March 2010

The Road to Writing, Paved with Good Intentions

I’ve always been told that I’m not good enough. I often felt that there are parts of me missing that I can never recover; parts of my early life, bits of myself that should have been, but never were. They were forgotten long before they were created, and I often found myself searching for them in the lives of others.

“This,” I would think, “is who or what I would have been if things had gone differently.”

“This horrible place is where I should have been, except for dumb luck.” I had always considered it lucky that I was alive—not because I was loved or cherished or saved for any purpose. But because whoever it was that wrote my story didn’t care enough to kill me. It would’ve wasted precious ink. Depression took over my entire life. I was a miserable person to be around. I wanted nothing, hoped for nothing, dreamed of nothing.

And then one day, I took up a notebook and a pencil and started to write.

I still can’t remember why I did it, but I did—I took up that pencil and from it sprang an entirely new world, one in which I was valued. Cherished. Loved. And bit by bit the darkness receded and was replaced with handsome princes, dragons, castles, empires and their formidable armies at my bidding.

I created images of myself as I would’ve liked to be: complete, with no parts missing. I was at the center of every intriguing plot. Story after story they came, new nations, new eras, new characters—new people to mingle with. I could see them in my mind’s eye, so clearly in fact, that I saw them in the people I encountered in out in the real world…and so real that they began to take on lives of their own.

I lived in their world for nearly a decade, and I loved it there. But the longer I stayed, the more my real life began to suffer. I failed my classes. I missed events. I didn’t socialize. And you’d smell me coming a mile away because I didn’t take very good care of myself either. There would always come a time at the end of each day when I had to put the pencil down. And when I did, I was faced with the same issues I’d had before I started, if not worse. I had to do something about it.

So I sought help. Psychiatrists, drugs, hospitalizations. I was diagnosed as “Bipolar” and took a vested interest in correcting that and the real life I had neglected. I brought up my average and graduated college with honors. I interacted with the people around me; real people. For the first time in a long time, I was happy.

But with each passing day, it became a little more difficult to pick up that pencil again. That mighty river of thought and creation has dried up and one by one, my worlds are fading away into the old abyss of forgetfulness. Immortalized in print, but rarely read and scarcely thought of. I’ve begun a quest to reclaim these worlds and forge new ones. The old stories fade, but my thoughts are ever-filled with new tales of my old friends. I miss them. They are who I am, and they are the pieces of myself that I was missing before. I will not rest until their voices are heard, and I will never allow the darkness to take them, because to do so would be to lose myself as well. And that will never happen again. I swear it.

http://kimbaxterwhyiwrite.blogspot.com/2010/03/i-know-why-caged-lion-roars.html

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It’s a video submission.  View it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cLC-K2E5tnc.

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Contest Entry #1: http://an-san.deviantart.com/art/Night-of-the-Masks-72058157
Contest Entry #2: http://an-san.deviantart.com/art/Superimposition-of-a-Compass-158975278
Contest Entry #3: http://an-san.deviantart.com/art/Beach-158978655
Contest Entry #4: http://an-san.deviantart.com/art/After-Reading-Amiri-Baraka-158978386
Contest Entry #5: http://an-san.deviantart.com/art/A-Very-Important-Guest-158979627
Contest Entry #6: http://an-san.deviantart.com/art/Locked-Inside-158976077
Contest Entry #7: http://an-san.deviantart.com/art/Graveyard-in-Autumn-158975828
Contest Entry #8: http://an-san.deviantart.com/art/Butterfly-158975633
Contest Entry #9: http://an-san.deviantart.com/art/Maine-Sunset-147891819
Contest Entry #10: http://an-san.deviantart.com/art/Fractal-Cloth-72285073

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Four separate text entries:

http://slivshiv264.livejournal.com/

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Please follow the link to see all the images that correspond with the text portions included here:

So you want to know me, huh? Well. It’s been a while since I’ve really thought about who I am, but here goes. I’m me. In all my unfiltered, unedited, untouched glory. I simply am who I am. I am not physically fit, or active, or attractive in most ways, though like anyone I have my moments of vanity. I am not overly talented at any one thing, something that continues to be a source of consternation for me, when just once I would like to truly shine at something; though that is likely because I don’t always have the drive, dedication, and determination that are needed to excel at something. I can understand that. Until I polish my own burnished edges, how can I ever expect to shine? I’m not well-known, or wealthy, or socially active, and I certainly don’t have the confidence and self-esteem that I know I should. But enough of what I am not. I think it is time to tell you who and what I am.

