This has been the third night where writing wasn't exactly top of my list, mostly because my computer hasn't been on making it less likely for me to write properly. So I opted for my ipod to write on.
I asked someone for a quote, a prompt to get me writing and "The hardest thing to do in this world is live in it" was chosen.
So here it is...
Sometimes life is easy; when every traffic light is on green during the one morning you're late for college or when you're surrounded constantly by people you actually like, who like you and you feel like life couldn't get much better.
But life isn't always that way. There's not always time to smell the roses, or toast some bread before leaving the house and there's not always nice people around giving you that morale boost.
And sometimes, sometimes your dad leaves home, your boyfriend gets murdered and you try to end the painful misery that has become your existence. Not your life, only your surviving moments.
Living and surviving are two very different things.
Take Emily and Naomi for instance, living each day as fully as they could. They're travelling, seeing the world after spending years studying. They're making the most of things and doing it together.
Then there's Pandora, always living with a smile on her face and a random catchphrase to make you laugh, internally anyway.
Out of all of my friends, Cook was probably the only example I could think of who was very good at appearing as though he lived life like every day was his last. But like me, deep down, hidden under his skin, he was swimming hard to keep afloat, to survive.
That was how it felt. I was falling, drowning, struggling to breath, all at once. I was suffocating, not only in the overbearing "support" of my mother, but in life. That's why nobody understood.
Everyone else, they lived. They laughed and cried and shouted and screamed all in the name of happiness, pain, excitement and sorrow. They didn't know what it felt like to wonder if that moment, that exciting scream or painful cry, would be the last one they managed to breath before they succumbed to the water.
Some say the hardest thing to do in this world is live in it. Most of them don't know, don't understand. But perhaps, sometimes, maybe they're right.
Friday, 7 January 2011
Read: Jan 6th - The Princess and the Penis
I downloaded a free ebook with the strangest of name "The Princess and the Penis", what an unusual story it is too. Are you familiar with "The Princess and the Pea"? It's a little like that, in that there is a lump in the Princesses bed...only, it's not a pea. It's a penis. I'm only up to chapter three so I'm still not quite sure where this penis has come from.
But for a fairytale of a more adult variety, it's rather humorous.
But for a fairytale of a more adult variety, it's rather humorous.
Write: Jan 6th - poem
Somehow in my struggle to get to sleep I found myself writing a very brief, random poem. Think I needed to write before I could allow myself to settle.
Clouded. Clogged. Blocked.
Head too full, broken down,
Body weeping.
Exhaustion built over time,
Waiting, wanting, needing,
Until
Desperation.
Aching. Dripping. Shaking.
Too full of things, shattered,
Body crying.
Darkness shadowed, empty space,
Anger rising, always rising,
Never time to stop,
To think,
To calm.
Clouded. Clogged. Blocked.
Head too full, broken down,
Body weeping.
Exhaustion built over time,
Waiting, wanting, needing,
Until
Desperation.
Aching. Dripping. Shaking.
Too full of things, shattered,
Body crying.
Darkness shadowed, empty space,
Anger rising, always rising,
Never time to stop,
To think,
To calm.
Thursday, 6 January 2011
Write: Jan 6th
I didn't write. I got into bed with my iPod at 9.45 planning to do the same as yesterday.
Spent almost 2 hours with loud music on trying to block out the sister's phone call in order to sleep, let alone write.
Hate that she's made me break my resolution.
I can't write when she's made to shut up in a minute because I'm so exhausted that I can't even think straight.
This could be classed as writing, right?
I did read, but I will upload that post tomorrow.
Spent almost 2 hours with loud music on trying to block out the sister's phone call in order to sleep, let alone write.
Hate that she's made me break my resolution.
I can't write when she's made to shut up in a minute because I'm so exhausted that I can't even think straight.
This could be classed as writing, right?
I did read, but I will upload that post tomorrow.
