This blog has now reached one hundredth of the page views of my other blog hosted on this site. What a milestone! Eighty-five to eighty-five hundred. Normally, I might make some sort of celebratory post or something of the sort, but it would be the most boring celebration. I don't even have cake.
No, instead I wanted to talk about writing again.
Another difficulty for me is to write about emotions. That sounds strange, I know. But writing about feelings is so tough for me. I don't know how to tell what other people are feeling, or how to explain what I'm feeling. I know I think "I wish I could punch them" about someone before I realize I'm angry about them. I feel things and can only put them into other words before I can understand the feeling. I suppose that makes it fine in writing, where I'm showing instead of telling something, but it feels like it's horribly inconvenient.
I think it's more of a problem in fiction writing, when I'm better at saying what happens than wanting to write about emotions. I don't like writing about feelings since I never know how! I know what people should feel and I know what makes sense, in some case, but I don't think I can fully grasp that humanness to emotions, that feeling of change and not always being right in emotions and the discrepancies among people when it comes to emotions.
I try to put everyone in the same state of mind and I suffer as a writer for it.
Does anyone have tips on this? I really need help.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Monday, October 8, 2012
sixth.
Endings are always difficult to write, I find. Fiction, or nonfiction, I never know how to end things. I know what comes at the start, and at the middle, and everything leading up to an end. But never the end. Maybe it's because every story, no matter what, is a work in progress.
I was born in 1991. I have lived 21 years and some months. My story is not yet over. I've had days that ended, I've had months and years and little stories that have ended, but they all weave into one another, and tearing out one thread to make a story of it does little but unravel the entire piece. When I write, I don't write for an ending, I write to tell something. When I tell someone something, it doesn't end just because I may say it does, there's always another day, another month, another year.
Death, too, is not an end. Death is a stop. I wouldn't choose to end my own story with my heart stopping, I refuse to think about the fact that with my life ends all recollection and all trace of me on this earth. My bones, my hair, my body will still exist. The people I love and have loved and who have loved me and who knew me will live.
I've often thought about that, the idea of all of me fading the moment my heart stops. I don't want that, I refuse that. I will reject that. I want something to live by, something that will outlast me. A painting that outlasts its artist, a book outlasting its author, a creation outlasting its creator. Not a living creation, in the sense of owning a heartbeat and breath, but something that will live for me.
To have created something, like putting your soul in it and setting it free, isn't it an interesting thought?
I was born in 1991. I have lived 21 years and some months. My story is not yet over. I've had days that ended, I've had months and years and little stories that have ended, but they all weave into one another, and tearing out one thread to make a story of it does little but unravel the entire piece. When I write, I don't write for an ending, I write to tell something. When I tell someone something, it doesn't end just because I may say it does, there's always another day, another month, another year.
Death, too, is not an end. Death is a stop. I wouldn't choose to end my own story with my heart stopping, I refuse to think about the fact that with my life ends all recollection and all trace of me on this earth. My bones, my hair, my body will still exist. The people I love and have loved and who have loved me and who knew me will live.
I've often thought about that, the idea of all of me fading the moment my heart stops. I don't want that, I refuse that. I will reject that. I want something to live by, something that will outlast me. A painting that outlasts its artist, a book outlasting its author, a creation outlasting its creator. Not a living creation, in the sense of owning a heartbeat and breath, but something that will live for me.
To have created something, like putting your soul in it and setting it free, isn't it an interesting thought?
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