Choice #4 - Week 15

Myself as a Writer

I was little when I fell in love with writing.  Well actually at that point, I fell in love with reading and stories.  It took a little longer for me to realize that I wanted to write these stories for myself.  It was in these days that I hid under my blankets on my top bunk, hiding the light of the flashlight from my big sister below.  I explored Treasure Island, 20,000 leagues under the sea, and I read my first Dickens.  Honestly, Oliver Twist didn’t come to bed with me; I think I was too little to appreciate the talent of Dickens at the time.  

When I was twelve I wrote my first book, though I stopped halfway through.  It was a historic novel in the form of a diary – a formula I copied from my favorite book of the time.  It was terrible, but it was a step.

When I was thirteen, I broke my elbow sledding.  Stuck inside during the next few weeks, my dad brought me to a book store to find something to keep me occupied.  I was overwhelmed by the magnitude of choices, so my father suggested his favorite book from when he was a kid – A Journey to the Centre of the Earth.  That paperback became my best friend for the next few weeks, and I still have it on my shelf.  I doubt I’ll ever replace it with a nicer hardcover version – that old paperback means too much to me.  It cemented my desire to be a writer.

When I was fifteen I decided that being a writer was a terrible idea.  What was I thinking?? What would I go to college for?  English?  Literature?  What could I hope to do with my life?  I’d heard of too many struggling writers, and too many people said that writing wasn't a real job.  It made me bitter.  So I decided to become a dental hygienist.  

After a while, I gave that idea up.  I hate teeth, and dentists.

Last year I wrote two novels and thirty short stories.  I had renewed my pledge to be a writer and I decided to get my practice in.

Why do I write?  People talk about writing as a way of processing things, and that’s true.  When things happen in my life that are really tough and hard to deal with, I turn to my pen (or laptop).  I write about my struggles, putting my characters through them, writing poetry to express and journal entries to untangle – it all helps.  But it’s more than that for me.  I have a friend who doesn’t care to ever be published because she uses writing purely for processing.  But for me, I crave a wider readership.  Someday, when I’m good enough, I want to be read.  I don’t crave love.  People can take me or leave me (actually, hate is a sort of compliment as well, because you’ve moved people to strong emotion – you’ve made them feel something).  But I don’t crave a fan club – I just want to be read.  I want to bring readers through the ups and downs of a good book like so many authors have done with me.  I want to have my voice out there and I want to make people think.

This class has been good for me, that much I know.  I feel like I’ve grown, at least a little.  I’ve never shared so much writing with anyone before, not even my family.  I’ve been afraid that I’m just not good enough yet, and I've been discouraged by the “helpful” critiques that some are apt to give.  You mentioned that I probably could not have written what I did for my week #2 prompts if I had actually written them during week #2.  I’m sure you’re right.  I was still playing it safe then, not moving outside of the bland, generic comfort-zone that for some reason I sometimes stick to.    

I’m afraid of what will happen after this semester is over.  After growing like I have, I really don’t want to stop.  I’ll probably continue on with my blog so that I can keep writing and hopefully keep learning.  But without the class aspect, I know it won’t be the same.  I have to find new ways of growing on my own– that’s part of life.  I am very grateful for this class though.  While some classes (and teachers) can crush your voice, this one only encouraged mine.  

I’ve looked back on me as a writer, I’ve touched on my present as a writer, but what about my future as a writer?  What is my future as a writer?  Do I even have one?  I don’t know.  I wish I could tell you.  In all honesty, I would like nothing better than to be published and read, but that seems like a pretty far-off dream.  I want to write as my full-time job.  But that’s so scary and different, plus nobody takes that seriously.  When adults who know better hear that I want to be a writer, they usually have one of a couple of responses.  One is to smile and say “Great!” ….pause….  “Great for a hobby!  What about your real job?”  I want to say that this is a real job, and I could make money at it if I got good enough!  But then that would be presumptuous.  As if I could really get that good.  Another response they give is to nod and give a disparaging look, then move on to talk about their son or daughter who is in school to be fireman, an engineer, a plumber.  Real jobs.  

But which would be scarier?  A tough road pursuing my dream, or a safe road full of things I hate?  Right now I have a part time job that suffices.  So as long as I can do this: as long as I can write during my evenings, during my free time, during my days off, and then work when I have to, I will.  Then perhaps, just maybe, I’ll grow into the kind of writer that can be published.  Someday. 