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
Write: Jan 5th - Wind
I'm tired, so very tired as I write this. It's amazing what a few hours in a busy restaurant surrounded by people can be. And tomorrow I go to my granddad's funeral...so I'm sure you can understand my lack of desire to write. Firstly because my brain won't work. But I put together a random piece of prose that I can't even process in my head. I can't tell you if it makes sense because I honestly have no idea.
I'll read it back in the morning and let you know my thoughts, but for now, I managed to write. Though it is very short.
-
A tree sits on the top of a cliff, weathered into position as a leaning lady. Alone. A cliff much higher than every piece of land surrounding it. Nothing else can grow in the stark, dilapidated surroundings. Not with winds gusting faster and harder than anywhere else as far as the eye could see. That doesn't stop them going up there, walking along the clifftop until the wind blows their eyes almost shut and their coats tightly around their bodies. They're not used to the harsh conditions, can't cope with the battle between human and nature as they attempt their ascent. There once lay a bench under the tree with a plaque 'For Deidre, a woman who loved to feel the wind in her face.' But even that had suffered from the intense winds and salty moisture in the air. So the tree continued to sit alone, in a world where people came and went with as much frequency as the sun, until one day a man cared little for the strong gales. He laid down a blanket and sat crossed legged in front of the beautiful view. And there he sat, with his eyes barely open as he watched the wind blow the sea towards land and back again.
P.S. It's morning and that made enough sense, yay.
I'll read it back in the morning and let you know my thoughts, but for now, I managed to write. Though it is very short.
-
A tree sits on the top of a cliff, weathered into position as a leaning lady. Alone. A cliff much higher than every piece of land surrounding it. Nothing else can grow in the stark, dilapidated surroundings. Not with winds gusting faster and harder than anywhere else as far as the eye could see. That doesn't stop them going up there, walking along the clifftop until the wind blows their eyes almost shut and their coats tightly around their bodies. They're not used to the harsh conditions, can't cope with the battle between human and nature as they attempt their ascent. There once lay a bench under the tree with a plaque 'For Deidre, a woman who loved to feel the wind in her face.' But even that had suffered from the intense winds and salty moisture in the air. So the tree continued to sit alone, in a world where people came and went with as much frequency as the sun, until one day a man cared little for the strong gales. He laid down a blanket and sat crossed legged in front of the beautiful view. And there he sat, with his eyes barely open as he watched the wind blow the sea towards land and back again.
P.S. It's morning and that made enough sense, yay.
Read: Jan 5th - Short story 'Stone Cold Butch'
January 5th
Read: Grl2grl by Julie Anne Peters, Short story 'Stone Cold Butch'
Giving up a considerably failing unentertaining book can be easy, doing the same with a short stories anthology is probably a big mistake. After all, you never know what hidden gems you might find.
Today's story started off, shall we say, clichéd (yes, there's clichés in every story). A teenager handing in a video because they didn't want to write an essay, I've been there, done that, got the t-shirt in at least two different places. One was a television show. Why do students feel that handing in a video when they've been assigned an essay is acceptable? You might not like the concept of writing an essay, but in education in the 21st Century, we often have to do the things we don't want.
I hate writing a learning review for my college course, doesn't mean I'm recording myself saying it instead. I write it, because that's what I've been assigned to do.
Now, onwards with the story.
It got better...if you can ever call the story "better".
Cam is the main character this time. I'm not sure if all these people go to the same high school or not, but if they did, that's a lot of gay girls they have. There's a feel that they do though, perhaps in different years/at different times.
They wrote Cam being asked on a date as carefree as anything, as though her being gay isn't an issue. Which it isn't. But we know from experience that fiction can portray it in such a way. Being gay in fiction is sometimes tokenistic, other times it's just 'such a big deal'. All very well for a 16 year old who's unsure of herself.
I don't know her age but I placed Cam as about 17/18, vulnerable, has had many girlfriends (well at least one, plus someone she fooled around with).
