Last year I made a list of realistic goals to accomplish by now. There's one thing left on my list. I am really happy that I did so many things that had taken me years to even write down, let alone accomplish. I promised myself I would write. I didn't set an expectation that was unattainable. I just figured I would write when I felt the need and make sure to do it at least once a month. I have over 100 pieces on this blog, most of them in the last year. Welcome to number one hundred and eleven.
I have been writing for as long as I can remember. I remember one particular trip in the backseat of some car where I was traveling in the night, my feet trapped between backpacks, where I wrote something that stuck with me. I was writing about how I felt. I wrote down, I feel like a psycho. I remember so deeply not because I felt crazy, but because I couldn't spell "psycho" and had rewritten it several times to figure it out. I remember feeling very isolated. Whether or not I did this to myself, I cannot be sure. I suppose it was my upbringing. There's a large gap between my siblings and me. They are only a year and a half apart but I am almost a decade from both of them. How did it feel to be simultaneously the beloved baby of the trifecta and the most annoying spoiled brat- depending on who was answering and how they felt at the given moment. To feel like I was trapped never being able to fully just be myself but actually, whomever anyone else needed, it was draining. It still is a lot of the time. I wrote a paragraph talking about how frustrated I was to be quiet most of the time and wanting to scream. My life was dictated by several people putting me in a corner to be what they wanted. I spent time with my grandmother and mother where my every move was criticized. I was the most annoying person to my sister and if I didn't do exactly what she wanted then she would hit me. The other one was annoyed but she at least would listen to me and let me sit in her room sometimes. She didn't hit me but she was resentful of the attention I got. I wrote things from time to time. I wish I still had them.
When I was in fourth grade I got an electronic diary as a gift. I think I had basic skills in using a computer but nothing fancy. I didn't know how to type like I do now. My password was "Kurt" for Kurt Cobain. It was pink and when I opened it, I think my mind shot between, Oh, wow. I hate pink so much, and couldn't I just use paper? Why would I ever need a password? The idea of having a secret was exciting. I gave the password out for no reason in particular. I think at the time, I didn't feel like my writing should be kept secret. I still only have one or two things that will never see the light of day but, after just now sharing that I thought I was nuts for being sensitive as a child is probably more vulnerable than I will ever be. Pair that with the piece on being molested as a child and I think there isn't much else that can be hidden for me. Welcome to everything.
When I was in middle school, I read a lot of "Chicken Soup for the Soul" books. (I should go back and read those for the fuck of it.) I read a few pieces that made me sweat. Writers opened up about their experiences with abuse and it made me write again. I wrote about what happened to me but, I got scared and stopped. I think I crumpled it up and threw it out. I still have the book I started to write it in. The pages are missing from the middle. I didn't want anyone to see it. I didn't want anyone to know that about me. That someone had taken something from me and didn't ask. Feeling ashamed is common but, if you never had that experience, it is debilitating. You don't want to be seen as a victim. To be seen as weak is another way they win. So I just never really let anyone in. If they did manage to be in my life, I found a way to push them out. Usually, in a self-sabotaging way. That's classic me.
Ninth grade was a fun part of my life. I was transitioning between a lot of things and people. I was inspired to write again by an English teacher. She complimented my poems and short stories in a specific way that felt really genuine. She may have just been a really good teacher, it is hard to say. I began writing about dreams and elaborating on them when I was inspired. That summer, after I flunked out of three classes and had to take summer school at my dad's house, I daydreamed about one in particular. It was about a girl and boy who grew up living separate lives but they met and something changed within them. They were just kids but they connected and would meet under a lilac bush (one that coincidently grows in my dad's backyard- visible through a window). They built a fort and would tell each other secrets. They fell in love but were children. Her family moved away and they didn't keep in touch. I intended on them to meet again, as teenagers or adults and realize later they never left the lilac bush friend club. The first few pages got written out, but I never worked on it again. I just flipped through the journal and I called it, "Wild Blue Eyes" and apparently, wrote it about the main character, Drew, and his love interest, Anna.
