[Insert title of your choice here]

So the slightly optimistic last post was a complete lie. I pretty much got nothing done this summer, like every single summer before this. It's okay, I guess, because the reason I didn't get anything done was because I was being lazy. As always, it's my fault. It's no big deal.

I have tentatively quit writing again. Honestly, I never really took it up again. It stresses me out so much and I get so anxious and hateful toward myself that it isn't really worth it anymore. It's not escapism; it's just  hell. At the end of the school day, I don't want to be as miserable as I am while I'm there, so that means brain numbing with the internet.

Whoo, procrastination sucks.

Maybe one day I'll be able to write down the stories in my head without turning into a mental case, but that day is not today, nor was it this past summer. I've been reading a lot, though, so hope isn't lost. I'm still addicted to stories, but not the creation of them. Which is also okay.

Summer Update

Hehe, it's July already. Guess who's been absent for over a month! *points to self*

In the time I've been absent, I've gotten a lot of things done. Okay...so maybe I'm lying. I barely got anything done and I'm freaking out because we're about halfway through the summer and I really don't want to go back to school. Why can't I just time travel and skip this hell we call school? Oh yeah, I don't live in a book/tv show/movie/manga/cartoon.

Real life sucks sometimes.

I've gotten pretty much zero writing done, but I've started yet another new project. It really sucks right now, but it feels good to be writing again. I've noticed that I have a lot of issues in my writing. For one, my entire chapters are just filled with dialogue. I suck a describing things and narrative thinking and anything but making my characters talk. Which is extremely sad because I take introversion to the point of reclusion.

Hopefully, by writing a lot, I'll become better at it. It seems unlikely now, but who knows? Anything's possible.

Writing

I've never felt very comfortable writing this blog because most writing blogs dispense advice. Honestly, I don't know enough about writing to give advice on it. I've been writing for only a few years and even though I think I'm serious about writing, I'm not. I'm not a serious writer. I haven't reached that point yet. I'm just a serious dreamer. I dabble into writing and I'm still learning basic grammar.

Instead of using writing as a form of escapism, I read. Writing is just my attempt to make something of myself. I love words. I love characters and adventures and feeling something. A lot of people complain that we shouldn't have to take English all four years of high school, but I disagree. We aren't just learning about old dead stories that no one cares about or nit picky grammar rules that no one knows. English language is more than that. It's about art and feelings and facts and everything in the world put down in words. The books we study aren't pointless (but I'll disagree while reading them because I'm one of those kids who don't like classics) because they show us what it means to be human. Romeo and Juliet? Very stupid in my opinion. But the two star-crossed lovers (I hate that phrase) show us how stupid humans act when they're in love. (or as I like to say, infatuated) Humans make mistakes. We are flawed. Stories reflect that.

The thing is, once you learn how to words, you can do almost anything with them. Lawyers defend and manipulate people with words. Journalists inform people with their words. Author's create whole other worlds with these words, which is also a form of manipulation.

A lot of people complain about having to take English every single year of high school, myself included, because we forget or don't realize how important words are. After spending a week complaining about all the pointless English homework my teacher assigns, it's hard to remember why we learn this stuff. Sometimes you have to remind yourself why words and stories are important.

Introvert vs. Extrovert

The other night, my mom grabbed a TIME magazine and shoved it in my face while I was watching 'Smash' on the computer. My mom was acting like a four-year-old who'd just discovered the magic of pixie sticks. The article she wanted me to read was called something like 'It's okay to be shy'.

Oh, the horror.

I spend a good chunk of time sitting in the car listening to my mom tell me that I have to talk more or else I'll turn into a creepy old man and rot away in a cave. (a cave with internet connection, though. And I've never wanted to be a guy, so I don't see how that'll happen. Sex changes cost a lot, ya know) She goes on and on about this story about how when she was my age, she was as shy as I was. Honestly, I think she's lying when she says that. She makes up all this crazy stories whenever we complain about anything about how her life was so much worse and yada yada yada. But now she can talk to anyone without feeling shy about it. Then she points out that her grammar and pronunciation suck because English is her second language.

But my mom is not an introvert. She goes insane when she has to stay home for longer than a weekend. My mom always needs to be chatting with someone or doing something or else she'll start to feel boxed in and panicky. I happen to be the exact opposite. When given the choice, I'd rather stay home. On Sunday nights, when I realize that I have to go to school the following day and see a bunch of (stupid) people, I freak out.