Prompt #7

Looking through that photo album I see a young girl.  Brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, blue eyes laughing at the person beside her.  I know that her smile is fake.  How do I know that?  Because that girl in the picture is me.  And on the day that picture was taken, happiness was something I had to pretend 

She has a secret.  I know because this girl is me.  I walk around the world holding a secret inside me, a secret that sometimes I share.

But my secret is wonderful and terrible – and sharing it sometimes hurts.  For me, sharing this secret makes me nervous.  I’ve seen too many angry faces, judgmental stares; I’ve been turned down many times.  I’ll keep sharing my secret though.  It’s too wonderful to keep to myself, for my secret is my best friend.  My secret is my savior, my father, my joy, and my hope.

Some turn down my secret and the promise that it holds because of how I act.  Two-faced hypocrite, they call me.  I suppose they are right.  I wish the focus didn’t have to be on me.  I wish that I did a better job of living in the light of what I say I believe.  Do these people know that I struggle?  That I try?  I wish these people could see the perfection in Jesus instead of the imperfection in me.

Some people turn down my secret because they say it cannot be true.  They say they know better, too smart in their own shoes to open their eyes.  My heart aches for these people, because I know the truth.  All men will know, but some will know too late.  I wish I could make them change their mind – but of course that would not be fair.  Jesus came to give mankind a choice – not to force them into salvation. But if only these people could surrender their supposed intellect, and see all the evidence that proves that He came.  I wish they would believe, because if they saw what it was like!  If they lived with this new hope and peace, then they would know.

Others say that they have their own secret.  I know that’s a lie though. 

Other say they don’t like secrets, they tell me they aren’t interested in the wares I peddle.  I wasn’t trying to sell or peddle though.  I just wanted to share my secret.

That girl in the photo gets dismal sometimes.  She struggles, she wins, and she loses – just like everyone else.  Love has found her and left her, life has welcomed her in only to throw her out. 

But even at the end of the hardest day, she has an enduring hope.  She lives with her best friend, the only friend that truly loves her – because he knows everything about her, good and bad. 

That girl in the picture doesn’t have to pretend around Him. 

Prompt #8

The first time I met him was just the first time – not the best.  We were on a river trip, what a place to fall in love!  He was so gentle, so accepting, so kind.  Exactly the kind of guy to accidentally mislead a girl. 

I met him again a few weeks later, and we spent more time together.  We became friends, and I saw things he didn’t notice that I was noticing.  Like the genuine interest he took in kids, like the love in his eyes when talked about his parents, like the joy his laugh always gives to others. 

We didn’t see each other for months after that.  My heart turned to him though, and my thoughts always seemed to circle back to him eventually.  I prayed for him often – that he would be strong, stay true to our Heavenly Father, that he would be happy.

Then we met again.  It was so good to see him again.  We went on a road trip together, and it reminded me of why I had fallen for him.  He’s such a genuine person, one of the best people I know.

A few weeks after we had been reunited, I watched him take an interest in her.  I slowly stepped away from them.  She looked into his eyes and he looked into hers.  After only three weeks they became a part of one another.  I saw him in love, and it was then that I saw that he was never really in love with me.

Someone once said that trying to write a love song when you aren’t in love is like faking a smile when you’ve given up.  You can’t write while consciously lying - people will notice.  So excuse me if my writing has been dismal, but he fell in love with someone else.  And if I could have one wish I don’t know what I’d wish for anymore, because he got his wish without me.  

I never got close enough to him to tell him all that I thought of him.  He never got close enough to me to know what I felt for him.  If I could have, then I would have told him that his laugh is amazing, and his smile is too.  I would have told him that my best and worst poems are written about him.  I would have told him that he's the reason I began to believe in love again.  He's the one that made me break my vow to never get attached.  

Looking back, I now know that the first time I met him was the best.  We were together on that river trip full of laughing and tears, bravery and fears, firesides and moonlit nights.  If I ever see him again now, then I’ll see her hanging on his arm with a smile.  That girl that gets to tell him everything she feels.  And who knows, but next time she may have a ring.

I thought that in time things might have become close between us.  I hoped that maybe our best days were ahead of us.  I know better now, I should’ve seen that it was just a dream from the beginning. I should've known that he would slip away.

But in the end I’m still glad that we had that first time, our best time, together. 