Tenth grade I was given a gift card to Barnes & Nobles by my boyfriend's parents. I bought a green velour journal and a fancy handblown pen with a pot of ink. I taped a Polaroid of my parents when they were in their early twenties in the front cover. I started writing one day and didn't stop until the whole journal was filled. (I actually found a painting a friend of mine did and the note on the back is so cute. I work with her now so it'll be funny to show her that after so many years.) I filled three journals by the end of high school. The second one was called "Love, Hate, The Art of Heart" which is what I intend to name my first novel (when I get around to finishing it). That one was a handmade journal from my first boyfriend. I feel like he may have given the gift to me as an afterthought but, I still have it and cherish it, either way. I pasted a lot of photos I took in my senior year of high school. I had access to a photo lab so I often printed smaller versions of photos to see how they would look in the daylight outside of the lab. The last one I named, "Endless Battle" and I glued tiny polaroids of my ex-boyfriend whom I started dating the last week of senior year. Most of Endless Battle contains passages that talk about suicide. I believe that was a dark time in my life for a number of reasons. I'm glad I wrote some of it out, at least. (The suicidal passages were from 2003-2005)
I started a journal when I was in my early twenties called, "Time for Bed, My Darling." I was inspired by the guy I was dating at the time. I never finished it and after a year of being with him, I broke it off. He told me he loved me once when he was drunk. It was weird because I wanted to say it back but, I wasn't sure he would remember at all. He never said it again. He made the best scrambled eggs and macaroni and cheese I've ever had. Anyways, I started one called, "My Muse" around that same time and I may have lost that one.
I came up with the concept of the current novel I want to finish around 2008(??). I based the main character off of one particular ex-boyfriend, who is a garbage person. I wrote several versions of him and changed the names and dynamics a few times over the years. The basic character, at first, was a garbage human being who treated women he dated like objects. He wore white t-shirts, all black hi-top chucks, and blue jeans. He worked at a record store, his dad left his mom when she found out she was pregnant, his step-dad became his father figure. He had a half brother and a half sister. His dad was a chef, brother a pastry chef, and his mom worked at the restaurant. He lived by himself and was well known as the type to get around with girls. I intended it to become a murder mystery but it possibly also evolved into a love story. Either way, some gypsies roll into town and fuck some shit up and he realizes what a douche he is and changes his ways. I changed the main character a few years ago drastically. I made him super sensitive and basically- an INFJ. I turned him from a user to someone who wanted to give his heart to people he wanted to help or that he felt needed him. He was comfortable being alone and his world would be shaken by a few different events. Some strong female characters would change his perception in a way he should have seen coming.
The change in character came about after developing personalities and names written in a notes app on my first iPhone. I updated the iPhone and the notes app lost my writing. Then, when I got a laptop for Christmas in 2009, I began writing again from scratch. I lost the data after my laptop crashed. I started re-writing it a few years later when I worked for my mom and had some free time at my desk, about 2012. I started writing and realized I was putting a lot of myself into the one character and ended up writing the main character in a way that I would want my boyfriend to act in those situations. So, I went with it and took it a step farther when I gave him a southern accent and a peach tree in the backyard. He was a gentleman and kind in that second writing. I feel like the boss character turned a bit into fog-horn leghorn and I changed some of the dynamics again to fit a more versatile storyline with twists and drama. The main character remains basically the same. I kept his style and added a best friend to be an eccentric opposite to the... not "brooding" exactly, but the quiet and sweet guy who is more of a wallflower and easily missed when he needs to be. I took out the southern drawl but I may add some elements. There was a fun gay character who made the main character uncomfortable and that sounds fun to make an INFJ's skin crawl for no reason haha!
Either way, this was all inspired by a dream I had about a spooky house where an old woman finds her husband murdered. I have very vivid dreams and I didn't realize that was weird until my step-sister pointed it out that I used to tell her about my dreams when we were kids. I had no idea some people don't even dream.
To this day, I have written about dreams, other people's dreams, my life experiences, traumas, and sometimes- just some words that need to come out. I've written lots of things that have helped me heal in ways I didn't realize I needed to and today- I have an issue with editing fast enough for people to have read my rough draft- but overall... I'm glad I do it. I thought about quitting when my best friend told me what I wrote hurt her. I'm glad she came around and realized I didn't mean to hurt her and I also came around to realize that she was more hurt that I saw through her facade and she needed to own up to some things. Around that same time, I wrote a piece about looking in the mirror and writing exactly how I felt. I sat in my car crying because the person I had a crush on at the time thought it was about him. I find that interesting for a number of reasons but, I suppose it doesn't matter anymore. Either way, he told me to never stop writing and so- I won't. I love getting messages randomly from people telling me to keep writing and they enjoy my work. I recently got a message from someone saying just that and it lit up my day. There's always going to be people that hate my writing and people who love it. I suppose it is up to me to keep doing it either way.
I appreciate everyone who takes the time to read my words, especially to those who reach out by liking it on Facebook, reading more than once, or sending a message. It means a lot to know that more than just myself is benefitting from my healing and creative processes.
Thanks for reading. :)
I have been writing for as long as I can remember. I remember one particular trip in the backseat of some car where I was traveling in the night, my feet trapped between backpacks, where I wrote something that stuck with me. I was writing about how I felt. I wrote down, I feel like a psycho. I remember so deeply not because I felt crazy, but because I couldn't spell "psycho" and had rewritten it several times to figure it out. I remember feeling very isolated. Whether or not I did this to myself, I cannot be sure. I suppose it was my upbringing. There's a large gap between my siblings and me. They are only a year and a half apart but I am almost a decade from both of them. How did it feel to be simultaneously the beloved baby of the trifecta and the most annoying spoiled brat- depending on who was answering and how they felt at the given moment. To feel like I was trapped never being able to fully just be myself but actually, whomever anyone else needed, it was draining. It still is a lot of the time. I wrote a paragraph talking about how frustrated I was to be quiet most of the time and wanting to scream. My life was dictated by several people putting me in a corner to be what they wanted. I spent time with my grandmother and mother where my every move was criticized. I was the most annoying person to my sister and if I didn't do exactly what she wanted then she would hit me. The other one was annoyed but she at least would listen to me and let me sit in her room sometimes. She didn't hit me but she was resentful of the attention I got. I wrote things from time to time. I wish I still had them.
When I was in fourth grade I got an electronic diary as a gift. I think I had basic skills in using a computer but nothing fancy. I didn't know how to type like I do now. My password was "Kurt" for Kurt Cobain. It was pink and when I opened it, I think my mind shot between, Oh, wow. I hate pink so much, and couldn't I just use paper? Why would I ever need a password? The idea of having a secret was exciting. I gave the password out for no reason in particular. I think at the time, I didn't feel like my writing should be kept secret. I still only have one or two things that will never see the light of day but, after just now sharing that I thought I was nuts for being sensitive as a child is probably more vulnerable than I will ever be. Pair that with the piece on being molested as a child and I think there isn't much else that can be hidden for me. Welcome to everything.
When I was in middle school, I read a lot of "Chicken Soup for the Soul" books. (I should go back and read those for the fuck of it.) I read a few pieces that made me sweat. Writers opened up about their experiences with abuse and it made me write again. I wrote about what happened to me but, I got scared and stopped. I think I crumpled it up and threw it out. I still have the book I started to write it in. The pages are missing from the middle. I didn't want anyone to see it. I didn't want anyone to know that about me. That someone had taken something from me and didn't ask. Feeling ashamed is common but, if you never had that experience, it is debilitating. You don't want to be seen as a victim. To be seen as weak is another way they win. So I just never really let anyone in. If they did manage to be in my life, I found a way to push them out. Usually, in a self-sabotaging way. That's classic me.
Ninth grade was a fun part of my life. I was transitioning between a lot of things and people. I was inspired to write again by an English teacher. She complimented my poems and short stories in a specific way that felt really genuine. She may have just been a really good teacher, it is hard to say. I began writing about dreams and elaborating on them when I was inspired. That summer, after I flunked out of three classes and had to take summer school at my dad's house, I daydreamed about one in particular. It was about a girl and boy who grew up living separate lives but they met and something changed within them. They were just kids but they connected and would meet under a lilac bush (one that coincidently grows in my dad's backyard- visible through a window). They built a fort and would tell each other secrets. They fell in love but were children. Her family moved away and they didn't keep in touch. I intended on them to meet again, as teenagers or adults and realize later they never left the lilac bush friend club. The first few pages got written out, but I never worked on it again. I just flipped through the journal and I called it, "Wild Blue Eyes" and apparently, wrote it about the main character, Drew, and his love interest, Anna.
