When I was in the sixth grade, I wrote a twenty-two-page-long story about a lost prince named Damian who reclaims his (dead) father's throne. The whole shebang took place in the land of Tithaus, a place of unrest and lots of monologue-prone people with swords and cloaks.
Last winter break, I wrote a gajillion-page-long (help me out here, Tonya) story about a dude named Saul who starts a revolution in the middle of a snowy winter and then ends up killing himself. Sort of.
Last summer, I wrote a twenty-page-long story about some guy who runs around in the woods setting things on fire before (unfortunately) setting himself on fire.
I'm sure that all of these are related somehow.
The influence of The Lord of the Rings is pretty obvious. I am forever stuck in a land of bows and arrows (and sometimes magic). I once tried writing about some guy in the Army. That one made it to about thirty pages before dying an abrupt death of over-complicated plot.
The thing is, I don't think I'm a writer anymore. A writer... well, writes. I haven't written a piece of fiction I've liked since the sixth grade, and I don't really even think that counts anymore. Blogging isn't writing so much as it is typing whatever comes to mind and hoping that it makes sense. Essay writing isn't writing so much as it is gritting my teeth and plowing through structural criticism and passive voice. I feel like writing should be both spontaneous and critical. Right now, mine is neither.
I haven't stopped dreaming, though. Definitely not in the literal sense. I get up early because I can't go back to sleep and find myself staring at a blank piece of paper, which was once inviting but now is nothing more than processed wood.
In a sense, I'm scared to stop blogging because then I'd really be writing absolutely nothing. Days and days would pass without words. Weeks, maybe. That's truly terrifying. So for now, I suppose, this blog will go on.
How it will go on is an entirely different matter.
65 pages. Keep writing.
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