I am 27 years old. I am a sister, daughter, granddaughter, niece, and friend. I am single. I am well-educated. I am a teacher. I am loyal and kind, empathetic and wise, impulsive and thoughtful. I am fun and sometimes funny, crazy and kooky and everything in between. I am a myriad of good qualities and faults. I am moral, but not hypocritical in that morality. I believe in what I believe whole heartedly, yet I see the need for free will and individual choice, even if it is not what I would choose. I look in the mirror and see nothing but faults, feel vanity, want to be pretty, and some days I actually feel pretty. I say harsh things, but I always regret them. I make mistakes, but I try to fix them, and even when I can’t, I always learn from them. I have bad days, when all I want to do is cry and it is so hard to see the dawn in the darkness that precedes it, but I try. I make a game of finding the silver linings in life, for how can you be poor and unhappy when surrounded by silver. I have many interests, punctuated by long periods of attention or inattention, from the stars to the depths of the ocean, I enjoy so many things. I sing, sometimes well, sometimes not. I inhale books. I breathe in the words and stories, content to bring other worlds alive in my head. When I tire of the movie theatre in my mind I absorb TV and movies, loving the movie-going experience in someone else’s head. I write, though I often have ideas that are bigger than my talent. My imagination truly has no boundaries. From moment to moment I could be exploring the depths of the ocean, romancing a white knight, or delving into the mysteries of Ireland. I explore the internet, not for news and world understanding as perhaps I should, but for things and ways to teach, learn, and enjoy life. I laugh, as often as possible. I smile at perfect strangers. I thank others for the efforts they exert on my behalf. I hang out with friends, to laugh, listen, and cry. I keep my family as close to my heart as possible. I love my home and my heritage and my history.

But there is one thing about me, one thing that I both love and hate equally, and that is how I feel simply everything. I feel for the animals left in the cold, in the slaughterhouses, in the streets. I feel for the children with no food, no homes, no clean water to drink. I cry at commercials and stories, jokes and movies, and anything else with some sort of sentiment. I feel strongly about everything, often when I likely shouldn’t. This bugs me to no end. But I also love, fiercely, whole-heartedly, and with every inch of my being. I laugh and cry and love like it’s the air I breathe, the water I drink, the food I eat. If I love someone or something I never let it go. I never back down or look away. My family, my friends, they never doubt how I feel about them, and I never want them to. I love with my whole being and though I don’t always appreciate my sensitivity and sentimentality, I would never change it, for it is a key component of me and who I am.

http://jennhillier.weebly.com/

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Video entry.

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By Craig Smith

It’s a funny thing when you are asked what you are passionate about. I mean really passionate about, not just care about, or like, love or even love deeply. That isn’t passion, they are other emotions, no less valid, but not passion. So I had to sit down and think about it. Life goes so fast, there is no time to really sit down and think, contemplate life; yet with this question it meant I must.

I love writing, well I think I do. When I get into the swing I’ll write a few thousand words and it’s a breeze, even when I don’t want too. I like my job; fixing things and finding solutions the best way in resolving an issue, without the issue, itself, becoming an issue. I use to love my sports; but never became passionate in it, regardless of how good I was. Why? Because, it probably became too easy. Not too easy to win, but to easy to stop caring if I won or not. That, I think is the start of what passion is about (or isn’t). Its starts by caring. The love of my life; well that is one person who I care about, stirs my passions and to a degree am passionate about, but that passion is again different to what we are talking about here. My children, of course I am passionate about and would die for in an instant (let’s hope we never have to test that one). I am very passionate about their learning and development. I want them to succeed in everything they do, so to that point I am passionate about them and their successes. But that is passion for them, not for me. To see my little female protégées come to fruition is a wondrous thing, but is it passion or pride?

So, I sat back and stared at the ceiling. I went for a walk. I lay on the couch and stared down at my widening girth. It doesn’t look so bad standing up, but lying down we see the flab oozing over the couch, a waterproof covering with no need for Scotchproof. Still, it didn’t help answer my now evident burning question of what stirred my emotions, what I was so passionate about that I would chain myself to a tree and so ceasing the mindless slaughter of innocent rooted beings; or driving headlong into the path of a whaling ship terrorising its research; or maybe just standing up, putting my hand out and just saying “Stop, I don’t like that”. I mean, really, what drives someone to be that passionate?! It made me stop and think. Had I become that lethargic in life that I no longer really cared? Has life gotten that monotonous, the hum drum of city suburbanisation that I had ceased to really care about anything other than where my next meal was coming from? I suppose I had.

Don’t get me wrong, I have read self improvement books, educated myself to a decent level, and even gone to wealth creation seminars, but really at the end of the day, what good has it done me? I have a Blog set up, with nothing written, I have ideas to run my own business, but failed to build a business plan, I have opportunities to make more money, but I haven’t acted upon this information, yet, yet writing this here and now, stirs something. No wait, it’s my coffee. Instead I’m sitting at a computer typing for a competition to get a fictitious character into a book that I would have no control over! Its like a naming competition for a new baby elephant. Do you really think anyone really cares that much? From the classic line in The Matrix “Do you think that’s air you’re breathing?”

So, is it really air that I’m breathing? Staring deep into a now empty mug I have to admit that it’s not. To be truly passionate about something you need to raise it on a pedestal above all else. Without it you would cease to exist, cease to have meaning in life, and cease to add value, not to humanity, but to yourself (I hope I have enough commas). If you believed in Karma, you’d be coming around to have another go next reincarnation. If you are lucky, you either meet someone you lives the same passion, or supports your passion and to some degree will live their life through your passion. If you are indeed lucky enough not to meet anyone that meets your tough rigorous requirements, you will be free to live your life through your passion unfettered. Everyone has a passion in life, but not everyone finds it, and for most, if they do find it, lack the courage to pursue it. I have definitely been reading too many self improvement books!

