Ops. I broke myself?

I know what broke the writer inside of me; I stopped living in my own world. Just a few months ago, I had a universe standing inside my mind. It’s a God like feeling, but it’s the farthest it can be from narcism; I was never the centre of it nor the puppeteer. I merely could see everything that was happening. On second thoughts, I was a peeping-tom; sneaking looks at my characters even at their most intimate moments. The world was rich, and changing. Everyday I had a new character, in a different setting, who was passionate about a cause which a character was just rallying against the day before. It was the soundtrack of my life. I could spend days alone just listening to it; boredom was a foreign concept to me.
Then, life happened. I’m not going to say it was bad events that distracted me. Some were good like love, some were bad like anxiety. Some writers can use these events to inspire them; but not me. I failed. Perhaps I was never a “writer”, but just an “imaginer”. The soundtrack paused, or rather it was dubbed with the sounds of my own my reality. It wasn’t bad at first. I didn’t even notice few weeks-if not months- that I hadn’t thought of any new stories. I felt guilty, but then I decided to embrace my new life. I was never a fighter; I always swam with the current regardless of my better sense. Nine months later, I had a minute to myself, but I couldn’t stand the silence in my head.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
No sound is louder than silence. It’s piercing. I’d become addicted to my busy life, and somehow I forgot to maintain the VCR in my mind. I spent days trying to come up with one creative thought, but I couldn’t. The VCR was rusted, out of date, and I couldn’t afford to upgrade it.
So here I am now, different. I’m not sure which was better. The old me or the new me. I never liked the old one much, and I’m not liking the new one either. I wish I could have the best parts of each, but I’m not sure it goes that way. I hope I can write again. I miss my characters.

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A Pasty Man

I’ve been struggling recently to write, so I’ve come up with this little idea to get things going; I’m going to try and write 200 words per day, and finish a short story with in the next few days. Once I’m settled back into a routine, I can go back and start working again on my longer works.

So, here you go:

Pasty skin, pasty lips, pasty everything. He had been born with a coat of ivory, and had gone through his teenager years being called “vampire”, “albino”, and “Mr. Freeze” by a kid with chipped tooth and a never-fading black eye. As a young man, he had spent two years and a couple of hundred greens on tanning sprays which turned him orange, and tanning sessions that he quit after his first cancer scare. At the age of twenty-two, he settled his vendetta with his skin-tone, and realized that perhaps he would forever remain pasty. The decision came slow, after being called paper-thin by ex no. 1, ex no. 2, and ex no. 4. His color wasn’t a big deal, he reasoned; some countries have populations that are even paler than he was, so just because his fellow country men had a nice glisten to their tone, it didn’t mean that handsomeness was bound to it. He was over it, except for when he pickpocket his sister’s bronzer on a few occasional dates (but he didn’t own, and that was all that mattered!). He never ever brushed it on his face though; only over his abs- or ab.
It was one particular day that he felt oddly confident…

Novel update

So, even though I had the momentum going for a couple of months, I haven’t been writing the last two. I keep trying to get back to Teacup Rebel, but it can’t get past typos, grammar, and plot holes even to power through the first draft. 

So far, I’m only writing two or three days per week max, and rarely ever hit the 1000 words mark. Very disappointing. 

Hopefully, I will be able to show more commitment from now on. I need to get more serious. 

So, anyone else having this problem?

 

Chasing after the first word

Writing doesn’t always come easy; regardless of how talented you are. It might be a strained muscle or voices muffled under the weight of life. Recently I’ve been chasing after the first word; the end of the string. I want to pull at the first word and then tug the whole novel back towards me chapter by chapter. But do you know how hard it is to find the right string once you’ve let it go? 

Sometimes we forget we’ve been holding our inspiration for too long, and we let it go. We let it slip from between our tips. 

Where did it go? It’s not there any longer.

Suddenly you’re not connected anymore, and all you could think about is:

It’s a key in the sea now. I won’t find it again.

Should you give up. No. So how do you get it back?

 

Are you the only Pinokio?

Other people are paper thin. They have no depth, no original thoughts, and no spirit. Basically, they are just moving dummies, but you are the only Pinokio; The only one who is more than timber. Yet, you’re stuck dealing with trees for the rest of your life. Isn’t it sad? Isn’t it frustrating to live inside your mind? There is so much you deserve because you are ‘special’

It is disappointing, like everything human, to be self-centered as a whole and as a specie. We each think we are the sun of our galaxy, and everyone else orbits us; except everyone believes so inwardly. I’m an astrophysicist, but can we all be “the center”?  The things is, we live with a sense of grandeur and entitlement, because each of us truly believes that even though we all exist, only he/she is real. 

But, we all are just as real.

The homeless man you tossed a coin at this morning, he’s as real as you. Hilter? Real. Miley Cyrus? Yup. The weird kid in class? Just as real. 

I’m not saying all minds were created equal; minds, in the sense of intellect, are only a variable in the equation of a human. But I know for sure none of us is the one, but we are all capable of originality and “philosophical” thinking (however you want to define it). 

In other words, step outside your mind. And, if you are so dogged on being special, then do something special, instead of just feeling like you deserve the title.   

How can anyone ever be happy again after realizing this?

Today, I watched a shared video on Facebook. You might’ve seen it before. It’s called “This is water”. Basically it’s a speech by David Foster Wallace. 

It was so life-changing; the kind of writing that makes you feel so small as an aspiring writer. Everything, every word, was put together in a way I would never be able to pull off, and the ideas were so clear and coherent and down right personal. The kind of writing that feels as if it is just talking to you, and you alone. 

Anyway, I was so jealous, but I had new glasses to see and question the world through. It induced a sudden moment of absolute awareness of everything (and, No, I didn’t pop any drugs!)

Five minutes later, I look up the author. He committed suicide in 2008 because of depression. My brain couldn’t function anymore. I’m sure I blew a fuse, because it is so hard living and know that the person who wrote that speech was so depressed, he took his own life. How can anyone ever be happy again after realizing this?

 

Roping in my friend

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I have a talented friend who told me today that her life was meaningless. I told her that I spent most of my life waiting for it to start, like a man sitting in a car and expecting the engines to spontaneously run; it’s not going to happen unless he turns the key. “Turn on the key,” I said, “give it meaning.”

Yet, it is simple to dish out advice like party favors. The truth is; I’m still waiting. I secretly believe that my life will start when I finish my first novel- which is an illusion. But even my waiting gives my life meaning and purpose. I have something to work towards, and that’s better than having nothing to go on. She is still suck on the limbo before deciding.

My talented friend doesn’t even know what she wants. She doesn’t even believe me when I say she’s talented in fashion design and writing. She has been beaten down by the reality of things that it’s hard for her to imagine things working out ever. There is a stirring wheel right in her reach- a luxury most people don’t have- but no compass. A ship sailing with no destination is going to end up in wreckage on some shore, right?

In this blog, I ask “Will I make it or not”. That’s my purpose; to make it. So, like all bad friends, I’m going to force her into an awkward situation and force her into realizing what I think is her dream (Best friends know better!). I started a blog for her to post her writing and designs. Whether she does it or not, that’s her choice, but I’m giving her the first post.

Here is the link to the blog:http://myfriendpushedmeintothis.wordpress.com/

And babe, if you are reading this post, I’m sorry I’m being an overbearing friend. I love you too much and have too much faith in you to stay still.