for everyone? Is this the way life needs to be run? It seems like people spend the prime of their lives so they can spend the last few in satisfaction. But shouldn't there be another way to live, a way where not only the retirement years are enjoyable, but also the working years?
I guess the answer is yes, there is a way, but it's highly unlikely for anyone to be completely satisfied. So this really gets to an issue that's been on my mind since last year. Science or art?
Both things I enjoy, to some extent, both with their benefits and faults.
I can understand Science. In science, I think there's less of a risk, it's just about guaranteed you can find yourself an educated steady income in medicine. Research helps people. Science has a defined answer. You're right or your wrong. No uncertainty.
I can also, on the other hand, understand art. Art is risky, though. No certainty, 'cause it's based upon opinion, right? An artist puts him or herself onto a blank canvas, people look at the artist, splattered across the medium, and reach a decision. Art is subject to gaping, praising, disagreeing, burning, vandalizing, copying, inspiring, adoring, hoping, dreaming. But I'm drawn to art. Although pursuing art would probably make me worried about having to live on the streets and whatnot, over the years, I've found art to be increasingly amazing!!! Art's not just drawing, or painting, I think. It's writing, photographing, sculpting, doodling, sketching, folding origami, scribbling letters. It's creating, and creating is a powerful thing. You take an object, hold an idea in your mind, and try to inject the idea into the object to the best of your ability. You place a teeny weeny bit of your soul into each piece, and then the piece has a life of its own.
I think I really want a life that is open to constant change--always something new to look forward too, an adventure. But I also want to be able to fight for something that will help other people--cures to diseases, research on maintaining better health. Maybe somewhere the two overlap. I hope so.
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