I feel rather oblivious.
I have a front-facing bedroom with three windows, two of which face the front road. Not to mention the fact that I've been keeping two windows open--the side one and one of those front ones--since I've recently received my wondrous and amazing new shelves which I can't wait to fill because they still reek a bit of their stain.
And yet, despite all of that, I didn't notice anything happening around me. Well, I did, but I ignored it. A firetruck, an ambulance, a police car, and the bloody chief arrived the the front of my house, and I didn't notice them when my mom yelled out for someone to tell the ambulance they could drive to the back yard if they needed, when they rang the doorbell, when they coming down the street (come on, really?) or anything. Not until their bloody radios sounded through my windows and disturbed my reading! Am I so pathetic?
As it turned, though, the man who lives behind me fell off a ladder and possibly got electrocuted.
Due to that, the cable line that runs through my back yard caught fire. And all those lovely trees shrouding it that haven't been trimmed to procedure in ten years? Well, predictable things ensued.
Eventually they got the fire out. It didn't take all that long really, it never got all too big. Alas, they then needed to cut the trees, leaving a large amount of brush and tree limbs to carried out to the curb. While some of those are incredibly light, I have to say that some are thorny and some get incredibly heavy.
On a brighter note, though--an author from Fictionpress I was tracking down when she left returned my message on Xanga and is back. Which, though it doesn't do much good for everyone else who wasn't tracking her, makes me incredibly happy. And, for those familiar with Fictionpress (and those not, why not?) she's listed under my favorite authors on my Fictionpress homepage--C.H. Morgan, and she writes amazing stories.
I'm about halfway through the one-shot I decided to write about a lesbian. When I'll ever stop being lazy and finish that, I don't know. Maybe after I finish Hamlet...
Jun 24, 2009
Jun 22, 2009
Scars
I'm sort of a wonder in my family, an oddball. All stemming from the simple fact that, of everyone (and, I'll admit, my family is rather large) I'm the only member that does not date. That never has.
It's disregarded, often, that most of those who do are drug-addicts and dipsomaniacs, many of whom have mothered and/or abortioned more children than they can handle. As well as various other things that can easily be held against them. It just seems to fall to their attention that I'm strange since I choose not to date.
I have my reasons, but that's besides the point. Beyond their line of vision, it would seem.
And so, my brother took to calling me a dyke. Queer, a lesbian. Anything, really, that could come to his mind that has any reference to homosexuality. For three years now, since I was thirteen. Since, apparently, that's the acceptably, expected age to start dating. And, since he says it in a comparatively joking manner, my parents never mind.
But I'm hardly so old as to not be affected.
At times I'll come to wonder what it's like for those who truly are homosexual, how it must feel to have so many people against you. I'll beg a question in my mind more often than not, but who am I supposed to ask it? Really, where do I expect to get?
At any rate, it finally came to my mind to write a story for a lesbian character. Nothing over the top, really. Nothing far too in-depth in romance. Partially because I really don't know anything and partly because I've never done so well with romantic scenes anyways. Emotional trauma, sure, but relationships are rather too complex. Especially when I know so little.
It's not an effective way of stopping my brother, I know, especially considering no family ever sees any of my writing. But it's something new. That's always something when you bare your scars.
It's disregarded, often, that most of those who do are drug-addicts and dipsomaniacs, many of whom have mothered and/or abortioned more children than they can handle. As well as various other things that can easily be held against them. It just seems to fall to their attention that I'm strange since I choose not to date.
I have my reasons, but that's besides the point. Beyond their line of vision, it would seem.
And so, my brother took to calling me a dyke. Queer, a lesbian. Anything, really, that could come to his mind that has any reference to homosexuality. For three years now, since I was thirteen. Since, apparently, that's the acceptably, expected age to start dating. And, since he says it in a comparatively joking manner, my parents never mind.
But I'm hardly so old as to not be affected.
