This is just going to be a blogpost full of random thoughts while I put off college apps.
Showing posts with label Reflection. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Reflection. Show all posts
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Assigned Blog Post #7: Oh dear. WRITING.
I am not particularly good at maintaining focus on the purpose of things. For instance, I realized today after reading Professor Cross' email that a lot of my blog posts don't have anything to do with writing. THIS IS A PROBLEM. fuhhhhhhh. Also, I need to read The Writing Life. I read a little bit of it....but I need to admit, I kind of disagreed with a lot. Maybe this is why I haven't been reading it....
Thursday, December 16, 2010
oops, I like social experimentation?
sorry, my mistake, let me correct myself: I LOVE SOCIAL EXPERIMENTATION.
Is the way i just said it looking a bit obnoxious? good. But really I don't think I've said anything particularly wrong.
Is the way i just said it looking a bit obnoxious? good. But really I don't think I've said anything particularly wrong.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Post Story Depression
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.
Whenever I finish a story, I find myself getting seriously disappointed, bored, and overall dissatisfied with myself.
A Scarlet Letter?!?!? No.......i tricked you.
Just a random letter to myself in the ridiculous hours of the morning.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
rust, anyone?
Rust makes me think of being disappointed. It's like a shiny nail that's turned all brown and is falling apart gradually (chemistry students, unite!). It's like you expect a beautiful carmine sort of flower, and once it blooms you find out it's been half chewed by aphids and whatnot and is in the process of decaying. It's like picking out an awesome apple at QFC (people don't seem to pick apples off of trees nowadays...) and turning it over to see an ugly, ugly bruise. Rust is upsetting.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Simply sincere
I've been thinking about writing in general recently, especially since the beginning of the short story workshops has been freaking me out. I have absolutely NOOOOO idea what I'm going to write about, how I'm going to go about writing it, and when I'm going to start writing it. I'm just at a stasis right now. I can't think of anything to write about when I sit myself down in front of the computer and try to write. I can't just sit in front of a screen and come up with ideas. I just get random thoughts throughout the day, and I try to tuck them in a little pocket in my mind for use later, or I repeat it to myself over and over in my head until I can find paper and a pencil to write with. Usually, I forget what it was that I was so enthusiastic about getting down, and then I have to wait until the next time an idea decides to pop into my mind.
This all led me to think that writing really should be a sincere, natural sort of thing. It can't be forced, there's no formula involved in making a good piece of writing. I always feel like when I write I need to have something meaningful in the words I use, or the subjects I talk about, and then I get super self-conscious and fail miserably. But I had a conversation with one of my friends today, and as I read her messages in the chat box it really hit me what a sincere voice she has. I enjoy talking to her because the way she expresses herself is so candid, honest, and open. It invites conversation and reminds me of weird things--like fresh apples waiting to be eaten, or a blank sheet of paper waiting to be written on. She says things that wait to be discussed, thought about, and enjoyed.
Things can be enjoyed even if they're conversational. They're just nice in their simplicity. A complex topic can be presented in a simple voice, and everything becomes all the more striking, more forward, more memorable. I want to write like that eventually. Hopefully, with time I'll become completely comfortable about writing in my voice, with no bells and whistles attached.
This all led me to think that writing really should be a sincere, natural sort of thing. It can't be forced, there's no formula involved in making a good piece of writing. I always feel like when I write I need to have something meaningful in the words I use, or the subjects I talk about, and then I get super self-conscious and fail miserably. But I had a conversation with one of my friends today, and as I read her messages in the chat box it really hit me what a sincere voice she has. I enjoy talking to her because the way she expresses herself is so candid, honest, and open. It invites conversation and reminds me of weird things--like fresh apples waiting to be eaten, or a blank sheet of paper waiting to be written on. She says things that wait to be discussed, thought about, and enjoyed.