Okay, boring backstory aside, I'm not really much of an introvert either. I can't concentrate for long.

But my mom handed me this magazine and was like "It's okay. You can still be successful and quiet." when only hours before, she was yelling at me to be louder and get my thoughts out into the world. She was so giddy about it, so that cancels out the article being some kind of an apology.

So, like any bookish nerd, I read the article. And guess what? It told me that I'm not really an introvert.

(My mom didn't even read the article. It's hilarious, actually. I thought she'd start saying weird things like 'Presidents can be introverts. Introverts can be CEO's of big companies.' Because I don't want to do any of those things at all.)

I'll admit it; after reading the article, I laughed. Then I got pissed. What kind of a person would dare tell me that I'm not an introvert? Me, the girl who preferred fictional characters over any real kind of company? (Did I mention that conversations make me panicked? In books, it's all scripted out.)

Okay, okay, so I might have some kind of social phobia rather than normal introversion.

So here's what I think introverts and extroverts are like. This will be explained simply because I have the thought process of a six-year-old and with vampires as examples because I'm a YA paranormal reader.

Say you're a loner vampire (introvert). It doesn't necessarily mean you hate people. It just means lots of people and big events stress you out. Heck, you might even enjoy being with lots of people and participating in huge events, but those things tire you. You 'feed' on small projects you do by yourself.

Now, let's say you're a stereotypical sexy vampire. (extrovert. Don't kill eat me. I know stereotypical vampires are the loner sort.) It doesn't mean you hate being by yourself and working. You just 'feed' off the energy that crowds give you. Human interaction wakes you up and energizes you. You like being around people and doing things that'll throw you in new places.

So, yeah, these two vampire types are kind of on the extreme ends. There's a huge area in between that most people fall under.

This is a weird post. I just had to throw my thoughts out there on this classification.

Confusion and Hiatus

This is probably one of the stupidest things I'll ever say, but I think I'm falling out of love with writing. Instead of this fun, amazing, escape from reality that I used to feel, everything feels like work. I'll write 400 words and then feel like it's complete crap. (which, it totally is, of course. but for once, I'd like to just think otherwise) I'm just slogging through word after word while my frustration grows stronger and stronger.

While I write, I think about how much I hate my prose. I think about how inconsistent my characters are and how two dimensional. I think about my mom telling me that I should stop reading trash and that I should read some nonfiction instead. I hate my writing. I hate my story. Heck, I even hate my characters. There's almost no enjoyment anymore.

While I have a bet in the works with my lovely friend Chloe from Cannibal Carrot which means I can't actually quit writing for very long, I'm still going to take a break. I just need some time to think things through.

Don't mistake this for quitting. I've invested too much time into this to give up. I've spent SO much time on the internet learning about the publishing industry and how to hone in on my craft. At the core of things, I know that I still love writing.

I just need a little time to sort out my head. Like my bedroom, it's a complete mess. The REAL part of high school is looming on the horizon, as well as a few other stressing future events, and I have to sort out my goals.

Which will have to be SCHOOL before writing. It'll be super hard, considering the fact that my brain goes like "NONONONONO!" when someone even mentions school.

Wish me luck!

Self Pity and Visual Inspiration (2)

Sorry for just disappearing again. I happen to do that a lot. Despite the silence on the blog, I haven't been getting much writing done. I'm writing slower than I can run a mile (which takes a pretty darn long time) and it's okay. *dusts away cobwebs on the blog and in my brain* While surfing the internet, I came upon a writing forum. Being the curious person I am, I clicked on it and read the comments, stalker style. Except, you know, without any intents on any actual stalking. Apparently, this thirteen-year-old girl was in the midst of publishing her book.

...

Yeah. I'd like to say that I looked at it and treated it as one of those random facts like "The sky is blue". But no, my face kind of looked like I just found out Texas is undergoing desertification in my World Geography class.

I was furious at myself. For years, I've been calling myself a writer and I haven't even finished a story yet. And lookie here, a thirteen-year-old's gonna have her book out, like, for sale and stuff. I couldn't concentrate on my schoolwork. I was just...wallowing in self pity. Of course, that's pretty normal for me, so maybe I should say that I was drowning in self pity.

