(no subject)
I am attempting A deliberate ramble. I feel the need to express without regret my thoughts. I've begun the background writing on the novel I've had in my head for years. Be it due to fear of failure, be it lack of confidence or perhaps conviction. I've let this linger in my head for since the summer of 2005. And now I'm just building a foundation, or trying to. This is really hard. I keep going through this process of doubt vs determination. Not really sure I can pull this off. I'm also not sure of my voice. And I'm a horrible typist.
Then again, this is really all I have left. In high school I remember writing a letter to a girl I had a crush on. I remember thinking...well, I'm not very tall, nor particularly athletic. I'm not cool or dangerous. Neither rich nor very handsome. But I could express my self well on paper. Not face to face, not at first. But on paper. So I wrote to her. I wrote my frigging heart out. It was good. It was lyrical, it was sensual without being creepy. It was up to that point the best thing I'd ever written. I wrote it and sent it anonymously. I watched from afar as she opened and read it. I saw her smile. I witnessed her excitement as she showed it off to her friends. She liked it. Hell, she loved it. That should have been enough. If I'd had patience, perhaps things would have worked out differently. I could have waited longer. Days, perhaps weeks. I could have followed up the letter with others like it. Revealing myself only after building the anticipation higher. What did I know. I was 16 and stupid. That day I learned that sometimes things don't work out, no matter how you want them to.
At the time I thought to myself, that was the best I had. That was the best in me and it was not enough.
Well here I am again. Sort of. There is no crush, no love. But there is this idea. This story I can tell of this guy I have inside my head. He is not yet fully formed, but I can see him sometimes. He is in the midst of a thunderstorm, feeling fear and power and life coursing through him. He lives in my dreams, those born of both night and day. And he wants to come out.
This is all I have left. My words. I'm not doing this to prove myself to someone. There is no one to prove it to. I'm not doing it in the hopes that It will one day be published. Its not the kind of story that would sell. I'm doing it because it needs to come out of me. And because I want there to be something in my life that I can commit to and have work out, if not well, than at least to a satisfactory conclusion. I've failed at everything. Relationships, school, jobs, family obligations...life. I want to have one thing. One thing that I've done, of which I can be proud. Perhaps that's too strong. Even If I complete it, It could still be shit. I may have no talent as a narrator. Say rather that I want one thing that I tried and did not give up on, or lose, or let fear overcome my will to take one more step with.
This is all I have left. if its not enough, I don't know. What happens when the one thing you once believed you were good at, turns out to be something you cannot do after all? What then?
I ramble. I'm attempting to go beyond an emptiness that has been eating away at my insides for as long as I can remember. I will try to feed it with words. Satisfy its appetite with my dreams. Before it consumes me and leaves nothing left.
I still have yet to come up with a name...
Then again, this is really all I have left. In high school I remember writing a letter to a girl I had a crush on. I remember thinking...well, I'm not very tall, nor particularly athletic. I'm not cool or dangerous. Neither rich nor very handsome. But I could express my self well on paper. Not face to face, not at first. But on paper. So I wrote to her. I wrote my frigging heart out. It was good. It was lyrical, it was sensual without being creepy. It was up to that point the best thing I'd ever written. I wrote it and sent it anonymously. I watched from afar as she opened and read it. I saw her smile. I witnessed her excitement as she showed it off to her friends. She liked it. Hell, she loved it. That should have been enough. If I'd had patience, perhaps things would have worked out differently. I could have waited longer. Days, perhaps weeks. I could have followed up the letter with others like it. Revealing myself only after building the anticipation higher. What did I know. I was 16 and stupid. That day I learned that sometimes things don't work out, no matter how you want them to.
At the time I thought to myself, that was the best I had. That was the best in me and it was not enough.
Well here I am again. Sort of. There is no crush, no love. But there is this idea. This story I can tell of this guy I have inside my head. He is not yet fully formed, but I can see him sometimes. He is in the midst of a thunderstorm, feeling fear and power and life coursing through him. He lives in my dreams, those born of both night and day. And he wants to come out.
This is all I have left. My words. I'm not doing this to prove myself to someone. There is no one to prove it to. I'm not doing it in the hopes that It will one day be published. Its not the kind of story that would sell. I'm doing it because it needs to come out of me. And because I want there to be something in my life that I can commit to and have work out, if not well, than at least to a satisfactory conclusion. I've failed at everything. Relationships, school, jobs, family obligations...life. I want to have one thing. One thing that I've done, of which I can be proud. Perhaps that's too strong. Even If I complete it, It could still be shit. I may have no talent as a narrator. Say rather that I want one thing that I tried and did not give up on, or lose, or let fear overcome my will to take one more step with.
This is all I have left. if its not enough, I don't know. What happens when the one thing you once believed you were good at, turns out to be something you cannot do after all? What then?
I ramble. I'm attempting to go beyond an emptiness that has been eating away at my insides for as long as I can remember. I will try to feed it with words. Satisfy its appetite with my dreams. Before it consumes me and leaves nothing left.
I still have yet to come up with a name...