Random Musings
Sometimes I feel like, no matter what I do and how hard I try, my writing is always going to suck.
Sometimes I just read those stories - you know the ones. The stories you can see and touch and smell, the ones that feel more real than the reality you're living or at least more genuine and interesting. The ones with all those characters who act and talk like actual people only they're likeable and anyway you just keep liking them even if they're complete douchebags, and the world around them is so believable that it doesn't seem to need them anymore to keep existing, and each and every tiny little detail is so perfectly placed and fits naturally in the bigger picture. The ones that run so smoothly, punch you repeatedly in the gut, fill your belly with warmth and make something inside your chest tingle pleasantly, just under the skin.
Then I realise that I don't know what the very moment before a storm smells like - the whole "faint tinge of ozone in the air", you know it. Everbody seems to know it.
And I wouldn't even compare blood to copper. I don't even know what copper tastes like. I've never had the urge to put copper in my mouth.
(... Though I had a kind of a phase as kid when I kept scratching my back and ankles until I drew blood. I solemnly swear I didn't have fleas. I just had weird interests from an early age. And the only vaguely creepy things were the thin scars between my shoulderblades. So, anyway, sometimes I kind of smeared the blood over the skin, then licked my fingers. Didn't smell like copper. Didn't taste like what copper would probably taste like. Feeling like a complete weirdo while writing this.)
And I don't think I've ever managed to smell someone's skin. Shampoo, perfume, cologne, sweat, filth ... I can get these. But the only type of skin smell I recognize is "old people smell". The rest is just a generic "clean human being" smell, if even that, nothing distinctive. The hottest guy on Earth could hug me repeatedly and I'd probably barely manage to smell his hair gel.
And the colour tables on Tumbrl, the ones that are supposed to help writers with description, they just confuse me to no end. Why is "lemonade" a type of pink, if lemonade is made with lemons and lemons definitely aren't pink? Why are "snow" and "frost" blue? Does anyone actually use "boysenberry" or "parakeet" in descriptions? Can people really distinguish all these types of black? They make me feel like I've got even more problems with my eyes, or like I'm just stupid.
Am I the only one who doesn't see people with "richly ivory coloured skin, enhanced by soft warm rouge undertones and just a hint of coral in the cheeks" everyday walking down the street?
I'm one of those cheap writers who just sticks to "hair like gold" and "eyes as blue as a clear sky" because they're easy ...
And I know I sound whiny. I know I sound like I'am badmouthing people who write a lot better than me.
It's just that sometimes I feel like there's a whole world I'm missing on. Because I'm not observant and deep enough, and that probably means I'm not interesting enough, and that probably means I've got nothing to say and what little I could think up has surely already been said to the point that everyone is sick of hearing about it.
I know it's the pathetic, embarassing stuff teenage angst is made of. I know it's probably just me making up excuses for my mediocre-at-best writing, for my vague descriptions and featureless similes, for not manning up and actually starting to plan and write those plots I keep dreaming about or wishing someone else would write for me, for being lazy and envying writers who aren't and also actually are talented.
I know it sounds like I'm begging for pats on the back and that kind of stuff. It's just that sometimes I get frustrated at myself. And when I get frustrated, I'm pretty damn shitty to be around.
... Yes, I also know nothing in this post makes sense.
Sometimes I just read those stories - you know the ones. The stories you can see and touch and smell, the ones that feel more real than the reality you're living or at least more genuine and interesting. The ones with all those characters who act and talk like actual people only they're likeable and anyway you just keep liking them even if they're complete douchebags, and the world around them is so believable that it doesn't seem to need them anymore to keep existing, and each and every tiny little detail is so perfectly placed and fits naturally in the bigger picture. The ones that run so smoothly, punch you repeatedly in the gut, fill your belly with warmth and make something inside your chest tingle pleasantly, just under the skin.
Then I realise that I don't know what the very moment before a storm smells like - the whole "faint tinge of ozone in the air", you know it. Everbody seems to know it.
And I wouldn't even compare blood to copper. I don't even know what copper tastes like. I've never had the urge to put copper in my mouth.
(... Though I had a kind of a phase as kid when I kept scratching my back and ankles until I drew blood. I solemnly swear I didn't have fleas. I just had weird interests from an early age. And the only vaguely creepy things were the thin scars between my shoulderblades. So, anyway, sometimes I kind of smeared the blood over the skin, then licked my fingers. Didn't smell like copper. Didn't taste like what copper would probably taste like. Feeling like a complete weirdo while writing this.)
And I don't think I've ever managed to smell someone's skin. Shampoo, perfume, cologne, sweat, filth ... I can get these. But the only type of skin smell I recognize is "old people smell". The rest is just a generic "clean human being" smell, if even that, nothing distinctive. The hottest guy on Earth could hug me repeatedly and I'd probably barely manage to smell his hair gel.
And the colour tables on Tumbrl, the ones that are supposed to help writers with description, they just confuse me to no end. Why is "lemonade" a type of pink, if lemonade is made with lemons and lemons definitely aren't pink? Why are "snow" and "frost" blue? Does anyone actually use "boysenberry" or "parakeet" in descriptions? Can people really distinguish all these types of black? They make me feel like I've got even more problems with my eyes, or like I'm just stupid.
Am I the only one who doesn't see people with "richly ivory coloured skin, enhanced by soft warm rouge undertones and just a hint of coral in the cheeks" everyday walking down the street?
I'm one of those cheap writers who just sticks to "hair like gold" and "eyes as blue as a clear sky" because they're easy ...
And I know I sound whiny. I know I sound like I'am badmouthing people who write a lot better than me.
It's just that sometimes I feel like there's a whole world I'm missing on. Because I'm not observant and deep enough, and that probably means I'm not interesting enough, and that probably means I've got nothing to say and what little I could think up has surely already been said to the point that everyone is sick of hearing about it.
I know it's the pathetic, embarassing stuff teenage angst is made of. I know it's probably just me making up excuses for my mediocre-at-best writing, for my vague descriptions and featureless similes, for not manning up and actually starting to plan and write those plots I keep dreaming about or wishing someone else would write for me, for being lazy and envying writers who aren't and also actually are talented.
I know it sounds like I'm begging for pats on the back and that kind of stuff. It's just that sometimes I get frustrated at myself. And when I get frustrated, I'm pretty damn shitty to be around.
... Yes, I also know nothing in this post makes sense.