Theme Week 6 - My Room

My bed is large; it was not bought for me.  The worn blanket that covers it is blue with decorative embroidery.  It reminds me of a medieval tapestry in a way, I really do like it.  I use two pillows but there are twelve on the bed.  The corner at the end of the bed is where I kneel.     

There is a double bookshelf built against the wall – painted the color of the walls so as not to stand out.  But this bookshelf is the thing that stands out the most to me.  It holds so many memories, so many gifts from people I never want to forget, so many people and places that have shaped me, so many pieces of my heart.  

Next to my bed, across the room from the bookshelf, sits my black bed stand.  It has an open front, and there I keep my books.  Stacked from bottom to top: my study Bible, a couple of novels I’ve been meaning to read, and an unopened book that I promised to finish before Christmas.  On top of the heavy wooden stand there is a rebellious alarm clock, a black lamp, stacks of papers, and more books.  The books?  My journal, my devotions-Bible, my current novel (The Phantom of the Opera), one of my old journals, and the Fellowship of the Ring (for no other reason than it’s a good book to have at a hand’s reach at all times).  There’s also a candle on my bed stand, an Apple Cider Yankee Candle.  I light that candle when I write, the smell reminds me to concentrate.  It’s at that candle that I light matches and watch to see how close they can burn to my fingers without burning my skin.  

Against the wall is my mini roll-top desk.  If I opened it then I would see a mess of papers and books, covering a mess of a desk-top, spattered with pain that didn’t make it on the canvas.  I rarely open the desk.  The mess makes me anxious – knowing that I should clean it.  I don’t like working at that desk, it’s too enclosed and I can’t write in a place where I can’t breathe.  On top of my desk there is a wilty plant that I’ve been ignoring for a month and a half a dozen books – stacked neatly. 

My older sister’s desk is also in my room.  We used to share a room before college interrupted our companionship.  Sometimes I wonder if that desk will ever be the same.  I mean, she’s been gone a long time and she’s had lots of new desks.  Maybe her old desk will be too foreign for her when she comes back.  She’s changed a lot I’m sure, and maybe this old desk just won’t cut it anymore.

There is also a closet door in my room that stays shut as often as I can manage it.

I have two windows in my room.  One faces the mountains and I love it.  The rustic view makes me feel rich.  The top pane has a long crack stretching from one side to the other – I shut it too hard one day.  They are old windows though, and accidents happen.  The other window faces the barn, and it sits over the head of my bed, letting the draft in.  I love to look up and watch the stars on nights when I can’t sleep.  It reminds me of the beauty that truly does fill this world, and of the beauty beyond this world that was created for His eyes only.  It reminds me of how small I am, and what a miracle it is that someone as small and insignificant as I am can love and be loved, hate and be hated, feel and think, learn and grow.

Week 14 - #2

Rejection

 Denial.

Of course this isn’t happening, you love them too much!  And they love you too much!  Once you’ve been rejected the first step is often to deny the rejection.  It is too cruel, too unbelievable.  So you refuse to believe it.  Soon though, you realize that you’re fooling yourself and clinging to a hope that has vanished.

Anger

      How could they do this to you?  You trusted them, you loved them!  But trust is a funny thing – once it's given it's often abused.  You become angry at them for denying all that you’ve given, angry at yourself for giving so much. 

Sadness

All that you had hoped for is gone.  With their words, they’ve shattered your hopes and plans.   You offered up your heart, and they snatched it from your grasp and threw it in the dirt.  Oh sure, they might have disguised their rejection of you within pretty little lies, but the truth was heard loud and clear.  Sometimes they don’t even have the decency to use lies to soften their blow – sometimes they just tell you the bold and blatant truth.  The truth being that you were a fool to hope so high and wish so hard.  Sadness is an easy pool to drown in.

Bitterness

If someone you thought loved you can betray you so harshly, then how can you have faith in anyone?  If giving your heart to someone else to handle hurts so badly, then why give it away at all?  You become pretty sure that the world is full of selfish people, just waiting for a chance to beat your already-broken heart.

Healing

Healing will come, in time.  But while time will soften their words and ease your pain, it can never erase what has been said.  It’s hard to be rejected, harder to live keep on living around that person, and hardest to try to pretend like it didn’t happen.  Still, healing will come.  You’ll give in eventually, and replace that person who rejected you with others who promise to love you.  You’ll decide to always stay busy to help you forget.  But even if your pain can be pushed to the very back of your head, that seed of rejection will always be there.  You see, rejection is a truly faithful friend.