This was a poem that I wrote my first summer at YouthWrite.
I watched as she raised her hand.
Frozen in place,
All I could do was watch.
And then,
I could only wince.
Pain - excruciating.
But not new.
Pain,
Everyday … for nothing.
She raises her fist,
And I close my eyes.
I wish myself to a meadow.
The kind with bunnies that hop,
And birds that chirp.
I pretend that I’m not lying,
In a pool of my blood.
I’m soaring,
Up high in the clouds.
Wings spread.
Content in the afternoon sky.
In my meadow,
It’s easy to pretend my life isn’t horrible.
In my meadow,
I can play with the bunnies.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
Animalism 101
I am against the murdering of dogs for “attacking” human beings. No, that is an understatement. I am so far against this unspeakable crime that if I could, I would sooner inject the executioner with that liquid death than allow it to be forced into that innocent animal.
People are always going on about how vicious dogs can be, and how they can turn on you in an instant if you’re not careful.
Bullshit.
Dogs are fiercely loyal. They are energetic, excitable, and guess what? They have sharp teeth and claws. And what does any animal - PS, this means humans, too - do when it feels threatened? It fights back.
What people don’t realize about animal attacks, is that the animal is ALWAYS provoked. Does a dog understand that your five-year old child wasn’t actually trying to kill him when he jabbed his thumb into his eye, stepped on his foot, or was rough with him in any other way? No. All the animal knows is that he’s being hurt, and it needs to stop.
Here’s a thought, people: supervise your effing children.
When I was a kid, I made the mistake of trying to pet my aunt’s dog while he was eating. Did I mean the dog harm? No. I just wanted to play with him. Did Pepsi realize that? No. He thought I was trying to take his food. It was my mistake, and I actually recognized that … go figure!
Communication barrier, people. Dogs cannot communicate their fears and protestations to us in a way that we would prefer, so we need to open up our eyes and ears, and actually pay attention to what they are trying to tell us.
When a dog is whining, growling, pawing at the ground, has his hackles raised and his teeth bared: that’s a pretty damn clear sign that you should walk away.
As humans, when someone tries to hurt us, we fight back. Sometimes that is punished by law, but usually not, and certainly not as severely as a death sentence. But, when an animal fights back against a human, that animal is considered “dangerous”, and must be put to death immediately. It is disgusting, it is cruel, and it is unacceptable.
Instead of punishing animals for defending themselves, we need to educate our children to respect animals. Instead of labeling these creatures as mean or vicious, we might take a look at what happened to them to make them do those things. Or, here’s another thought: maybe look at the people that were supposedly “attacked” by the dog. Because not all animal attacks are on children, there are many “grown-ups” who’ve supposedly been “attacked” by an animal, and had to take drastic measures to save their own lives. … Assuming for the moment that is true, tell me, why exactly were you carrying a gun on you in the first place? I’m speaking on the poor dog who was shot in the head and left for dead in a ditch, while his family knew nothing of what had happened to him. If that dog really had attacked that man, then he would have made a colossal deal of it, and would have gone to the “proper authorities” after killing the dog. No, a man who was telling the truth about an animal attack wouldn’t have hidden the body and hoped that no one would ever find out.
Cruelty against animals is disgusting, and any man, woman, or child who thinks that it is okay to hurt such a gentle and loving creature, be warned: if I see you so much as laying an unfriendly hand upon an animal’s head, it could very well be the last thing that you do - and not because of the animal.
People are always going on about how vicious dogs can be, and how they can turn on you in an instant if you’re not careful.
Bullshit.
Dogs are fiercely loyal. They are energetic, excitable, and guess what? They have sharp teeth and claws. And what does any animal - PS, this means humans, too - do when it feels threatened? It fights back.
What people don’t realize about animal attacks, is that the animal is ALWAYS provoked. Does a dog understand that your five-year old child wasn’t actually trying to kill him when he jabbed his thumb into his eye, stepped on his foot, or was rough with him in any other way? No. All the animal knows is that he’s being hurt, and it needs to stop.
Here’s a thought, people: supervise your effing children.
When I was a kid, I made the mistake of trying to pet my aunt’s dog while he was eating. Did I mean the dog harm? No. I just wanted to play with him. Did Pepsi realize that? No. He thought I was trying to take his food. It was my mistake, and I actually recognized that … go figure!
Communication barrier, people. Dogs cannot communicate their fears and protestations to us in a way that we would prefer, so we need to open up our eyes and ears, and actually pay attention to what they are trying to tell us.
When a dog is whining, growling, pawing at the ground, has his hackles raised and his teeth bared: that’s a pretty damn clear sign that you should walk away.
As humans, when someone tries to hurt us, we fight back. Sometimes that is punished by law, but usually not, and certainly not as severely as a death sentence. But, when an animal fights back against a human, that animal is considered “dangerous”, and must be put to death immediately. It is disgusting, it is cruel, and it is unacceptable.
Instead of punishing animals for defending themselves, we need to educate our children to respect animals. Instead of labeling these creatures as mean or vicious, we might take a look at what happened to them to make them do those things. Or, here’s another thought: maybe look at the people that were supposedly “attacked” by the dog. Because not all animal attacks are on children, there are many “grown-ups” who’ve supposedly been “attacked” by an animal, and had to take drastic measures to save their own lives. … Assuming for the moment that is true, tell me, why exactly were you carrying a gun on you in the first place? I’m speaking on the poor dog who was shot in the head and left for dead in a ditch, while his family knew nothing of what had happened to him. If that dog really had attacked that man, then he would have made a colossal deal of it, and would have gone to the “proper authorities” after killing the dog. No, a man who was telling the truth about an animal attack wouldn’t have hidden the body and hoped that no one would ever find out.
Cruelty against animals is disgusting, and any man, woman, or child who thinks that it is okay to hurt such a gentle and loving creature, be warned: if I see you so much as laying an unfriendly hand upon an animal’s head, it could very well be the last thing that you do - and not because of the animal.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Moments Like This
This was one of my Rookie Blue fics, originally posted on fanfiction.net under the title "All It Takes". I tweaked it a bit, and changed the name after some more consideration. I think this one works better.
Some days, it was hard to remember why he did this. Every day, he left his wife and kids behind, and put himself in harm's way. Every day, he went out onto the streets, and tried to make the world a better place. And every day, he wondered why he even bothered. The world never seemed to get any better; never felt any safer. For every criminal they put behind bars, another three new ones showed up on the streets. For every drug dealer they busted, more were being bred every minute. What was the point?
It was moments like this. Today they found a missing girl. They stopped unspeakable things from happening to her, they arrested the people responsible for taking her. Because of them, that little girl got to go home to her mother. And to top it all off, he got to go home to his wife and daughters. All in all, it was a good day, he supposed.
The girls were asleep when he got home, so he greeted his wife first. She could tell with one look that it had been a rough day, so she wrapped her arms around tightly around him. She told him that she loved him, and that they'd talk about it once he got his fill of his beautiful daughters.
He nodded in mute gratitude, making his way to their bedrooms. He went to his oldest daughter's room first, seeing her tucked deeply into the covers. He could always tell when she was really sleeping, because she snored in an off-beat tune, and twitched her foot just a little bit. Whenever she was faking, she would lie perfectly still, and her fists would clench ever so slightly against the blanket. He didn't want to wake her when she was so peaceful in her slumber, so he just looked upon her for a while. Her face was so serene while she slept, and he couldn't bring himself to disturb her. Next, he made his way to the younger girls' room. They were the lightest sleepers, and sat up in their beds as soon as he opened the door.
"Hi, Daddy!" his youngest daughter whispered, smiling a sleepy smile.
He smiled in response, making his way to her bed. They all ended up on one bed, and he wrapped his arms around both of them, hugging his fill, and then some more.
"Did you catch bad guys today?" his other daughter asked.
Oliver smiled sadly, nodding his head. "Yeah, I did."
"That's good," she replied, snuggling into his warm body.
He continued nodding, holding his daughters tightly. He didn't know what he would do if anything like that happened to them. Well, no ... he knew exactly what he would do. He would tear the city apart until he found them, and boulder through everyone who got in his way. He would give his life to keep his daughters from harm.
He stayed in their room for a while longer, but their yawning eventually alerted him to the fact that he was messing with their sleeping cycle. "Time for bed, girls," he told them quietly, kissing each one on the forehead. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Daddy," they each replied. "We love you."
Oliver Shaw smiled, tucking them into their beds. "I love you, too." He made his way out of the room, the door clicking closed behind him. The off-duty cop made his way back out to the living room, seeing that his wife was waiting for him on the couch with a drink. "Thanks," he told her, sitting next to her.
She smile sadly, leaning over to snuggle against him.
No matter what kind of day he had, no matter how it turned out, all it took was a smile from his daughters and a hug from his wife, and the world made sense again. There were no pedophiles, or absentminded mothers; no car accidents or tragedies. Just warmth and love and care, and a more perfect family than he ever could have hoped for.
Oliver's arms wrapped back around his wife, saving his drink for later. For now, he just wanted to hold her, and hold onto the feeling of peace that her touch created. Everything else could wait.
Some days, it was hard to remember why he did this. Every day, he left his wife and kids behind, and put himself in harm's way. Every day, he went out onto the streets, and tried to make the world a better place. And every day, he wondered why he even bothered. The world never seemed to get any better; never felt any safer. For every criminal they put behind bars, another three new ones showed up on the streets. For every drug dealer they busted, more were being bred every minute. What was the point?
It was moments like this. Today they found a missing girl. They stopped unspeakable things from happening to her, they arrested the people responsible for taking her. Because of them, that little girl got to go home to her mother. And to top it all off, he got to go home to his wife and daughters. All in all, it was a good day, he supposed.
The girls were asleep when he got home, so he greeted his wife first. She could tell with one look that it had been a rough day, so she wrapped her arms around tightly around him. She told him that she loved him, and that they'd talk about it once he got his fill of his beautiful daughters.
He nodded in mute gratitude, making his way to their bedrooms. He went to his oldest daughter's room first, seeing her tucked deeply into the covers. He could always tell when she was really sleeping, because she snored in an off-beat tune, and twitched her foot just a little bit. Whenever she was faking, she would lie perfectly still, and her fists would clench ever so slightly against the blanket. He didn't want to wake her when she was so peaceful in her slumber, so he just looked upon her for a while. Her face was so serene while she slept, and he couldn't bring himself to disturb her. Next, he made his way to the younger girls' room. They were the lightest sleepers, and sat up in their beds as soon as he opened the door.
"Hi, Daddy!" his youngest daughter whispered, smiling a sleepy smile.
He smiled in response, making his way to her bed. They all ended up on one bed, and he wrapped his arms around both of them, hugging his fill, and then some more.
"Did you catch bad guys today?" his other daughter asked.
Oliver smiled sadly, nodding his head. "Yeah, I did."
"That's good," she replied, snuggling into his warm body.
He continued nodding, holding his daughters tightly. He didn't know what he would do if anything like that happened to them. Well, no ... he knew exactly what he would do. He would tear the city apart until he found them, and boulder through everyone who got in his way. He would give his life to keep his daughters from harm.
He stayed in their room for a while longer, but their yawning eventually alerted him to the fact that he was messing with their sleeping cycle. "Time for bed, girls," he told them quietly, kissing each one on the forehead. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Daddy," they each replied. "We love you."
Oliver Shaw smiled, tucking them into their beds. "I love you, too." He made his way out of the room, the door clicking closed behind him. The off-duty cop made his way back out to the living room, seeing that his wife was waiting for him on the couch with a drink. "Thanks," he told her, sitting next to her.
She smile sadly, leaning over to snuggle against him.
No matter what kind of day he had, no matter how it turned out, all it took was a smile from his daughters and a hug from his wife, and the world made sense again. There were no pedophiles, or absentminded mothers; no car accidents or tragedies. Just warmth and love and care, and a more perfect family than he ever could have hoped for.
Oliver's arms wrapped back around his wife, saving his drink for later. For now, he just wanted to hold her, and hold onto the feeling of peace that her touch created. Everything else could wait.
If I Could Scream it to the Heavens ...
What is the one thing that you’ve always wanted to say to someone, but never could find the right words?
I am many things. I am blunt, opinionated, loud, insistent, driven, harsh, passionate, rude, mouthy, and defiant. There are an infinite amount of adjectives to describe the kind of person that I am. But there is one thing that I am not: a liar. I am not delusional, or a deranged attention-whore. I do not make up stories to make people like me, feel sorry for me, or be jealous of me. I don’t need to, because I don’t give a damn what people think of me. I don’t define myself by how others view me, and I never will.
I don’t need absolution to tell me when something is real. I don’t need to parade around my boyfriend so that other people will be convinced of his existence. And I sure as hell don’t need to subject myself to the psychological torture that some people call friendship, just so that I have people to go to the movies with. Guess what? Unlike some people, I don’t mind going to the movies alone. And unlike some people, I can have a private relationship without having to provide evidence to "concerned" individuals.
I’m sorry that I’m not a self-absorbed slut, or a flamboyant, wannabe-punk who tries desperately to hide his homosexuality by falling in love with a girl who will never love him back. I’m sorry that I don’t cast stones upon my supposed friends the second that they are the most vulnerable. I’m sorry that I don’t deal with my grief and hatred in a timely fashion. I’m so sorry that it took me over two years to detach myself from the venomous trollop that was supposed to be my best friend. But you know what? I’m better for it. Unlike some people, it bothers me to pretend that everything is okay, when it really isn’t.
If I ever had a piece of wisdom to impart on anyone, it would be this: be very careful who you tell personal information to. Even when you think that you can trust someone more than your own family, there is no guarantee that they won’t stab you in the back.
Would you like to know some other words to describe me: jaded, distrustful, wary, cold, spiteful, vindictive. Guess what? There are people who made me this way. I am not always a bright ray of sunshine, who can laugh everything off. There are some things that don’t roll off of my shoulders like water. I am human, and if you cut me, I do bleed. When you hurt me, I cry. When you piss me off, I scream. And when you sit there like the smug little bastards that you are, be happy that I have a modicum of respect for your parents, that I wouldn’t hurt you like you’ve hurt me.
I am not a nice person. I generally don’t have a problem with this, because I am very good at putting on a smile, and pretending that everything is okay. But sometimes, I just don’t have the energy to care about other people’s feelings.
How many of us have experienced this? How many of us have been betrayed by those closest to us? How many of us have loved with our whole hearts, only to have them stomped on callously and with more malice than anyone could have thought possible? How many of us have dug our nails so far into our palms that we’ve drawn blood, just to thump down the urge to inflict the appropriate amount of physical pain to ease our emotional pain?
There are days when I can actually look back on my past and smile, and think about the good times that we had together … but those days are few and far between.
I am not a liar, I am not delusional, and I am not an attention-whore. What I am, is a fighter. If I hadn’t actually matured over the last four years, I might be inclined to use this all-consuming rage and rip you apart piece by piece until your screams of mercy have appeased me. No, I’ve matured since then. I am also a writer, and what would be inappropriate - and illegal - to say with my fists, I am more than happy to say with my words.
I will never forgive you, and if I never see you again, it will be too soon.
I am many things. I am blunt, opinionated, loud, insistent, driven, harsh, passionate, rude, mouthy, and defiant. There are an infinite amount of adjectives to describe the kind of person that I am. But there is one thing that I am not: a liar. I am not delusional, or a deranged attention-whore. I do not make up stories to make people like me, feel sorry for me, or be jealous of me. I don’t need to, because I don’t give a damn what people think of me. I don’t define myself by how others view me, and I never will.
I don’t need absolution to tell me when something is real. I don’t need to parade around my boyfriend so that other people will be convinced of his existence. And I sure as hell don’t need to subject myself to the psychological torture that some people call friendship, just so that I have people to go to the movies with. Guess what? Unlike some people, I don’t mind going to the movies alone. And unlike some people, I can have a private relationship without having to provide evidence to "concerned" individuals.
I’m sorry that I’m not a self-absorbed slut, or a flamboyant, wannabe-punk who tries desperately to hide his homosexuality by falling in love with a girl who will never love him back. I’m sorry that I don’t cast stones upon my supposed friends the second that they are the most vulnerable. I’m sorry that I don’t deal with my grief and hatred in a timely fashion. I’m so sorry that it took me over two years to detach myself from the venomous trollop that was supposed to be my best friend. But you know what? I’m better for it. Unlike some people, it bothers me to pretend that everything is okay, when it really isn’t.
If I ever had a piece of wisdom to impart on anyone, it would be this: be very careful who you tell personal information to. Even when you think that you can trust someone more than your own family, there is no guarantee that they won’t stab you in the back.
Would you like to know some other words to describe me: jaded, distrustful, wary, cold, spiteful, vindictive. Guess what? There are people who made me this way. I am not always a bright ray of sunshine, who can laugh everything off. There are some things that don’t roll off of my shoulders like water. I am human, and if you cut me, I do bleed. When you hurt me, I cry. When you piss me off, I scream. And when you sit there like the smug little bastards that you are, be happy that I have a modicum of respect for your parents, that I wouldn’t hurt you like you’ve hurt me.
I am not a nice person. I generally don’t have a problem with this, because I am very good at putting on a smile, and pretending that everything is okay. But sometimes, I just don’t have the energy to care about other people’s feelings.
How many of us have experienced this? How many of us have been betrayed by those closest to us? How many of us have loved with our whole hearts, only to have them stomped on callously and with more malice than anyone could have thought possible? How many of us have dug our nails so far into our palms that we’ve drawn blood, just to thump down the urge to inflict the appropriate amount of physical pain to ease our emotional pain?
There are days when I can actually look back on my past and smile, and think about the good times that we had together … but those days are few and far between.
I am not a liar, I am not delusional, and I am not an attention-whore. What I am, is a fighter. If I hadn’t actually matured over the last four years, I might be inclined to use this all-consuming rage and rip you apart piece by piece until your screams of mercy have appeased me. No, I’ve matured since then. I am also a writer, and what would be inappropriate - and illegal - to say with my fists, I am more than happy to say with my words.
I will never forgive you, and if I never see you again, it will be too soon.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Life Is Not Short!
I honestly do not understand why people are always saying “life is short, so live it to its fullest!” Name one thing that you can do that is longer than life itself, I dare you.
How do we define our lives? Some might define their lives by their accomplishments; some might define their lives by who they spent it with; some might define their lives by laughs, smiles, tears, heartaches, and overall experiences. Some might define their lives by how others view them. Some might define their lives by how they felt about what they were doing.
The simple fact of the matter is that life is a long and exciting journey. Sometimes it ends sooner than we’d like, but that doesn’t make it short. There are 365 days in a year, not including leap years. If you only ever did ONE new thing, ONE fun thing, ONE crazy thing, ONE romantic thing, ONE simple thing, ONE unbelievable thing, or ONE unforgettable thing - PER DAY - for the rest of your life, then there is no way in hell that you could ever go out with regrets.
People are always talking about how they wished they did this, or thought of doing that, or had more time to do the things that they wanted to do. Guess what? There IS time!
All of the activities below could be done in less than 20 minutes, and these are just the ones I thought of in the space of 3 minutes. There are 1440 minutes in a day - imagine how many wonderful things you could do in a single day, never mind an entire lifetime!
-Grab a bottle of bubbles and head outside!
- Roll out a sheet of bubble wrap, grab some heeled shoes, and dance!
- Make snow angels in the winter!
- Get creative with bubble bath!
- Make the world’s BEST paper airplane!
- Sing at the top of the your lungs!
- Dance in the rain!
- Challenge your dog to a race around the kitchen island - trust me, once you get going, you don’t want to stop!
- Call someone you haven’t talked to in a while!
- Stomp around in the mud!
- Try a new food!
- Paint a picture with your fingers!
- Balance a spoon on your nose!
- Write a song, poem, journal entry - anything!
- Chase a rainbow!
- Color your hair!
- Make up a body-percussion rhythm!
- Wake your neighbors up with a rooster cry - this one is tempting for some of the neighbors I’ve had!
- Take your kids outside to play!
- Wish on a star - but don’t be afraid to go out there and make the dream come true!
- Go skinny dipping - in clean water, please!
- Get your face painted!
- Go body surfing!
- Learn a new word!
- HAVE FUN!!!!!
Life is a journey, not a destination. You don’t get to a certain point and suddenly get a big prize. The ones who die young aren’t the lucky ones - they’re missing out. The average life expectancy of men and women is now 78.3 and 83, respectively. That’s about 30, 000 days, on average. … Not short, even if you don’t surpass the average life expectancy.
Have you told a stranger a secret? Have you slept under the stars? Have you loved with all your heart? Have you faced your greatest fear? Have you dangled precariously off of your couch, upside down, watching an hour of cartoons? Have you stayed perfectly still while a deer passed right in front of you? Have you helped a beetle turn back onto its feet? Have you laughed until you cried? Have you gotten a pedicure, or rode the roller coasters until you threw up? Have you gotten your palm read, or chugged a 2 Litre of Coke? Have you snorted food out of your nose when you laughed? Have you ever had a conversation with only your eyes, or eaten pretzels with whipped cream? Have you ever cartwheeled down a sidewalk, or walked the length of a football field on your hands? Have you helped an elderly person with their groceries, or raked someone’s yard for free? Have you gone to a movie theater by yourself, or encouraged a bus-full of strangers to re-enact the movie “Speed” with you until the bus driver gets back?
Have you lived?
Our lives are just that: our lives. They’re ours to do as we please. Whether we fill them with friends and family, animals, fantasy worlds, charity work, obscene behavior, or overall grumpiness, it’s our choice. You can spend your life taking the backseat, steering clear of putting yourself out there to get hurt, or you can get your ass out there and live it. How you live it is up to you.
But please, PLEASE, don’t ever think that life is short. The people who think that, are the ones who are letting their lives pass them by.
How do we define our lives? Some might define their lives by their accomplishments; some might define their lives by who they spent it with; some might define their lives by laughs, smiles, tears, heartaches, and overall experiences. Some might define their lives by how others view them. Some might define their lives by how they felt about what they were doing.
The simple fact of the matter is that life is a long and exciting journey. Sometimes it ends sooner than we’d like, but that doesn’t make it short. There are 365 days in a year, not including leap years. If you only ever did ONE new thing, ONE fun thing, ONE crazy thing, ONE romantic thing, ONE simple thing, ONE unbelievable thing, or ONE unforgettable thing - PER DAY - for the rest of your life, then there is no way in hell that you could ever go out with regrets.
People are always talking about how they wished they did this, or thought of doing that, or had more time to do the things that they wanted to do. Guess what? There IS time!
All of the activities below could be done in less than 20 minutes, and these are just the ones I thought of in the space of 3 minutes. There are 1440 minutes in a day - imagine how many wonderful things you could do in a single day, never mind an entire lifetime!
-Grab a bottle of bubbles and head outside!
- Roll out a sheet of bubble wrap, grab some heeled shoes, and dance!
- Make snow angels in the winter!
- Get creative with bubble bath!
- Make the world’s BEST paper airplane!
- Sing at the top of the your lungs!
- Dance in the rain!
- Challenge your dog to a race around the kitchen island - trust me, once you get going, you don’t want to stop!
- Call someone you haven’t talked to in a while!
- Stomp around in the mud!
- Try a new food!
- Paint a picture with your fingers!
- Balance a spoon on your nose!
- Write a song, poem, journal entry - anything!
- Chase a rainbow!
- Color your hair!
- Make up a body-percussion rhythm!
- Wake your neighbors up with a rooster cry - this one is tempting for some of the neighbors I’ve had!
- Take your kids outside to play!
- Wish on a star - but don’t be afraid to go out there and make the dream come true!
- Go skinny dipping - in clean water, please!
- Get your face painted!
- Go body surfing!
- Learn a new word!
- HAVE FUN!!!!!
Life is a journey, not a destination. You don’t get to a certain point and suddenly get a big prize. The ones who die young aren’t the lucky ones - they’re missing out. The average life expectancy of men and women is now 78.3 and 83, respectively. That’s about 30, 000 days, on average. … Not short, even if you don’t surpass the average life expectancy.
Have you told a stranger a secret? Have you slept under the stars? Have you loved with all your heart? Have you faced your greatest fear? Have you dangled precariously off of your couch, upside down, watching an hour of cartoons? Have you stayed perfectly still while a deer passed right in front of you? Have you helped a beetle turn back onto its feet? Have you laughed until you cried? Have you gotten a pedicure, or rode the roller coasters until you threw up? Have you gotten your palm read, or chugged a 2 Litre of Coke? