I have no idea what to write about for now, so I figured I'd share some more of my free writing stuff. (I'm also avoiding some homework for my next class--I have to read about 100 pages...).
But anyway, this free writing thing is helping a whole lot for me, so I highly suggest it. I should also take the time to thank my friend Hannah for suggesting it to me. (Thanks, girl).
I wrote this the other day; I don't quite remember the day (maybe Thursday or Friday?), but that doesn't matter much anyway. It's a bunch of random thoughts and things, but maybe you'll be able to relate and it'll be much better to read if you can. If you can't, not a big deal.
So here you go...
"This free writing thing is more difficult than I thought it would be. Usually my mind is going at a million miles a minute, but right now, I can’t think of a single thing to write about. I don’t know how I feel right now… Mentally, emotionally. Kind of just, numb. And very tired. I had two cups of coffee with some eggnog. Delicious. But still not kicking in. I feel like coffee never kicks in for me, really. I’m always tired. Maybe I’m anemic again.
On another note—I had a good talk with Vince last night via text messages (which isn’t my favorite form of communicating with him, but I was a wreck and didn’t want him to see me that way. Even though he’s seen me that way a thousand times before). We talked about life and writing and how neither of those two things have been going that great for me thus far. But I want to work on it. I know that practice is required for both (especially the writing, if I really want to get good), so I need to put in more effort. I’m just having a lot of trouble with coming up with ideas lately. GOOD ideas anyway. But maybe I need to write out some mediocre ideas first to get my brain going and the words flowing.
I suppose this free writing thing is helpful in that it gets all my thoughts out. Or a good majority of my thoughts anyway. I need to not worry so much about grammar, though. But I can’t help myself. I’m a total grammar Nazi. Not sure what I can really do about that. Maybe just care less? That’s very difficult for me to do though. As most people who know me well enough know to be true.
I want to do some fiction writing but I’m having a lot of trouble coming up with something. I should just try this free writing thing with it, maybe… Hm, we shall see. I also have to do some reading for school. The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. It’s really good so far—very interesting. I didn’t think I’d like it because it’s all science-y, but it’s written so well, almost like a novel or some sort of work of fiction. But it’s all entirely nonfiction. The author, Rebecca Skloot, is such a great writer. I wonder if she went to school to study writing. I’m going to go research that… Apparently she’s a science writer. Not sure if that means she studied science or writing or neither, but that’s still pretty interesting.
I wish I liked science more. It can be so intriguing, but I’ve never had an interesting teacher teach me about it, so I’ve always hated and dreaded it. It’s weird how all of life is about science and I’m always wondering about the meaning and purpose of life or whatever and yet I hate the idea of science. It really makes very little sense. But my brain works in mysterious ways, so who the hell knows?
Wow, I’ve almost written 1000 words so far. That’s like a friggin’ 3-page paper. I think. But this is all nonsense and gibberish. Nothing substantial. Nevertheless, it’s still good practice as I mentioned before.
Eeek, the sun is directly in my eyes as I sit here in my chair in the corner of my bedroom next to the window. It is nice and cozy though. On this really cold day, it’s nice to be all bundled up and sitting in the sun. And doing one of my favorite things. And being semi-productive.
The other night (two nights ago?), when I had that “panic attack” (I’m not really sure whether or not to call it that, because I didn’t have any real physical symptoms, so maybe it was more like a “meltdown”—but I should look up the definitions and differences of the two just to clarify for myself), I started thinking about a million and ten things at once (as I usually do) and I was thinking about how much I really wanted to just die. Not kill myself, but if someone were to just come by and murder me, I’d probably be okay with it. But then I thought: “I haven’t written anything that could be used to make my death even worth it.” Do you get what I mean? I’m terrible at explaining my own thoughts. But here, I’ll try: When I die, I want to have lived a full life, meaning, I want to have written some things of importance (?) or circumstance (?). If that makes any sense. Like, for example, when Hemingway killed himself at the age of 60 or 70 something (I should look that up), he had written a shit ton of great novels and articles for newspapers and stuff, and even had a bunch of unpublished works hidden away in his home and maybe other various places that I don’t even know about (I clearly don’t know much about this, so maybe I should look into it and educate my damn self about someone who I actually strangely admire). Sure, he drank a lot and slept around, but he was a creative soul and an amazing writer. And I want some of that genius. And I want people to know (but mainly I just really want myself to know) that I can write just as well—or maybe even better—and make some money off of it (at least enough to live comfortably, I think) and be happy with my work and my life and all that jazz. So, because I haven’t written much (very little, in fact), I can’t die just yet. I need to keep writing, and writing and writing and never stop. And write some real good shit that I can publish or at least have some people read and fall in love with (like I have with Hemingway’s writing).
I want to be able to call myself a writer. And have people respect that. I don’t care if they hate my writing—I just want them to know: “Hey, she writes. She’s a writer.” That would make me happy enough. But I know I shouldn’t care much about what other people think—I should care about what I think, that’s what matters most, I suppose. Or so some people say. But again, who cares what people say or think? (That’s easy as hell to say, but not at all easy to do or believe). Anyway—I want to write, I want to love it, I want to be good, I want to be happy with my life’s work. And it would be a bonus to have other people be happy with it, too. And read it and buy it and celebrate it. I don’t give a shit about myself honestly—whether I’m rich or poor. I want to just write. And write. And write. Like I am now. I want to be able to wake up in the morning, make a cup of coffee, and get to the computer or notebook or scrap of paper, and just WRITE. Type, jot, scribble, whatever. Get words down on paper. Paint a picture with my diction and vocabulary. A beautiful fucking picture that I cherish and love and learn to become grateful for."There you have it. Some more productive free writing. Not that you honestly even care, but I felt the need to share - I thought it was semi-well written. Feel free to disagree.
I better get some homework done, ugh. Peace.
Clare
No comments:
Post a Comment