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I am very excited as this is my first entry here. I can write 100 words every day easily. The excitement comes in never knowing what may come out. I have no idea where I will take these days and these 100 allotted words everyday. This is a separate venue for writing unattached to me and my life and my other writings. I could incorporate pieces of my other writings, if they come, or I could write a poem. It will prove interesting I would say, to say the least. One hundred words, eh? What a small limit to impose.
Have you any idea how hard it is to write a book? I have the persistence to live the life of a writer, which is how I know I will make this work, somehow. The work world is not for me, the work force, how preposterous. I can't hack it. That's why I'm in college, if I Must work then it must be doing something I Want to do. Psychology is my passion. Passions are hard to come by, at least for me, that is why I know this is real. I will make this work for me, they'll see.
Life can seem heavy knowing I have a good ten years of school ahead of me. I'm starting late, five years late. It's probably for the best. I am in love with knowledge. I crave learning, I yearn for it, I long for it. I need things to look forward to in life, I look at the small things, like concerts. One hundred words a day will provide this for me. It's as if I just Have to do this. I have seven weeks before my summer class starts. I certainly need something to look forward to in the meantime.
I read Catcher in the Rye within two days in a total of five or 6 hours. I am indeed impressed, my eyes are in fact sore as hell. I was practicing a technique of speed-reading. Reading in chunks and columns. I unfocused my eyes and it worked. My mind focused with my eyes unfocused. I enjoy Salingers peculiar way of writing, it reminds me of my own. I read this book a long while ago, too long ago to have appreciated it. I think it is possible that he got lucky, he played up being reclusive and got lucky.
I don't envy Dan Brown. Did he intend for his book to stir such turmoil? Did he want to be in the spotlight? I want to write a book quietly. I want my words read, not my life. I don't want to be famous. I want to be known but not enough to create any sort of stir. My three career choices I keep in mind never factor in being a writer. I figure that is something I will saddle along with me my whole life. I will spew a book out eventually. I certainly have a book in me.
What book should I read next? A pressing question I am faced with. Options are plentiful, which makes decisions complicated. Franny and Zooey I remember as a boring book, but that was a long time ago, sans appreciation for the art of writing. I'm sure I could derive more guidance in my writing by reading another Salinger book. A Perfect Day for Banana Fish creeps me out. How does he get away with such perverseness in his stories? I want to get away with having an overly depressing book. Mine will be a clearly evident shroud of gloom. A canopy.
It starts with a drip of the faucet. Intermittent indecipherable utterance from outside the adjacent window. An unexplainable tapping. A loud wood knocking tap, I cannot tell if it's from above me or to my side. The drip is intense as the faucet leaks severely and creates a constant running stream of water trickling its way to the silver drain where a noise will be emitted after passing the initial hole forming a short-lived bubble, then plummeting to its destination inside the drainpipe met with more water thereby creating another noise producing drip. It is a flow of chain reactions.
I would prefer to have my words read rather than heard. That is why I am a writer not a speaker. That is why I write seventy-five times better than I speak. Writers write. That is why I am incapable of ever sending a simple email. No. I must make everything difficult. I must add tension where intentions were not for tension. Complexities when simplicity was possible, logical and reasonable. I'm incapable of leaving well enough alone. What an annoying clichÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â©. Why are irreversible events the ones we wish to take back the most? Life takes one second to change.
Like trains speeding through darkened tunnels that used to contain light fixtures but were broken by people from her past. The trains tend to shut their lights off for fear of giving away to the girl the direction her life is about to take. The trains crunch over broken glass occupying the rails, nobody notices as the trains commotion overpowers all senses. The unsteadiness of wheels along the track as you hang onto the seat your standing on rather than sitting, shifting side-to-side, up and down, along with the locomotives bumpiness. Onlookers gawk as you question the lack of lighting.
I wonder how many randomly defined notebook situations I've had in my life. I swear, it is more than the psychology notebook situation, and more than my current poem notebook situation. I know for a fact there have been previous notebook situations. Pen situations too. Life is an odd predicament. My notebook is finished. I've been adding my poems into this composition notebook for years now. It's my second. I don't take the first out anymore as everything in there is complete and utter trash. I have one page left in this notebook. I put "Garbage" on the last page.
