In Search of a Story

Hello, friends.

I'm a little lonely tonight, with a lot on my mind.

I've spent the past couple of hours (oh, who am I kidding? More like 3 or 4!) looking for jobs in Chatty, reading random blog postings, watching J.K. Rowling interviews on YouTube... who could ask for more on a Saturday night?

I can't help but wish inspiration would hit me. Books used to come so easily when I was a child. And even a teenager. In fact, I think I could write well until I went to college and learned the format of an essay. It was all downhill from there. I try to give my writing structure, and it all falls apart. For some reason, my creativity got squashed in college and has not yet made a full recovery. I'm still seeking answers as to why.

Still, my best work is definitely my journal. Not this one, but my personal journal, hand-written, which I've been keeping since I was like 11 or something. There I have been so brutally honest. Here, I have to watch what I say... so it doesn't offend anyone, or get to the wrong ears, or encourage some internet scumbag to continue his stalking habits. Here, everything is fairly well edited, and though I don't have a true "structure" I feel like I lose a lot in the quest to be acceptable to all audiences. Although I still want to be a writer, more than anything, I wonder sometimes how published writers do it. Perhaps I am not yet mature enough to have learned the balance of diplomacy and honest commentary on universal issues.

If only I could write both honestly and for the public. Supposedly I can... you know, Freedom of Speech and all, but I am not yet prepared to live with the consequences of writing fearlessly. I have let a select few people read some of my personal journal entries and it was one of the scariest things I have ever done. Those who have read what I write when I am writing straight from the heart have saturated me with praise. I don't know what to do with this. I have been told I am a born writer. All I know is, it is the one thing I cannot live without. To me, it is like oxygen... or dark chocolate.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I am searching for my story. All my life I have been seeking it, and I had hoped it would come by now. J.K. Rowling was 25 when Harry Potter appeared to her on the train. I can only hope and pray that my story finds me soon.

I am thirsty for the writing life, though I know it will be a hard road. One of my dearest friends told me this week that I need to start at least writing articles, sending them out to magazines, and begin my collection of rejection letters. I know she is right, I just don't know what to write about yet. But I think I'm supposed to be a writer, if there is such a thing as "supposed to be," because none of these other jobs sound even close to what I really want.

Do you think God has a plan for my life and if I'm living it right I'll find my way into the writing life? Or did He give me the gift of writing and leave me here to figure it all out on my own? Am I missing something here? Is it just not time yet, or is there something wrong with me that blocks my motivation to write for publication right now?

Then again, though I may not feel it these days, I am pretty young. Most writers don't get published until they're in their 40's, and still more aren't published until after their death. That's a comforting thought. That means I'll have to have some lousy career for the rest of my life, and keep writing without knowing whether it will ever have meaning for anyone.

But I will keep writing. I know that much. I don't really care if I never get any recognition for it. I know in my heart that I'm supposed to write, that I love to write, and that I cannot not write. Maybe a publisher will choose to see that in my lifetime and maybe not, but it won't really matter either way.

I will be a writer either way. ever in search of my great story...

On Dreams...

Much on my mind these days.

Many life-altering decisions to make, and I feel incapable of making them well. This seems to be the point in life where I have to choose which dreams I allow the possibility of life, and which I abandon and leave for dead.

I suppose there isn't any way to keep the heart from being torn a bit, in the midst of the choosing... no matter which way you choose, you lose something, you gain something; you can't look back. I wish it could be different. There are so many dreams I wanted to keep...

There are many things I can't express right now. Others have already said it better than I. Tonight I find myself alone, with a question burning in my mind...

Langston Hughes

A Dream Deferred

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over--

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?