This story, her story, was not about her sexuality. Sure they mentioned it and her idea that shaving her head would make her look like a boy could be considered to do with her sexuality, but it's not.
It's because her dad has been abusing her since she was six years old.
Who wouldn't want to find ways to repulse him after years of abuse, abuse that stops you being able to have sex or even accept a date with a girl without feeling like he's there, involved.
Unlike the case of the brief 'self-harm' mention in a earlier story, it was surprising how you can actually approach a deep situation in a short story. But it can't be one line, flitted away like it's an insignificant part of every day life. It must be built into the entire story, explored, felt and somehow Cam's story did just that.
Read: Grl2grl by Julie Anne Peters, Short story 'Stone Cold Butch'
Giving up a considerably failing unentertaining book can be easy, doing the same with a short stories anthology is probably a big mistake. After all, you never know what hidden gems you might find.
Today's story started off, shall we say, clichéd (yes, there's clichés in every story). A teenager handing in a video because they didn't want to write an essay, I've been there, done that, got the t-shirt in at least two different places. One was a television show. Why do students feel that handing in a video when they've been assigned an essay is acceptable? You might not like the concept of writing an essay, but in education in the 21st Century, we often have to do the things we don't want.
I hate writing a learning review for my college course, doesn't mean I'm recording myself saying it instead. I write it, because that's what I've been assigned to do.
Now, onwards with the story.
It got better...if you can ever call the story "better".
Cam is the main character this time. I'm not sure if all these people go to the same high school or not, but if they did, that's a lot of gay girls they have. There's a feel that they do though, perhaps in different years/at different times.
They wrote Cam being asked on a date as carefree as anything, as though her being gay isn't an issue. Which it isn't. But we know from experience that fiction can portray it in such a way. Being gay in fiction is sometimes tokenistic, other times it's just 'such a big deal'. All very well for a 16 year old who's unsure of herself.
I don't know her age but I placed Cam as about 17/18, vulnerable, has had many girlfriends (well at least one, plus someone she fooled around with).
This story, her story, was not about her sexuality. Sure they mentioned it and her idea that shaving her head would make her look like a boy could be considered to do with her sexuality, but it's not.
It's because her dad has been abusing her since she was six years old.
Who wouldn't want to find ways to repulse him after years of abuse, abuse that stops you being able to have sex or even accept a date with a girl without feeling like he's there, involved.
Unlike the case of the brief 'self-harm' mention in a earlier story, it was surprising how you can actually approach a deep situation in a short story. But it can't be one line, flitted away like it's an insignificant part of every day life. It must be built into the entire story, explored, felt and somehow Cam's story did just that.
Tuesday, 4 January 2011
Write: Jan 4th - In This Life
I sat down with two files open - my Table I file (which is where 20 prompts from table I of a The Mentaliat prompt community on Livejournal are in order for me to write 20 fics. 1 down, 19 to go) and In This Life. I decided that due to the busyness of the next couple of days (meal for uncles birthday tomorrow, followed by my granddads funeral on Thursday), starting a Skins chapter would be the most useful for writing on a bus. Only tomorrow I won't be coming home on a bus and depending on what my mum is doing, may not be going to work on one either.
Anyway, I do still aim to write, of course. Though the aim may be a little harder, but we'll see.
So the purpose of this post - to inform you, whoever you may be (my two followers who have made yourselves known - hi Charlie, hi Natalia! *waves*) that I wrote 628 words of chapter twenty-one. May not be a lot, but it's writing!
Here's the full story up to date if you're interested in reading: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5999648/1/
Anyway, I do still aim to write, of course. Though the aim may be a little harder, but we'll see.
So the purpose of this post - to inform you, whoever you may be (my two followers who have made yourselves known - hi Charlie, hi Natalia! *waves*) that I wrote 628 words of chapter twenty-one. May not be a lot, but it's writing!
Here's the full story up to date if you're interested in reading: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5999648/1/
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