Write. Come on. Write.
That’s how I start.
The beginning is terrible, it always is. No surprise there. But,
I get going then. Pick a metaphor or three or seventeen and make it sad or angry as Hell
And make that reader cry because I know it’s all I’m good at. Making people
cry.
And then you really write, a good thirty five words per minute because you never bothered learning to type and about two billion run on sentences later you run out of gas and scroll to the top of the document and read and see that terrible beginning, see the blatant typos and grammatical flukes and all you can think about is how stupid this sounds and you hate it. You hate all of it.
At least, the first two sentences, because that's all that you gave a chance.
And so you start highlighting and notice how you switched from first to second person less than halfway through and you hate that too and then with an almighty three hundred and fifty of eight hundred and twenty two words highlighted you stop.
You click the X at the top of the page knowing that you never hit save because how could anything you write be worth saving?
You shut your computer and think about how dark it is in your room at three a.m. when you can’t sleep. And you think.
You think about how you write and write about nothing at all and about how you are always searching for another thread to pull on thinking that maybe this time it will unravel the world and so maybe this time the main character’s father-
No. Wrong. Try again.
Maybe she just witnessed-
That’s a weak storyline.
Maybe she is writing at three in the morning because she can’t sleep. Maybe this is the third time in less than a week that she has wondered why they all hate her at school or maybe she is wondering why her friend’s parents wouldn’t tell her what the note said. Maybe she is wondering why her mind won’t let her forget that night.
Maybe she is wondering why there is war or why everything dies or why fire is beautiful but her burns aren’t and maybe she is wondering why the kid who sits behind her in science class didn’t say anything when he saw her taking a dissection scalpel in her hoodie pocket when she went to the bathroom and maybe she is wondering if she is better off dead.
Maybe she is wondering if she is worth hitting the save button even with all of the backspaces typed across her thighs and wrists and maybe, just maybe-
Tonight is the night she decides that she is.
And then you realize you switched to third person from second person and back again and you wonder why it’s so hard to admit that you’re the writer. That I am.
That she is.
OH. MY. GOSH. This was one of the greatest poems I have ever read. Well, I'd call it a free-verse poem. It's not really a story or an essay. But anyways, it's so true. It seems like every author looks back on their work and thinks about how stupid they sounded. I sure do. And when you said, "or why fire is beautiful but her burns aren’t," I cried a little inside. This poem was really inspiring, and the last part was sad. I hope you keep writing.
Hey! Ashlingwolf here for a review!
Oh man, I love this so much. You have captured so extremely well the irks and experiences of being a writer.
Just starting out and talking about how the beginning is always the worst, still figuring out the style, trying to figure out your characters, switching point of view repeatedly, and just everything else.
And then you switched focus halfway through just as described in the first half of the page- it was so seamless and perfect that I only noticed it on my second read-through- just so perfect.
The descriptions in this piece are fantastic, and the adjective choice is great.
This piece really toyed with my emotions. It started to make me almost laugh in the beginning, since I could completely relate to the experience of writing with the judging yourself harshly and everything, but by the time I got to the girl questioning herself, I was really sad. So, good job with that, goal accomplished!
I couldn't find any grammatical errors, but since I am actually typing this around midnight on a plane to be posted later, I might just be tired, so I'll say: always proofread.
I love this and would love to see more of your stuff!
Hello, herbgirl here for a review.
OH MY GOSH. Ok, so I'm not entirely sure how you did this, but this piece was surprisingly powerful. I started reading, and I was like, "meh, just another writers block piece, nothing to big." But then I kept going, and I think the switch to second person was really what pulled me in. It's an uncommon way to write, and when I see it I can't help but feel that the character really IS me, and then I start to see the parallels, and then I'm completely sucked in. Somehow, I didn't even notice the transitions between first and second and third person, possibly because I'm not very observant, but more likely because you made them so smooth. I also didn't notice that the piece the character was writing was the piece that I was reading until the end. This too, may have been because I'm not observant, but I don't think so. I think it's because this short is so well planned out. It sort of feels like you pulled together a bunch of strings into a gorgeous knitted sweater, except something more important than a sweater like an heirloom sweater that's been passed through the family and holds memories of all the people who've ever worn it.
I especially love the ending, the spacing you had there. Putting "That she is," further down, all by itself, really made it stand out. The spacing towards the beginning bothered me a bit. It was all so spread out, but I can also see that as a tool. It can help seem like you're starting off slow, then gaining speed with the story line, coming closer and closer to a conclusion as the lines get closer and closer, until finally everything is figured out.
Anyways, I realize that all kind of sounds like a rant about how great this story is but I REALLY liked it. Keep writing, this was fantastic.
herbgirl
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