One day, before the first bell rang, I told my friend. She, being wise and totally smart, basically told me I was an idiot for thinking that way. Except, you know, with nicer words. Actually, because she's a writer too and way better with words than I'll ever be, she compared it to climbing. She said something about how she climbed this hella high thing (Um...yeah. Sorry for not remembering the actual place. Half Point or something? Half Peak?) and said that eight-year-olds have climbed it before as well. But she was proud of herself for climbing it and having kids younger than her doing it didn't bug her. My friend did it and that's what mattered. Age isn't the most important thing. (Oh dear, that sounds a bit...weird. But we're all innocent people here, aren't we?)

So, the moral of her story is that age doesn't matter. Publishing isn't a race. It doesn't matter if you're published at thirteen or thirty or even seventy. Heck, maybe in twenty years or so, I won't even want to be published anymore. Maybe I'll have another dream. (Which would be really sad)

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The following pictures were found on www.weheartit.com

Blogger

A lot of authors will tell stories about the life changing event that caused them to write. Parents, teachers, injuries, depression, ect. Not all events were life changing, and some explanations are as simple as "I've always liked words". But what makes a blogger blog? Many writers blog nowadays just because they're expected to. They're supposed to have one. So they make one. Whatever, right?

Well, no. I'm sure most people don't really care but this bugs me so much. Leave blogging and networking to the people who genuinely like it.

Strangely enough, I discovered blogging before I discovered my love for writing. I'm not nostalgic enough (or drunk) to think that blogging spawned my interest in writing because it didn't. I discovered my love for writing when I outgrew "make believe games". All around me, my friends were getting bored. They were getting sick of pretending things were there that we couldn't see. They were sick of pretending to be people we weren't. And soon enough, I was the idiot receiving blank stares whenever I asked "Wanna pretend that ___?" Even I could tell that was a no.

But I'll get to my writer-ly discovery later. Right now, I want to talk about myself as a blogger. In 6th grade, my brother discovered how to use this free website making thing. (Not blogger or any of the common networking sites. I actually don't remember what the site was called.) It was amazing. My brother made a site that a bunch of our friends shared, and everyone had their own profile space that we could do anything with.

It was amazing. We scoured the interwebs for pictures and fonts to decorate our page with and jockeyed for the daily posts on the home page.

And then, soon enough, we discovered that we could change other people's pages. Sure enough, that led to a lot of fighting, pranks, and hatred between all of us. Finally, my best friend* and I got sick of being the only two girls on the site (The majority of the attacks were against us, funnily enough) and we broke off.**

So we created our own blog. And that lasted the entire year. It was...well...awesome. Way better than the chaos that used to be our first blog. We even created pages that supported environmental causes and had themes to our duo blog posts. My friend and I basically hung out every single day after school, so on some of those days, we'd plant our butts into a chair and update the home page. It'd take a few minutes for us to choose a topic, but once one was chosen, we'd throw our opinions into the void of cyberspace. Being the awesomely techie kids we were, we even created a "Past Posts" page that held all of our previous content. Of course, it was still pretty stupid (we had a lot of Michael Jackson jokes and weird hobo impersonations) but we were in 6th grade.

When summer vacation rolled around, the blog didn't have a chance. I was off for a trip to China and she was freakin' moving to another state.

I continued blogging after that, but I moved to a shiny new place run by the folks at Google. Behold, blogger. For about two or three years, I ran another seeeeeekrit blog that I'd rather die than tell you the name of. It was nice...at first. But I, being a bit worse than the average teenager, wrote some really embarrassing and angst ridden posts. It took me a while to realize that I needed to be more shiny and positive, so I created this lovely blog and moved here.

And now I'm here, sighing like an old lady over my internet journey. Somehow, I feel like being a blogger is a part of me, no matter how many followers I have. It's not a big part of me but it's still a part of me, however small.




*My friend is awesome. I miss her a lot even though it's been almost two and a half years. Looking over this blog post, it seems like I have some sort of an issue with moving on, but that's not why I miss her. Really. She's just...awesome.

**By the way, if any of my first blog co-writers are reading this, (probably not) that dog corpse picture was SCARY. And I do not eat poop or love any of you in anything more than a platonic way.