(no subject)
I write and I write and I try to convince myself that I only write for myself because writing is an extension of the core of my being, so it should only matter that the stories exist -- it shouldn't matter whether people read them or not.
But it does matter. It matters a disproportionately enormous amount, actually. I need someone to feed the monster, stoke the fire. I need response. I crave criticism in this totally unhealthy masochistic way, like an addict craves heroin. Reviews are a writer's dream drug; but they're more than that, too. They mean that people know you exist. Care you exist. I said writing is an extension of myself? Well, when people ignore my writing it's like they're ignoring a part of me. Like when people try to ignore someone else's schizophrenia because they think that the disease is something separate from the human being underneath.
A disease isn't all a sick person is, just as stories aren't all that I am. It's true that there are other parts of me that have nothing to do with storytelling that are just as important as the rest. But to be perfectly blunt, the stories take the cake. I AM a storyteller. These stories are not a disposable hobby: they are little bits and pieces of me.
I write and I draw. I consider myself a writer with a fiddly little art hobby on the side. I take both my drawings and my stories to school and show both of them to all my friends. They look at the artwork and they perk up, saying, "Oh, have you drawn anything new, can I see your sketchbook?" And then they grab it from me and flip through it and ooo and ahh at everything (which, granted, is highly gratifying). But there are loose bits of stories scribbled and printed in those sketchbooks, and what do they do with them? They ignore them, mix the pages up, get things upside down and backwards and torn.
Tearing up little pieces of me and dropping little bloody bits of paper and words to the floor and walking on them. I'm not blaming them; it's not like they know what they're doing. Pictures are prettier and more colorful than words, after all. I don't want them to read every word I write, I just wish they'd respect that I'm writer first and artist last -- or at least notice it.
But I wish they'd stop walking on me. Just once.
I wish writing was as glamorous a business as art or film or sports or pageants, but it isn't. Writing is underappreciated, undertaught, ignored and sometimes despised. Think about your favorite movie and answer these questions: A) Who was the actor who played the main character?, B) How many other actors from the movie can you name?, and C) Who wrote the screenplay? Do you watch CNN or MSNBC or FOX News? Any TV news at all? Right. Do you read the newspaper? If you do, do you just skim for pictures and catchy things and then get bored when the story goes on for longer than two paragraphs? Favorite TV show: Who plays your favorite character? Recite your favorite lines, in character, scenery chewing and all. Now, name the person who wrote those lines.
Just once. Please... treat us like real people. Don't dismiss us because of what we do. We may be a little crazy, but it's healthy and it's a part of us. Pregnant mothers get kind of crazy, but their babies are a part of them until they're born, right?
Just once.
(I think I have a blood ink content of about 99%.)
Yours in dreaming,
-Raven
But it does matter. It matters a disproportionately enormous amount, actually. I need someone to feed the monster, stoke the fire. I need response. I crave criticism in this totally unhealthy masochistic way, like an addict craves heroin. Reviews are a writer's dream drug; but they're more than that, too. They mean that people know you exist. Care you exist. I said writing is an extension of myself? Well, when people ignore my writing it's like they're ignoring a part of me. Like when people try to ignore someone else's schizophrenia because they think that the disease is something separate from the human being underneath.
A disease isn't all a sick person is, just as stories aren't all that I am. It's true that there are other parts of me that have nothing to do with storytelling that are just as important as the rest. But to be perfectly blunt, the stories take the cake. I AM a storyteller. These stories are not a disposable hobby: they are little bits and pieces of me.
I write and I draw. I consider myself a writer with a fiddly little art hobby on the side. I take both my drawings and my stories to school and show both of them to all my friends. They look at the artwork and they perk up, saying, "Oh, have you drawn anything new, can I see your sketchbook?" And then they grab it from me and flip through it and ooo and ahh at everything (which, granted, is highly gratifying). But there are loose bits of stories scribbled and printed in those sketchbooks, and what do they do with them? They ignore them, mix the pages up, get things upside down and backwards and torn.
Tearing up little pieces of me and dropping little bloody bits of paper and words to the floor and walking on them. I'm not blaming them; it's not like they know what they're doing. Pictures are prettier and more colorful than words, after all. I don't want them to read every word I write, I just wish they'd respect that I'm writer first and artist last -- or at least notice it.
But I wish they'd stop walking on me. Just once.
I wish writing was as glamorous a business as art or film or sports or pageants, but it isn't. Writing is underappreciated, undertaught, ignored and sometimes despised. Think about your favorite movie and answer these questions: A) Who was the actor who played the main character?, B) How many other actors from the movie can you name?, and C) Who wrote the screenplay? Do you watch CNN or MSNBC or FOX News? Any TV news at all? Right. Do you read the newspaper? If you do, do you just skim for pictures and catchy things and then get bored when the story goes on for longer than two paragraphs? Favorite TV show: Who plays your favorite character? Recite your favorite lines, in character, scenery chewing and all. Now, name the person who wrote those lines.
Just once. Please... treat us like real people. Don't dismiss us because of what we do. We may be a little crazy, but it's healthy and it's a part of us. Pregnant mothers get kind of crazy, but their babies are a part of them until they're born, right?
Just once.
(I think I have a blood ink content of about 99%.)
Yours in dreaming,
-Raven