Quote

"Of course, in a novel,
people’s hearts break, and they die, and that is the end of it; and in a
story this is very convenient. But in real life we do not die when all
that makes life bright dies to us. There is a most busy and important
round of eating, drinking, dressing, walking, visiting, buying, selling,
talking, reading, and all that makes up what is commonly called living,
yet to be gone through..."

Memories...

Sometimes it's hard to grasp that I am twenty years old. That I have lived twenty years. I look back and feels like it was no time at all...I mean, I can remember things from when I was nearly 3. I can remember birthday parties. I remember thinking to myself, "I can't wait until I'm 16." I remember the first time I slept over my grandparents. I remember getting my very first bike. I remember the first day I rode my bike without the training wheels. I don't know about everyone else, but memories are mostly stored in my mind like short clips of film. No sound...just kinda like watching a tiny clip. It's kind of like that with my writing as well. I see what I write like a movie inside my head. Rather, I see the story played out in my head...sometimes a scene is played out several different ways, and I just write down what I see.



I'm not quite positive how old I was...the oldest would've been six going on seven, as I had yet to get my glasses. It was summer and hot outside. All my siblings and I were outside playing in a tiny kiddie pool and the hose. Someone, probably my oldest brother, had the brilliant idea of pushing the kiddie pool underneath the swingset, fill it up with water, then climb half-way up the side of the swingset, jumping down into the kiddie pool for a refreshing splash. It was an old swingset...or perhaps it had just gotten a lot of wear from six kids. Several of the swings were broken off, and many of the screws on the poles had their protective caps missing. As I climbed up to enjoy another jump, one of my siblings (who shall remain nameless) jumped down, pushing into me. I got pushed up against one of the poles and my leg scraped against one of the uncapped screws, and I got a cut. I saw the blood and felt annoyed. I would have to run inside to get a bandaid! I've never been squeamish of blood and at that age, I was forever getting scraped up while playing outside. I ran inside and into the bathroom, managing to get the bandaid box down. I was found in the bathroom by Mom who took a look at my cut. It worried her slightly and she eventually decided to take me to the ER. I don't really remember the drive there, but I remember sitting and waiting, then being led into a room. I remember lying down and I remember a tall man saying to me, "It's not going to hurt. It'll just feel like a bee sting." I wasn't very afraid before that, but I certainly was then. I had (and still haven't) been stung by a bee. "You can hold your mom's hand and squeeze it." the tall man said, and I did exactly that. I don't really remember how painful it was, though I do remember squeezing my mom's hand tightly. I got stitches...I don't remember how many, but there weren't that many. I remember a woman telling me I was brave then asking me if I wanted to pick out a teddy bear. I said yes, and she led me to a closet? Where she pulled out a big box of teddy bears and let me choose one. I chose the most hideous bear of all...bright pink with bright purple overalls.

I can sit at a large, old fashioned desk, quill pen in hand and feel the atmosphere inspiring me. I can dip my quill pen in the largest bottle of ink and hold it over an empty page, feeling ever ready to begin my greatest achievement. My hand will freeze, hovering over the page, ready to set free the million thoughts but unable. The thoughts will stick and no amount of old fashioned and inspiring atmosphere can drag them out.

I can sit in the back seat of a fifteen seater van and catch a glance of the sun flashing a morse code message through the thick foliage, that stirs something in my mind. A memory will catch fire, colliding into a series of words that clicks together. They will form a train that spills out faster than anything onto my notebook.

I can dream that my words are the best in the world. I don't confess they are. They will never be on the level of C. S. Lewis, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens. . .they can never compare. I can hope that my words will change someone's life. I can pray they will touch someone's heart. What I do hope is that they will change me. I hope they will touch my heart. I hope my words mean the most to me.

Just my weirdness

I spent one half hour this evening packing up some of my books. Emphasis on some. I still have about half of the books left on my hopechest to pack up. Unfortunately, there aren't anymore boxes to pack them up in. I also need boxes for all the things on my dresser. That's right. I'm packing my things up. I hope to start work on my bedroom soon, and there's no way I'm leaving my books out when I sand then paint! I still have yet to get the paint, but that's a minor detail. Soon.

I spent a little more time, sitting on my bed, listening to Nikki Yanofsky while I thought. It's hard to just sit and think now...it can hurt to think too much. I used to love just sitting and thinking, but now I shouldn't.

I try to write...really write, and I can't seem to come up with anything. Sure I write...I write a lot. But nothing meaningful. At least not lately, it seems. The words just won't form right.