Eighty-Five

Day Eighty-Five:  I love Paris in the rain

Writing has been easy for me since I was young.  I loved to write stories about things I didn’t know much about.  For example in third grade I wrote numerous short stories on Egypt, and how they lived and drama’s about their lives.  I don’t think I knew a thing about the history or the context or probably was any of it meant, but I enjoyed it.  I love imagining things, creating stories and characters.  I love the fact that it is so malleable and inside my own head, so if something goes wrong it’s okay, it’s just for me.

When I started showing people my work it got a bit harder to really accept the fact that things went wrong and sometimes people don’t like my writing.  I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t really care anymore.  That’s how I know I will never make it as a fiction author, ever.  I care too little about what my audience/readers will think.  Take this blog (less fiction, but gets more action than any other creative outlet at the moment) I couldn’t really care less if anyone read it or cared about what I had to say, because I write so I can have some sort of creative outlet.  Especially during these long days of constant going, constant thinking, I feel the need to stop and really think what I will write here, it’s important enough to me to do that.

I am looking forward to editing my novella come the end of exams because it means that although it will be difficult to go through my own writing I will be actually finishing a project.  I mean poems are easy (sometimes) to look through and love instantly, but it’s looking back at those larger writing projects and taking the time to appreciate them that I haven’t mastered yet.  Maybe I need a few more courses on creative fiction, but I just have this notion that although I loved writing it, it might not be the best thing to read.

Again, re-emphasizing the fact that I will probably never make it as a fiction author.  Non-fiction?  Talking about my life and life and things?  That I can do.  I can tell you things about my life that will really make you think about things, my life, your life, the world, etc.  I can try to give advice on how to live your life, or write little tropes and anecdotes to help smooth through what I’m trying to say.  But the thing is is that I will only do these things if I will actually help someone.  These blogs are for me, they help me, regardless of how selfish that might sound to anyone when you write for yourself it helps you mentally and I truly believe that (and coming from a place of knowledge a lot of people around me feel the same, even if they don’t share their writing publically). 

I open my Diary to the internet everyday, I would love to write more fiction and poetry but right now this is was nurtures my creative outlet the best.  I feel good about what I write here (usually) and that is such a good feeling.  I used to feel good about writing detailed, Victorian-esque pieces of fiction where there were tons of characters and there were fantastical creatures and myths, and now I think I’m headed toward more concise, relatively abstract and interesting to read fiction.  I say maybe, potentially, probably, because at the moment there are just characters walking around in my head waiting to be let out.  Writing is confusing.

So today, after having written a research paper for approximately seven hours straight (after five-six hours of class and other things) I want to sign off by just saying I am doing what I love.  I finally feel okay with the whole English major thing and being a B-student, because I am learning, and it allows me to do what I love: Read, Write, and have idea’s.  Isn’t university cool?

Lol.

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