Feel free to skip. Personal shit.
I was talking to Faith today, third period (I'd put her LJ name but she hasn't updated since August) and we were talking about our art, our writing and personalities. I don't know, it was really cool though, as I haven't really talked to her in a while just getting a few minutes to just talk to her about really stupid insecure shit like my writing wtih someone who does understand my utter panic everytime I show a written word to something that actually draws breath. Like everything sounds really good in my head and when I put it down on paper and then I go to show it or e-mail it or whatever to someone and just--you know? It's all crazy and paranoid, like I hate it so much and I badly want someone to somehow find a way to fix it so I can actually like it. Like that charcoal picture of Bush that I was very proud of that I now cannot even look at. She told me she felt the same way and knew that plenty of other people did too.
We were talking about our writing, how Faith's writing, I mean, we're well acquainted with it, aren't we? It's all crazy simple in a way that just makes you realize that you just wasted your time with those adjectives and adverbs and punctuation and all those embellishments you know you try to design your work with in order to do---what? She got her point across beautifully and you just want to goddamn kick yourself because, damnit, why didn't I think of that? And Katey, as vague as that girl's poetry is, have you read her stuff? Damnit, even her midterm essay had everyone sitting there going, "Right. You know what? Can't do that." It's vague, it's deep, it's thoughtful, it's just genius.
What about mine? I'm more Hugoesque, Faith said, which was a surprise. I've been referred to as a Hugoesque writer in the Les Misérables fandom, which is good because, well, Hugo wrote Les Misérables, didn't he? Sardonic and cynical, she said (but who didn't know that), I was critical and harsh in my writing. Which is all well and good when you're my friend but you know what?
I don't see it.
I read my stuff--true, she's referring to my poetry, my short stories and I don't mean like, Hornblower or Sharpe, let's pair this guy up with that guy, but more like: dude, I'm starting with this character and seeing where it goes--I just don't see it. I mean, there are parts I'm insanely proud of, I posted two poems here I was enormously proud of that I was thrilled beyond words that my flist liked as well. Seriously, you guys are great. And that first sentence there starting with "I read my stuff--"? Most dicombobulated sentence in the history of Nita's sentences. I got lost while writing that thing. Just so you know.
I digress.
I don't know, I know I sounded like a freak yesterday, it was a fucking piece of crap I knocked out for the fun of it, but it wasn't that that really bothered me--it was more of the "jesus what the fuck I don't understand why people think I'm good at this." Because really, that's all I am good at, isn't it? I'm good at history, and writing and I'm decent at art, right, and people at school know me as the weird psycho girl who's always there with a book and a notebook and her hands are always dirty in Physics class with ink or chalk and wears her fucking heart on her sleeve, you know who she hates and adores, who she really wants to be friends with and who she just wants to fuck off and die and what now? I'm going off to a state college, it's not even like it's a liberal arts college, but it's pretty well-rounded, but then here are my parents, my mom who wouldn't let me keep a diary or read too many books because it gave me ideas and my dad who'd just tell me everything I ever drew or wrote was crap and why the hell do you want to write or draw anyway because who really cares and now you want me to write for you and your friends, write your sister a poem for Christmas, she'll like that, maybe a little greeting card inscription/picture because you're good at that, since when did you care if everyone hated your work?
It just doesn't make any sense, you know? It's not about feeling angry and upset, because I'm not and maybe I should be or maybe someone would expect me to be and maybe I even expect myself to feel that way but I'm not, I'm just not, I'm just confused because I don't see it, and it's like waking up not knowing what day of the week it is and you can't find your glasses anyway and you just don't know.
Edit: This entry is hopelessly devoid of commas. I have rabid shoebox_project fans on my flist, so if you bothered to read, I will say it before you do: I believe in commas, I do, I do, I do!
Just not in this entry.
We were talking about our writing, how Faith's writing, I mean, we're well acquainted with it, aren't we? It's all crazy simple in a way that just makes you realize that you just wasted your time with those adjectives and adverbs and punctuation and all those embellishments you know you try to design your work with in order to do---what? She got her point across beautifully and you just want to goddamn kick yourself because, damnit, why didn't I think of that? And Katey, as vague as that girl's poetry is, have you read her stuff? Damnit, even her midterm essay had everyone sitting there going, "Right. You know what? Can't do that." It's vague, it's deep, it's thoughtful, it's just genius.
What about mine? I'm more Hugoesque, Faith said, which was a surprise. I've been referred to as a Hugoesque writer in the Les Misérables fandom, which is good because, well, Hugo wrote Les Misérables, didn't he? Sardonic and cynical, she said (but who didn't know that), I was critical and harsh in my writing. Which is all well and good when you're my friend but you know what?
I don't see it.
I read my stuff--true, she's referring to my poetry, my short stories and I don't mean like, Hornblower or Sharpe, let's pair this guy up with that guy, but more like: dude, I'm starting with this character and seeing where it goes--I just don't see it. I mean, there are parts I'm insanely proud of, I posted two poems here I was enormously proud of that I was thrilled beyond words that my flist liked as well. Seriously, you guys are great. And that first sentence there starting with "I read my stuff--"? Most dicombobulated sentence in the history of Nita's sentences. I got lost while writing that thing. Just so you know.
I digress.
I don't know, I know I sounded like a freak yesterday, it was a fucking piece of crap I knocked out for the fun of it, but it wasn't that that really bothered me--it was more of the "jesus what the fuck I don't understand why people think I'm good at this." Because really, that's all I am good at, isn't it? I'm good at history, and writing and I'm decent at art, right, and people at school know me as the weird psycho girl who's always there with a book and a notebook and her hands are always dirty in Physics class with ink or chalk and wears her fucking heart on her sleeve, you know who she hates and adores, who she really wants to be friends with and who she just wants to fuck off and die and what now? I'm going off to a state college, it's not even like it's a liberal arts college, but it's pretty well-rounded, but then here are my parents, my mom who wouldn't let me keep a diary or read too many books because it gave me ideas and my dad who'd just tell me everything I ever drew or wrote was crap and why the hell do you want to write or draw anyway because who really cares and now you want me to write for you and your friends, write your sister a poem for Christmas, she'll like that, maybe a little greeting card inscription/picture because you're good at that, since when did you care if everyone hated your work?
It just doesn't make any sense, you know? It's not about feeling angry and upset, because I'm not and maybe I should be or maybe someone would expect me to be and maybe I even expect myself to feel that way but I'm not, I'm just not, I'm just confused because I don't see it, and it's like waking up not knowing what day of the week it is and you can't find your glasses anyway and you just don't know.
Edit: This entry is hopelessly devoid of commas. I have rabid shoebox_project fans on my flist, so if you bothered to read, I will say it before you do: I believe in commas, I do, I do, I do!
Just not in this entry.