(no subject)
I always dreamed to be a writer and to write for others' enjoyment. When I was little, I had this crazy idea of what success of a writer really was. I always told myself and everyone around me: "If I am ever good enough of a writer that I can make my readers cry. And not empty tears, either. If I am ever skilfull enough to write something that would touch people and make them cry, than I will consider myself a real writer."
It's funny, because I have done it. I have reached my biggest ambition from when I was a child. I wrote stories, I published them, though on-line for now, and I touched people. I watched them cry as they read them, I watched my teachers cry as they read some of my works I handed in...
I remember, when I was little, I always wrote tragic, silly stories to see if I can make anyone cry. They were always empty, though everyone died in the end. However, as I grew as a person and as a writer, I stopped trying. I wrote from the heart. I still wrote sad and dark stories simply because I was drawn to them, but it wasn't my GOAL to make people cry. I just wrote.
When my work first made people sincerely cry, I thought back on my childhood and smiled. I wanted to go back in time and tell that little girl: "We did it!" It's funny, really.
But something really out of the ordinary happened just now. I was re-reading my own stories, ones I haven't looked at, and I realized... That I touched myself. I cried from something I wrote... I was crying and I was laughing. Because, really, how silly is this? I worked on this stuff - re-read it a thousand times!
I used to be impartial to stuff I wrote. Now I learned that when I write about what touches ME, not what I think would touch others and write with my heart and not my hand, something amazing happens.
I actually remember my first story that I wrote for myself, not others, not thinking about touching anyone at the age of 7. I wrote about 2 best friends - a rooster and a dog, who lived at a abandoned house and each other was all they had. It was after the war. And they both were waiting for their owner. I really don't remember how it went and how it ended, but I just remember that their owner never actually returned to them. And not because he died during the war, but just because he came back, received honors, married and started a life. Who would remember a rooster and a dog he once, long ago, left behind?
So, baby Margot, now you're a real writer. You touched people with your writing. You brought tears to many pairs of eyes, but the real realization came when you brought tears to your own. :)
It's funny, because I have done it. I have reached my biggest ambition from when I was a child. I wrote stories, I published them, though on-line for now, and I touched people. I watched them cry as they read them, I watched my teachers cry as they read some of my works I handed in...
I remember, when I was little, I always wrote tragic, silly stories to see if I can make anyone cry. They were always empty, though everyone died in the end. However, as I grew as a person and as a writer, I stopped trying. I wrote from the heart. I still wrote sad and dark stories simply because I was drawn to them, but it wasn't my GOAL to make people cry. I just wrote.
When my work first made people sincerely cry, I thought back on my childhood and smiled. I wanted to go back in time and tell that little girl: "We did it!" It's funny, really.
But something really out of the ordinary happened just now. I was re-reading my own stories, ones I haven't looked at, and I realized... That I touched myself. I cried from something I wrote... I was crying and I was laughing. Because, really, how silly is this? I worked on this stuff - re-read it a thousand times!
I used to be impartial to stuff I wrote. Now I learned that when I write about what touches ME, not what I think would touch others and write with my heart and not my hand, something amazing happens.
I actually remember my first story that I wrote for myself, not others, not thinking about touching anyone at the age of 7. I wrote about 2 best friends - a rooster and a dog, who lived at a abandoned house and each other was all they had. It was after the war. And they both were waiting for their owner. I really don't remember how it went and how it ended, but I just remember that their owner never actually returned to them. And not because he died during the war, but just because he came back, received honors, married and started a life. Who would remember a rooster and a dog he once, long ago, left behind?
So, baby Margot, now you're a real writer. You touched people with your writing. You brought tears to many pairs of eyes, but the real realization came when you brought tears to your own. :)