Clash

I wanted to write something new. I have felt the urge lately, you know, that pressing, kneading urge in your gut to create something wonderful. But I couldn’t think of anything and the time slipped away. Now it’s Sunday and all I have the poetry that’s been sitting on my desk for 6 months. It’s my work and I keep thinking that I wish I liked it more. I wish I was more satisfied with it. But I’m not.

I want to write but the hollowed shell that used to house my ideas is suddenly full of all the different languages I’ve spent so much time trying to learn. My stories now start with この夢を見た。My poetry and all my songs begin with ずっと. And I don’t know where to go from here. How do I kick start all the ideas I have from Japanese horror stories, Korean drama, and Chinese love stories into Strunk and White’s no foreign languages rule?

I feel like there is so much that I should be doing. When I was 13 I had myself convinced that I would publish my first book before college, my second and third during, and continue like this for the rest of my life. That was before I discovered my passion for other languages.

Rachel was right when she said that translation was an art. So right that it made me wonder if I should be translating instead of mere writing. But a part of me dies at the thought. What serious writer would be content at profiting, if you can profit, from another writer’s creativity? I want to write my own story but I seem to be so much better suited for translation.

Late night musings amusing me

Writing is a service. Reading is a choice and readers read to gain something. Writers write, at least in part, to give them what they are looking for. Some people want an adventure or a romance and we provide that, some people want truth and we, in turn, are blunt. But don't hold any irrational ideas that we control what we get published or get noticed, we don't.

Hopefully, we are lucky enough to give the readers what they want in such a way that they can be moved or touched by our work.

And I found this picture about blogging which made me smile. It said that to have a great blog, one that people will come to read in the thousands, you must be passionate about what you're writing and inspire people to be passionate about what they're reading. Rant about the detested ice cream or rave about the darling carnivorous mammal, but just remember that it is not about you.  It's the people reading that will ultimately doom or redeem your blog.

*This is just a note from your friendly Blogspot Trying-To-Keep-Rachel's-Head-Out-Of-An-Oven Committee.

Breaking up

Writer’s block,

I know we’ve had some fun. When you’re around I can’t seem to focus on anything, I can’t keep track of time, I can’t even speak for the knot tying up my vocal cords. I realize that at times we drift apart and, somehow, always come back together again.  My desperation overcomes me and I draw you closer and closer. This is a mistake; I never meant to lead you on like this. I don’t need you, I don’t love you, and I want you to know that, truly, it is you and not me. We won’t be together again.

Me

Random 1

         I have had the hardest time thinking about what to write for this blog. I wanted to be poignant, witty, make people eager to read my blog. But I can’t think of anything. I suppose that’s okay, I suppose that blogs are meant to introduce the person writing them in some way. Everyone wants to feel close to something and that’s why people read blogs at all. (Unless your teacher says you have to.)

         I like to add my own clips to movies. If I think a movie or a television show didn’t add the correct emotion or that something in the delivery was lacking, sometimes for no reason at all, I add my movies scenes. I love doing it too. It makes me feel more for the people I’m watching and I think it’s good practice to enliven all types of characters, not just the ones I create. Sometimes I even like to take the point of view of the bad guy or the not-quite-so-bad-but-still-pretty-mean guy.


Entry 1: Random pieces I was inspired to write from Stranger than Fiction

         Nothing had ever sounded so final as the slap of the manila folder on that desk. Harold looked forlornly back at the professor, wishing that somehow, in some way, he could tell Harold what to do next. Harold knew that his fear was on him then. If he left for one night as Professor Howard read that story, would he die before he knew how? In the morning would he wake up dead? Harold dismissed the idea and let his rational thoughts return to him. You can’t wake up dead, he told himself. With that he forced himself to turn and leave the office.

In this next part I changed the characters and tried to create a new scene stemming from the dialogue of the movie.

         “Who in a choice between pancakes and living would choose pancakes?” He demanded. Lolita lowered her eyes. It was a moment before she spoke.
         “Well, that depends on the quality of the life and the quality of the pancakes. Just how many pancakes are there? And how big are they?” She asked seriously. Harold looked at her as though her head had just spun round on her neck.
         “Please, tell me you’re joking.” His voice was strained; finally, he sighed. “Never mind, I’m going to pretend you’re joking.”
         “If it was only a couple of pancakes…” Lolita clicked her tongue before meeting his eyes once more. “And if I choose life, can I still eat pancakes sometimes?”
         “Stop. Just stop.” Harold rubbed the bridge of his nose between his eyes. His point, at least the way he’d seen it, was gone. Somebody might choose pancakes over living, specifically, a certain blond, naïve waitress might. Lolita raised her hand to her lips with a small blush.
         “I guess I wasn’t helping you that much, was I?” She mumbled.