Tenth grade I was given a gift card to Barnes & Nobles by my boyfriend's parents. I bought a green velour journal and a fancy handblown pen with a pot of ink. I taped a Polaroid of my parents when they were in their early twenties in the front cover. I started writing one day and didn't stop until the whole journal was filled. (I actually found a painting a friend of mine did and the note on the back is so cute. I work with her now so it'll be funny to show her that after so many years.) I filled three journals by the end of high school. The second one was called "Love, Hate, The Art of Heart" which is what I intend to name my first novel (when I get around to finishing it). That one was a handmade journal from my first boyfriend. I feel like he may have given the gift to me as an afterthought but, I still have it and cherish it, either way. I pasted a lot of photos I took in my senior year of high school. I had access to a photo lab so I often printed smaller versions of photos to see how they would look in the daylight outside of the lab. The last one I named, "Endless Battle" and I glued tiny polaroids of my ex-boyfriend whom I started dating the last week of senior year. Most of Endless Battle contains passages that talk about suicide. I believe that was a dark time in my life for a number of reasons. I'm glad I wrote some of it out, at least. (The suicidal passages were from 2003-2005)
I started a journal when I was in my early twenties called, "Time for Bed, My Darling." I was inspired by the guy I was dating at the time. I never finished it and after a year of being with him, I broke it off. He told me he loved me once when he was drunk. It was weird because I wanted to say it back but, I wasn't sure he would remember at all. He never said it again. He made the best scrambled eggs and macaroni and cheese I've ever had. Anyways, I started one called, "My Muse" around that same time and I may have lost that one.
I came up with the concept of the current novel I want to finish around 2008(??). I based the main character off of one particular ex-boyfriend, who is a garbage person. I wrote several versions of him and changed the names and dynamics a few times over the years. The basic character, at first, was a garbage human being who treated women he dated like objects. He wore white t-shirts, all black hi-top chucks, and blue jeans. He worked at a record store, his dad left his mom when she found out she was pregnant, his step-dad became his father figure. He had a half brother and a half sister. His dad was a chef, brother a pastry chef, and his mom worked at the restaurant. He lived by himself and was well known as the type to get around with girls. I intended it to become a murder mystery but it possibly also evolved into a love story. Either way, some gypsies roll into town and fuck some shit up and he realizes what a douche he is and changes his ways. I changed the main character a few years ago drastically. I made him super sensitive and basically- an INFJ. I turned him from a user to someone who wanted to give his heart to people he wanted to help or that he felt needed him. He was comfortable being alone and his world would be shaken by a few different events. Some strong female characters would change his perception in a way he should have seen coming.
The change in character came about after developing personalities and names written in a notes app on my first iPhone. I updated the iPhone and the notes app lost my writing. Then, when I got a laptop for Christmas in 2009, I began writing again from scratch. I lost the data after my laptop crashed. I started re-writing it a few years later when I worked for my mom and had some free time at my desk, about 2012. I started writing and realized I was putting a lot of myself into the one character and ended up writing the main character in a way that I would want my boyfriend to act in those situations. So, I went with it and took it a step farther when I gave him a southern accent and a peach tree in the backyard. He was a gentleman and kind in that second writing. I feel like the boss character turned a bit into fog-horn leghorn and I changed some of the dynamics again to fit a more versatile storyline with twists and drama. The main character remains basically the same. I kept his style and added a best friend to be an eccentric opposite to the... not "brooding" exactly, but the quiet and sweet guy who is more of a wallflower and easily missed when he needs to be. I took out the southern drawl but I may add some elements. There was a fun gay character who made the main character uncomfortable and that sounds fun to make an INFJ's skin crawl for no reason haha!
Either way, this was all inspired by a dream I had about a spooky house where an old woman finds her husband murdered. I have very vivid dreams and I didn't realize that was weird until my step-sister pointed it out that I used to tell her about my dreams when we were kids. I had no idea some people don't even dream.
To this day, I have written about dreams, other people's dreams, my life experiences, traumas, and sometimes- just some words that need to come out. I've written lots of things that have helped me heal in ways I didn't realize I needed to and today- I have an issue with editing fast enough for people to have read my rough draft- but overall... I'm glad I do it. I thought about quitting when my best friend told me what I wrote hurt her. I'm glad she came around and realized I didn't mean to hurt her and I also came around to realize that she was more hurt that I saw through her facade and she needed to own up to some things. Around that same time, I wrote a piece about looking in the mirror and writing exactly how I felt. I sat in my car crying because the person I had a crush on at the time thought it was about him. I find that interesting for a number of reasons but, I suppose it doesn't matter anymore. Either way, he told me to never stop writing and so- I won't. I love getting messages randomly from people telling me to keep writing and they enjoy my work. I recently got a message from someone saying just that and it lit up my day. There's always going to be people that hate my writing and people who love it. I suppose it is up to me to keep doing it either way.
I appreciate everyone who takes the time to read my words, especially to those who reach out by liking it on Facebook, reading more than once, or sending a message. It means a lot to know that more than just myself is benefitting from my healing and creative processes.
Thanks for reading. :)
Comments
Post a Comment