At times I'll come to wonder what it's like for those who truly are homosexual, how it must feel to have so many people against you. I'll beg a question in my mind more often than not, but who am I supposed to ask it? Really, where do I expect to get?
At any rate, it finally came to my mind to write a story for a lesbian character. Nothing over the top, really. Nothing far too in-depth in romance. Partially because I really don't know anything and partly because I've never done so well with romantic scenes anyways. Emotional trauma, sure, but relationships are rather too complex. Especially when I know so little.
It's not an effective way of stopping my brother, I know, especially considering no family ever sees any of my writing. But it's something new. That's always something when you bare your scars.
Jun 18, 2009
I have to know I'm not the only person who sits for an hour after finishing a final exam, waiting for the early dismissal. That sort of probability simply doesn't exist. I do, however, tend to scribble things on those random sheets of blank paper they provide for us. (Seriously? Two sheets of blank computer people, what do people do with them? I've yet to ever find a decent conclusion.)
I've never really used them, at any rate. Instead, I scribble on them at the end. And, today in particular, I drew a drawing consisting of some trees and such as they seem to be the only thing I can draw without wanting to tear to pieces, a poem and what I can only consider a fragment (too long for a drabble, too short for anything else). And since I apparently have one of the nicest English teachers in my school who actually let me keep these sheets upon my asking, as opposed to the other teachers I saw, I've decided to post my mind's wandering.
The fragment, Alone With Abaddon, is now posted on my Fictionpress account. And the poem, Trancing Cosmos, has been added to my Mibba.
And now, after having ended up walking home from the store in the pouring rain, I'm due for a shower.
I've never really used them, at any rate. Instead, I scribble on them at the end. And, today in particular, I drew a drawing consisting of some trees and such as they seem to be the only thing I can draw without wanting to tear to pieces, a poem and what I can only consider a fragment (too long for a drabble, too short for anything else). And since I apparently have one of the nicest English teachers in my school who actually let me keep these sheets upon my asking, as opposed to the other teachers I saw, I've decided to post my mind's wandering.
The fragment, Alone With Abaddon, is now posted on my Fictionpress account. And the poem, Trancing Cosmos, has been added to my Mibba.
And now, after having ended up walking home from the store in the pouring rain, I'm due for a shower.
Jun 16, 2009
Insanity.
Huzzah! Due to a slight derangement of the mind, I've managed to write out the remaining 3/4 needed to finish a Walk Soft update and have typed and published that on Fictionpress.
The screen is blurring before my eyes and my fingers ache like stygian.
And now, I am off to bed for exams tomorrow.
The screen is blurring before my eyes and my fingers ache like stygian.
And now, I am off to bed for exams tomorrow.
Not exactly what I was going for, but I've managed to update a story that I'd considered to be on hiatus on my mibba account. And on hiatus for good reason, really. School was just starting when I last updated it and it's now the week of final exams--that's a nine month interval. I think that may be my worst record yet. And I'm not exactly hoping to beat it anytime soon. I'm not a big fan of making any one else mad at me at the moment.
It is quite funny, however, how a site can influence a person's writing. I write on, what, three sites now? Used to be four? Fictionpress is, clearly, my most mature writing, even if it needs work. And then going to mibba or anywhere else, sure it's fair enough writing, but the subjects that people will read there just aren't... they're not as grown up, I guess. Stories with full stars will have wretched grammar and I'll wince at every other word or sentence as I try to progress through it (and I'm only sixteen! I should be able to relate to this writing!) and are based upon the most disgusting, cliched plottings. As well as, of course, poorly written vampire stories and the like becoming popular now. And then, to come across a story I would deep great in depth, would be horribly overlooked.
No, I'm not saying that my writing is wonderful on there, or anywhere. It's just.. kind of disappointing. And I have to dumb down my subjects (though thankfully not my writing style itself) to even get any readers at all on mibba and thus any feedback so that I can progress as a writer. I didn't intend to sound selfish at the beginning of this, I swear I didn't, but doesn't that come off as a bit strange? Wrong?
