A former teenage author turned twenty and her stabs at writing life and living to write.

Sunday, August 29, 2010

No title. Titles don't matter I suppose. They're like the superficial layer to a human soul, the peel of an orange. Still, they attract the crowds. But they give nothing away as to what lies inside.

I've been contemplating so much lately. I've moved from home, started my own life, and am trying to live it. I really am. But it's difficult. I would far rather be doing something for others than concentrating on my own goals. It's not unselfish. Selfish if anything.

I think the whole campus atmosphere is a fascinating place. I say this partially sounding idiotic. However, luckily, I understand that fact. No wonder people write so many books, produce so many movies, detail so many self-help pamphlets about high school/college life. It's really a mess. Everyone is trying to fit in, find a speck of happiness in what is virtually a zoo. Really, every social gathering is a mess of people literally jumping on top of each other trying to be heard, to be recognized. It seems like a waste to me. But what do I know? I do it too. Because it's the way to find friends... apparently.

Going to college means becoming a completely whole person. We learn to rely less on our parents and family and neighbors. It's a selfish venture really. We come to socialize (for most it's to find a husband), take classes, advance OUR learning so WE can develop OUR OWN careers and individualistic traits. I'm not saying it's bad necessarily. Just selfish.

This post really has nothing to do with anything. Really. I often wonder why I write them. Do they help me somehow decide what I'm feeling? Are they in any way speaking to someone reading them? No clue. All I know is I write them and post them and gather them up so someday I can look back through them all and wonder at my life (or cry about it... either way).

I want to close by testifying of the Savior. The Savior and His plan for us. I'm not sure why I'm here, why it was necessary for my to break my ACL weeks before moving on campus. I'm not exactly sure why I never had the opportunity of a normal High School life. I honestly don't know. But I believe He is wielding his ultimate wisdom for my behalf. And that's enough for now.

I'll laugh because I can. Dream because I should. And live because I'll never get a second chance!!

Goodnight America!!

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Words to Define By

What kinds of things do we hold up in front of us, layering shield upon shield? Things we associate with who we are. They usually begin with I am. I am eighteen. I am a writer. I am a dreamer. Even as I try to fill in a list of I am's, I have difficulty saying what I am. I'm used to saying I love to or I have a passion for, or even my life often revolves around. And it's not the same, isn't right. Before long, if we pile on a list of things we love or places we've been, it means little unless we know who we are during all those events.

This is a short blog, just a musing, but I was filling out a profile page for a new account on a writing website and I wrote as my first sentence, I am eighteen. Does the fact that I'm eighteen define me? Yes, the fact that I write as much as I do and with such neurotic habitualness that I do... yes, I believe that says something about me. But alone eighteen means very little. It's a number. Nothing more. So, here I will try to create a list of I am's, things that build the fabric of my soul. (Yes, that IS cheesy, but I am cheesy)

I am eighteen
I am an author
I am a dreamer
I am cheesy
I am a leg-jostler
I am an artist (at heart, and NEVER on canvas)
I am a musician
I am a song writer
I am a laugher (yes, that sounds weird)
I am a crier (that too)
I am a dancer (only in my kitchen with a wooden spoon microphone)
I am a reader

And yet, these mean little in comparison to the most important I am's.

I am a daughter
I am a sister
I am an aunt
I am a friend

I am someone who writes these extremely strange blogs and somehow gets you all to read them!!

No, but really... Who are we all?

Sunday, August 8, 2010

The Ever Enlightening (and NOT depressing), Hilarious, and oh so Enchanting Post

I am not a depressing person. I love humor and comedy. I make up my life by seeing beauty, by noticing small ironies... even by imagining the beauty and irony, symbolism and redeeming moments I cannot find in the real world. In my books, my characters encounter frightening things, horrible circumstances, but I would never consider it a depressing story. On the contrary. I find their story a hopeful one, an assurance that the promise of new beginnings and happy endings can unfold for anyone. 


Yet, there is someone out there (actually, a few more than just a someone) that tells me my posts make him/her want to jump off a bridge. Okay, so here's my attempt at being light and humorous. Here's my try at taking my readers off the bridge and letting them swim (not drown) in the water. 


Huh, I guess I could get carried away writing about a clown called Chuckles who works at the Pirate Circus. Then again, when I think of writing that, I instantly want to turn the pirates into clown-hunting ghosts. Would that be depressing? You tell me! 


I think laughter is the most therapeutic activity a person can do... the MOST. There are times when I laugh, and it's all I can do to stop. I laugh, not even really about anything. And I know everyone in the room is staring me down, reaching for the phone to cal Bellevue. But there's something inside of me that doesn't want to quit, a holding I grasp for into a happier world. I laugh because there are times I know if I wasn't laughing, I'd be crying. 


Okay, again I think I'm straying into the depressing zone. Should we debate the validity of leprechauns and the myth of the rainbow? Or is destroying that hope too depressing to bear? 


Yeah, so this post is going completely catastrophic! Really, all this attempt at levity is making ME want to jump off a bridge. Goodnight, my readers. Yes, both of you.