All day today, every single time I have caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror I have found myself with a look of utter disgust. And then sometimes I can feel it, I realize my face is completely scrunched, or tense, or whatever it does, and then I'll release it and realize how extremely different it feels. I feel sick. I could be hungry though. But I've ultimately felt pretty bad all day. Maybe I'm getting sick. Could be that I'm tired. I'll just go to sleep after I write this. There was something else I had to say
I can overcome any impossibility. I always do. I'm probably just trying to make this more complicated than it has to be. That is a real annoying characteristic by the way - needing to make everything difficult when it is in reality very simple. Maybe it has to do with this box everyone keeps talking about, I'm thinking outside of the box. Trying to examine the entire essence of the box, seeing the box from different angles to discover which position looks best. Each side gets examined and put into the frame to see if it works. I'm just rambling.
It's getting to me, this rain. I'm doing and saying stupid things, my head is not up to par. About Cyrano I say: Didn't he kill his dad? No, he really didn't, completely different story. About being a bridesmaid in a wedding I say: What? No. Why would you do that to me? I hardly apologized. I left the back window down in my moms' car; she had to cuss me out: it's going to smell like mold now. The list of stupidities goes on. I don't want to do anything. I want to stay holed up in my room.
I am beginning to feel as though I have been cursed. Plagued by the incessant desire to write while being left wordless. Devoid of meaning. I'm cursed because I know I will never stop killing myself with this. If I could write a book, if I could sell just one book, I would have a reason to be jobless whenever I want. I would have a reason not to work when not in school. Writers write and I keep stopping myself from doing so. I should just go with it when I go, instead I stop. I stray too often.
Today is today and today was hardly a day. Sometimes it is possible to wait for the rest of your life for something to happen that you know will never in fact happen. It's now been over a week and I know it's over. I just hate people and the way the general population always leaves room to let me down. It wasn't supposed to be hard, it wasn't supposed to be anything other than needing someone to talk to once in a while, someone other than the pure idiots I currently surround myself with. I deserve a lot better.
I believe there comes a time in every persons life where they have to stop and reconsider the reasons as to why they are doing whatever it is they are doing, in terms of long-term events. I have reached this point about a dozen times in the past three months. I attribute this fact to having finally found my purpose, my reason for being. Now that I know what I must do, I have to constantly question why. Why must I do this? Why am I doing this? Why will I continue to do all of this no matter what?
I love Microsoft word. I really do. It drives me insane, as the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results. The same things go wrong consistently and I have yet to figure out how to avoid it or fix it. I will spend the rest of my life married to Microsoft word. I will try hard to make it happy, through better or worse. One day I will understand it. One day I will understand why Microsoft word chooses to make my life difficult when I only want to share my love with it.
Never had the solitude of her four walls echoed so resoundingly. She knew this was bound to happen eventually, it was only a matter of time. That time was now. There he knelt in front of her, suit, tie, the whole nine yards. The diamond glistened but she was only captivated by the sparkle in his eye. She had dreamt of this moment for so long. Four years now they've been together. Her son was graduating College in a year and here she was, being proposed to, by a boy who was only three years older than her son was.
He turned to her and whispered, "I'm an old and tired soul trying to live out a life of minimal exertion." She leaned in and kissed his neck before tasting its saltiness. Their bodies clung together wrapped in her down comforter, both still slightly damp with sweat. "You don't have to explain yourself,"she replied to the boy in reference to him not having a job. She dove into his eyes, gathering from them that he was tired, and then wiped his glistening forehead with her hand. "You should probably get going before my son comes home,"she finally muttered.
After he had left, she sat and pondered his statement of being an old soul. The desk in her bedroom was littered with pages of unpieced together prose. She attempted to make order of the mess as she wondered if that was why they got along so well. She was old and he was an old soul. It didn't make it easier for her to accept it all though, lingering doubts and worries remain. What could he possibly want with her? He can do better than her. Is he merely settling? She did not want a love based on pity.
When you're playing with only a hundred words, no more, no less, it makes you aware of each words necessity. You have no room to spare; you choose your words ever so carefully, consciously, and on a subconscious level. I wonder if I could/should try to limit all descriptions to 100 words. It will not only serve to produce amazingly good detail, but also will ensure that only the best gets put in. not to mention that these 100 words add up to a perfect paragraph every time. It also aids in drawing out the better side of my creativity.