Things can be enjoyed even if they're conversational. They're just nice in their simplicity. A complex topic can be presented in a simple voice, and everything becomes all the more striking, more forward, more memorable. I want to write like that eventually. Hopefully, with time I'll become completely comfortable about writing in my voice, with no bells and whistles attached.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Sorry.
Just a random thing I felt like writing....I've been really preoccupied by the concept of growing up lately....It seems like the more I think about it, the faster time goes. So I try not to think about it, but that's like trying not to think about something when someone commands you not to. It just doesn't work.
Sorry. She was sorry. Sorry that when she looked in the mirror, she saw someone older than she expected. In her mind's eye, she saw her five-year-old self, puzzled and hurt by the neglect she was showing to the setting world of her childhood.
But it was inevitable. The days--they just slipped, she couldn't help it, they just got away from her, leaked out of her tightly cupped hands. She wanted to find the source, use one hand to stopper time, wherever it began, and use her other hand to reach out to the girl of her past, the girl being left behind, the girl being locked away--alone in a world of magic, vibrant colors, and childish secrets meant to be whispered into attentive ears, not brokenly mumbled into empty air. But she was too far gone, the time was too late.
There once was a time she was sure who she was, when some magic, and dreams, and her faith was enough. There once was a day she hoped she'd become a hero like in the cartoons she'd so devotedly watched, when she thought she'd rise up and unfold her wings. But she grew and changed, the world changed, time was moving, moving along, pushing and nudging her towards new dreams, more realistic and cold hopes, more logical and precise wishes. It nudged so far into cold and rationality that that the dreams, hopes, and wishes soon became "goals"--stony pellets and shells that encased her soft, glittering, childish heart. Goals closed her eyes with exhaustion when years ago she'd spent her nights intently staring at the ceiling sprinkled with glow-in-the-dark stars from Toys-R-Us. Back then, the ceiling had been the whole galaxy and beyond.
Sorry. She was so sorry. Sorry to her reflection, sorry for hating that awkward girl in the mirror. Sorry to the past, sorry for locking it away. And sorry to herself, because she was stuck, in between. Between the child who had to be forgotten in order to survive the new obstacles time brought, and the adult she feared becoming--the adult who embodied dullness, faithlessness, and utter cynicism.
Sorry. She was sorry. Sorry that when she looked in the mirror, she saw someone older than she expected. In her mind's eye, she saw her five-year-old self, puzzled and hurt by the neglect she was showing to the setting world of her childhood.
But it was inevitable. The days--they just slipped, she couldn't help it, they just got away from her, leaked out of her tightly cupped hands. She wanted to find the source, use one hand to stopper time, wherever it began, and use her other hand to reach out to the girl of her past, the girl being left behind, the girl being locked away--alone in a world of magic, vibrant colors, and childish secrets meant to be whispered into attentive ears, not brokenly mumbled into empty air. But she was too far gone, the time was too late.
There once was a time she was sure who she was, when some magic, and dreams, and her faith was enough. There once was a day she hoped she'd become a hero like in the cartoons she'd so devotedly watched, when she thought she'd rise up and unfold her wings. But she grew and changed, the world changed, time was moving, moving along, pushing and nudging her towards new dreams, more realistic and cold hopes, more logical and precise wishes. It nudged so far into cold and rationality that that the dreams, hopes, and wishes soon became "goals"--stony pellets and shells that encased her soft, glittering, childish heart. Goals closed her eyes with exhaustion when years ago she'd spent her nights intently staring at the ceiling sprinkled with glow-in-the-dark stars from Toys-R-Us. Back then, the ceiling had been the whole galaxy and beyond.
Sorry. She was so sorry. Sorry to her reflection, sorry for hating that awkward girl in the mirror. Sorry to the past, sorry for locking it away. And sorry to herself, because she was stuck, in between. Between the child who had to be forgotten in order to survive the new obstacles time brought, and the adult she feared becoming--the adult who embodied dullness, faithlessness, and utter cynicism.
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