I don’t know what to write about. Like I said, I’ve never written a blog. I’m also horrible at writing my thoughts. Fiction, I’m fine. I write stories all the time, have a ton started, some finished. But I suck at writing my thoughts. It always comes out sounding contrived, like I was trying too hard to come up with something. So hopefully this post isn’t like that. I’m trying very hard to make it sound like I’m not trying very hard.
I’m good at ranting. I get angry about whatever, really anything can make me angry. Sunshine, kittens… whatever. And I can talk to two people when I’m angry: my husband, and my friend, Raine. So if neither of them are available, I curse and shout and scare my dog for about half an hour, and when that doesn’t make me feel better and I can’t concentrate on writing anything else, I start rant-writing. Those are easier, because I don’t care what they sound like. No one reads those, and I usually delete them as soon as I stop needing to rant.
I have tried to write what I’m thinking, what I believe, what bothers me, what I like… it always sounds idiotic. Like I’m eleven and I’m keeping a diary. Which I never did, because I have always sucked at writing my thoughts, and I knew that even when I was eleven.
Eleven is when I started writing stories, but I don’t know why I started. Just seemed like a fun thing to do. I started hand-writing in a notebook, and I still have my old notebooks. I liked drawing, so I drew a lot of pictures of my characters. Something else I will probably never show anyone. My first stories were slasher things, because I think I had just watched too much Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer, and stuff like that. Those movies were popular when I was eleven. The stories are horrible, and the writing is pretty horrible, but it was a good start. For the next eight years, my main hobby was writing. Unfortunately, I’m also a violinist, and when I was little my parents thought that I should practice violin instead of writing all the time.
I did both, and pretty much nothing else. My mom gave me her old, giant laptop when I was twelve, so I started writing there instead. By the time I was about eighteen, I had around 100 documents of different stories I’d started. Some were a decent length, but most were about 2 pages. And they sucked. I’ve thought about editing some of them, trying to turn them into something decent, but by now I can’t remember where I wanted to go with the stories, or else I have no interest anymore. I think of all of those, I want to continue with three.
When I was nineteen, I went to college for violin performance. And got really busy, and was obsessed with violin. In a performance environment, if you miss a day or two of practicing, the next private lesson is like torture. You sound like crap, your teacher acts like you walked in and started killing babies in front of him, and you leave crying like a five-year-old. Bad. So I was obsessed, and I practiced all the time, and eventually, about in my sophomore year, I stopped writing. I didn’t have the mental energy for it.
I kept planning stories in my head, though, because I can never turn that off. I don’t know what other people think about all the time, but if I’m not actively focused on something else, ideas for the stories I’m working on come into my head without my meaning them to. They play like movies, and I can’t stop them. That’s probably why I look like I’m never paying attention to the people around me. Because I’m not.
So, over four years of undergrad and two years of graduate school, I was planning stories. And imagine my surprise when, in grad school, I met Raine, a cellist and writer who has the same odd thoughts as me sometimes, and understands trying to practice and write and not go insane. I still didn’t write in graduate school, but I was thinking about it again. And I did meet my husband there, and after I finished we got married and lived happily ever after in a dumpy apartment. And he and Raine both encouraged me to start writing again. So I dug into the back of my brain and found all of the stories I’d been planning for the last six years. And I started writing them.
Now I write all the time, almost every day, except when I get stressed out from work and have a mental breakdown and spend all day ranting at drivers, crying, eating potatoes, or sending my husband texts about how crappy everything is and how I hate everyone and want the planet to blow up. You’d think I have some kind of stressful job, like a doctor or a cop or something. But no. I teach cute little kids how to play violin, and I play in two symphonies. Sometimes I love it, and sometimes I want to kill them all.
And when I want to kill them all, I hide in my apartment and write. I started a new story on December 13th, 2011. It’s the thing I’m currently obsessed with. As of now, it’s 560 pages, and I’m getting close to finishing it. I feel crazy. It’s really long, and I’m really, really obsessed. If I’m not thinking about it, it’s because I’m angry, eating, or sleeping. Hopefully, I’m not the only crazy person on here who has a 560-page-long thing that only two other people have ever read.
I don’t know how to end this ridiculous ramble. I’m horrible at titles, beginnings, and, unless I plan it out meticulously, which I’m not going to do right now, endings. So bye.