She equated it to the passion darting at her when she looked into his eyes. There they sat intertwined within a flannel blanket listening to the waves crashing only feet away with embers of love flying through the air. The desire that burned between them overshadowed the warmth created by the fire burning in front of them reflecting off each others glistening eyes. The glow of reds, yellows, and blues creating transient shapes and images finally convinced her of the depth of her love for him. Right before their eyes, the colors were melding together, forming their outline of love.
I have made this giant and monumental jump into the world of DVORAK. I mulled it over for a while knowing it is an all or nothing kind of thing. I decided that writing my book would be a brilliant motivation to increase my speed as soon as possible. I still believe I am correct. Within a month I should be surpassing my QWERTY words per minute. It will all be worth it in the end, of this I am sure. Plus, this change renders my laptop virtually useless to everyone. It is like a secret code only I know.
I'm struggling to stay motivated to write these one hundred words lately. Typing is now a chore that leads me to teeth grinding. I am doing all I can to speed this process along smoothly and ever so quickly because my book is suffering in the meantime. For me, words do not flow to paper as easily as they do to the screen. If I could still get out ten thousand words a week, it will be a miracle. Patience is fleeting. I bet I'll come up with a million things to write while sitting in the dentists chair tomorrow.
I can't help but doubt myself once in a while. This is one of those times as I am questioning my actual ability to write a book. What am I really thinking? And I am certainly not making it any easier for myself with my self inflicted typing handicap. Why do I think I can write a book? This is pushing the limit, really. Am I even capable of writing a damn thing worthwhile? I think I simply get lucky occasionally. I have a fabricated facade of talent. I hope I'm just having a moment. I liked the book yesterday.
There I stand behind the scenes looking in through the window. I know too well the feeling of being the outsider looking in, familiar from the inside. I was once ensconced, but no longer do I have anywhere at all to call my own. I sit, heavy with emptiness. You wouldn't understand and I would change if you did. I see that I choose these things. My shroud of oppression makes me who I am. Don't you see? I am not crazy, it is instead you and you and her. My insanity is what keeps the world going spinning around.
With long, biting fingernails, she manhandles her orange with a truly rigorous fury. It was an intoxicating and engrossing sight. She was a savage ripping away the shell to reveal the goodness it coveted. She tore a strip like unwrapping a birthday gift. With a jab of a thumbnail, a spray escapes narrowly missing her eyes. This was not a very lady like or attractive event to watch from afar, unnoticed. I stare in awe of her far from dainty movements. It was a reckless abandon with a complete disregard for neatness. With the exterior shell shredded, she was done.
If I am too tired to write then I know that I am indeed exhausted. I guess thirty six mile bike rides will do that to a person. It was a gorgeous day and I had to deal with the dates number in my own way. It does not matter if I was the only one aware. I was one with the bike as we weaved precise patterns around fellow path users. I saw unmistakable glances of envy as they could not help but notice the huge smile upon my face. I do not have any more to write today.
At this point, she was now one with the orange. She split it down the middle using both thumb nails, nails long enough to be weapons. Beautiful pistols with French manicures. As if from the force of a bullet, the orange lay lifeless, half in each hand. She cupped one and shot through the other. Now three quarters in her left hand and she took a chunk out of the quarter in her right hand, now half of a quarter. She was a beast, seemingly feeding for the first time in days. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
With careful precision, as though to not puncture the desired interior, she slowly slides a long fingernail into the unscathed exterior, digging the French manicured tip in until feeling the covering of interior. Creating a slit, she pushes her two nails underneath the skin and slowly pulls back. As it begins to snag, she'll shimmy her nail back in ensuring it pulls away clean. She manages one continuous strip of peel. It spirals and extends until resting upon a paper towel placed atop her desk. A clean orb of edible orange is all that remains after she finishes unclothing it.
It was dark, in an attempt to save electricity/energy. He preferred people come in the front door and to leave through the back door. It was a statement to how he lived his life. First sight upon entering was his bare kitchen table, no placemats, nothing. On his bare walls hung only a wooden holder of cutlery. Sharp knives hung in order of size. Wallpaper was tacky fruits with a less than appealing dingy appearance. It smelled of chicken but revealed no signs of having cooked or eaten chicken. He named his cat Chicken. They both came with the apartment.
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