The last announcement that was on the webpage was that there were 21 correct entries (as of the 25th March). You were expecting thousands…..so what does that say about peoples passion. Either you have a very minute following, or the entry aspects are too difficult to follow. Only dimwits like myself have difficulty following the entry requirements, so we can be assured that entry requirements are not the issue. I cannot believe (contrary to the fact of only 21 entries) there is a small following; can it be people are not passionate? I can’t believe people are passionless, or that they do not truly see what they are passionate about. I do consider that people don’t have belief in themselves to make their passion breathe. They need inspiration, and courage to not only take that first step, but also the next one and the next one, until they can they see their passion, and live it. This is my passion.

http://smithie65.blogspot.com/

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SHADOWS

Writing is such a powerful thing. To create a new world, out of nothing, and shape it in any way you like – powerful! You can make it a place you would want to live in, and you can equally easily make it a place no one would want to live in. Black letters on an empty page make up a life under your control.

‘A strikingly purple animal was flying through the air, clearly visible on the deep blue sky of another world. Muscles moving with enchanting speed under the thick smooth skin of the wings, strong… yet so vulnerable.

Ash leaned forward, hastily linking his hands around the dragon’s wide neck, before she dove into a dizzying spin towards the floor. “Aaaaaaaaa!” he screamed. He will never get used to this.’

Addictive as it is, one would think it is also easy. However, it is but the contrary – the hardest thing. Pouring your thoughts and inner images on paper is one of the most interesting processes; so much is written about it, it has been so many times discussed… But weirdly, at the end of the day, it stays something you cannot put into words. It must be experienced in order to be understood.

‘He indeed never got used to it. Because in the next moment, he felt something crash heavily into his chest and a pure white arrow pierced his thin jacket and his dark skin, plunging itself deeply between the two of his ribs. When the metallic point reached his heart with expected precision, his hands slipped silently off the dragon’s neck, no longer feeling the polished surface, and he fell.’

And because of that, you cannot learn how to invent a new world and characters that live in it. Not from a book, not from internet, and not from anywhere else. You can read about it all you want, but you will never be able to write it if it does not come from within you. The stories live inside you, and they are you. It is a part of you that you can give to the world, the part of you that changes our world.

She looked away from the computer screen. “You’re not crying, are you?” he asked, and only then she noticed him standing there, abruptly pulled out of her story. She shook her head and started sobbing. “Who is it this time?” he asked, his voice carefully gentle. He sat down on the bed and took the laptop from her. “Don’t read it!” she pulled the computer back. “No one is supposed to see it!” Tears were still running down her cheeks, making the collar of her shirt wet, but he saw the determination in her eyes and let it go. She set it aside and crawled into his lap. “I had to,” came the barely audible whisper as he pulled her closer.

Even more important than writing, is making your stories available for others. With your own mind, you can create wonderful things. But only when other people believe in them and love them too, those stories really come to life. When someone reads what you’ve written, it begins to grow inside them and it makes them a different person.

In the end, she gave up and let him read it. He knew she would, she always did. Her stories had no meaning without him as a reader – he was the one she wrote for.

But when he finished, he wished with all his being she hadn’t allowed him the privilege this time. It was horrible! His hands were clenched into fists as he paced the room. How could she?! How could she kill Ash? He felt the emptiness inside him, and when a single tear escaped from his eye, he realized he was crying for a boy who was born inside his wife’s head and only existed on paper. Not even that actually, he was a mere compilation of letters on a computer screen.

He seemed real enough to him.

Which is exactly why it is so important what you write about. Supposing you make a world of fear and horror and never give readers any light, what starts inside them is equally dark. And with every person who reads your work, the world becomes a bit more menacing.

‘Lying on the floor was the broken body of a young man. His skin dark and bloody, his features barely recognizable. Despite that, she knew the moment she saw him in the midst of all the other bodies. She would know him anywhere. She braced herself and walked the short distance, her steps steady and her eyes dry. She’s cried enough. She sat down on the floor beside him and brushed her fingers lightly over his eyes, closing them. Then her voice rose to the sky, pure and piercing, singing the song with no words. His body lit up from within, and the light consumed him, as it has done with his life hours ago.’

The worse part, however, is not the darkness, but the fact that you cannot fight pure evil with pure light. Not one person has lived their life in complete purity and innocence, so they cannot believe in a world with no night.

“Here,” she pushed the printed papers across the table. “You have to forgive me,” she said with a slight tremor in her voice. Without a reply, he took the papers in his hands and started reading.

After, he looked up at her, standing there. “I’ve forgiven you a week ago,” he whispered. “You had to.”

Our only chance lies in balance – to create a world where there is good and there is bad, there is love and there is hate. Where destruction is already a new beginning. A world with murder, rape, war… But also a world with creation, where sex is about making love, with peace, writers, actors and dancing. A circle with predators and prey. Shadows.

• Mood:accomplished

http://aura55.livejournal.com/613.html

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Text and image entry.

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