Alas, I'm the one drowning my day in Billy Joel to keep my spirits from sinking too low.
You know that point where you just start moving blindly, acting the motions but not really realizing what you're doing? Routine. In a different world, probably the most accurate phrase I've ever heard. Just... out of it, really. When a person you trust more than anyone else could pass right in front of you, even say a word to you, and you wouldn't even realize that they had been there but for a passing blur. You would need reassurance later to be sure you hadn't made them up in a dream or something.
That's the state I've been in for a while. Only, when that happens, things don't always go so smoothly.
I freaked out on the last day of school because someone popped a balloon. I mean, I had a reason. I get migraines--horrible ones, genetically, that I need medicine for. So the sound really just sort of jolted through my stream of consciousness and messed with me. Made me cry, if you can imagine.
And then I said some things obliviously to my parents--to my father before I went to my friend's party and to my mother at the doctor's office. That, partly for being out of it and partly out of anger because I can never comprehend the inequity that my brother should be able to do the same exact things and more and get away with it, be their bossom boy, and I get in trouble for so very much...
I'm just in a bit of a quagmire it seems.
It is quite funny, however, how a site can influence a person's writing. I write on, what, three sites now? Used to be four? Fictionpress is, clearly, my most mature writing, even if it needs work. And then going to mibba or anywhere else, sure it's fair enough writing, but the subjects that people will read there just aren't... they're not as grown up, I guess. Stories with full stars will have wretched grammar and I'll wince at every other word or sentence as I try to progress through it (and I'm only sixteen! I should be able to relate to this writing!) and are based upon the most disgusting, cliched plottings. As well as, of course, poorly written vampire stories and the like becoming popular now. And then, to come across a story I would deep great in depth, would be horribly overlooked.
No, I'm not saying that my writing is wonderful on there, or anywhere. It's just.. kind of disappointing. And I have to dumb down my subjects (though thankfully not my writing style itself) to even get any readers at all on mibba and thus any feedback so that I can progress as a writer. I didn't intend to sound selfish at the beginning of this, I swear I didn't, but doesn't that come off as a bit strange? Wrong?
Alas, I'm the one drowning my day in Billy Joel to keep my spirits from sinking too low.
You know that point where you just start moving blindly, acting the motions but not really realizing what you're doing? Routine. In a different world, probably the most accurate phrase I've ever heard. Just... out of it, really. When a person you trust more than anyone else could pass right in front of you, even say a word to you, and you wouldn't even realize that they had been there but for a passing blur. You would need reassurance later to be sure you hadn't made them up in a dream or something.
That's the state I've been in for a while. Only, when that happens, things don't always go so smoothly.
I freaked out on the last day of school because someone popped a balloon. I mean, I had a reason. I get migraines--horrible ones, genetically, that I need medicine for. So the sound really just sort of jolted through my stream of consciousness and messed with me. Made me cry, if you can imagine.
And then I said some things obliviously to my parents--to my father before I went to my friend's party and to my mother at the doctor's office. That, partly for being out of it and partly out of anger because I can never comprehend the inequity that my brother should be able to do the same exact things and more and get away with it, be their bossom boy, and I get in trouble for so very much...
I'm just in a bit of a quagmire it seems.
May 23, 2009
The Fields
For some reason lately I've had The Fields in my head, and so I've decided to (try to) share this song with anyone interested in listening to it. Alas, I'm a bit of a treacherous fool with technology, so this may fail horribly. It's a brilliant song, though. A bit on the sad side, and so it's been on the back of my mind lately as I've tried to work on updating the third increment of Walk Soft on Fictionpress. Well, procrastinated. If we're going to be honest here.
I will be getting there, eventually, I promise. I didn't plot out the story for nothing. It'll just take some time. But for now: You Brought This On Yourself, by The Fields.
I will be getting there, eventually, I promise. I didn't plot out the story for nothing. It'll just take some time. But for now: You Brought This On Yourself, by The Fields.
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