Real vs Unreal
So, I’ve been thinking (as I read the wonderful romance novels of Susan Elizabeth Phillips) what do I really want in a boyfriend. Tough question. I’d prefer someone taller than myself, 21-26 years old, funny (very important), intelligent without being overly detached from the real world, and geeky in some way. It doesn’t have to be in the same categories (comics, video games, etc.) as me, but it would be nice to have someone who sort of understands that side of me. Not to mention someone who understands that I have go to this weird place inside of me to get my stories down on paper; a place that scares me and exhilarates me at the same time. And if I want to be superficial, I adore green eyes (I always have), auburn or blond hair, a swimmers’ build would be an added bonus, glasses and an accent… I know I’m weird.
I just don’t know though. I’ve been by myself for so long that I feel someone new, someone who’d be so intermeshed into my personal life, would slow me down or make me too distracted to do things I really need to start being serious about.
I need to start taking life seriously. For all those who’ve just now rolled their eyes because they believe me to be too serious already, you haven’t seen me be serious. All you’ve seen is me drifting through and half-assing my way through everything. If fact, I’d say one of the few things I try not to half-ass is my friendships, because I put them all on pedestals (a habit I find is becoming less frequent). I need to be serious about writing. I need to learn all the nuances and subtleties of my desired craft. I need to know where commas go. I need to learn to write better subtext. I need to learn how to describe the gosh darn scene. I need to finish something I start.
I don’t want to be a writer. I am a writer. I just want to be a good one. Not wildly famous, but one of those authors that you read a book and put it back on your shelf after you’ve finished and say, “that was a good story.”
I don’t know why all this anxiety about writing and my less than serious nature concerning life is so closely entwined with my romantic inclinations of the opposite sex. Perhaps it is because both involve my future or, maybe, it is because all of them make me feel so vulnerable and out there. Maybe this is why I write fantasy. I can hide pieces of myself better when it’s lost amidst super powers and surreal circumstance. When I write something real (free from all the unreal) I strip myself of my indifferent mask and let people see me.
Maybe that is why I don’t mention my other projects outside comics and superheroes.
I just don’t know though. I’ve been by myself for so long that I feel someone new, someone who’d be so intermeshed into my personal life, would slow me down or make me too distracted to do things I really need to start being serious about.
I need to start taking life seriously. For all those who’ve just now rolled their eyes because they believe me to be too serious already, you haven’t seen me be serious. All you’ve seen is me drifting through and half-assing my way through everything. If fact, I’d say one of the few things I try not to half-ass is my friendships, because I put them all on pedestals (a habit I find is becoming less frequent). I need to be serious about writing. I need to learn all the nuances and subtleties of my desired craft. I need to know where commas go. I need to learn to write better subtext. I need to learn how to describe the gosh darn scene. I need to finish something I start.
I don’t want to be a writer. I am a writer. I just want to be a good one. Not wildly famous, but one of those authors that you read a book and put it back on your shelf after you’ve finished and say, “that was a good story.”
I don’t know why all this anxiety about writing and my less than serious nature concerning life is so closely entwined with my romantic inclinations of the opposite sex. Perhaps it is because both involve my future or, maybe, it is because all of them make me feel so vulnerable and out there. Maybe this is why I write fantasy. I can hide pieces of myself better when it’s lost amidst super powers and surreal circumstance. When I write something real (free from all the unreal) I strip myself of my indifferent mask and let people see me.
Maybe that is why I don’t mention my other projects outside comics and superheroes.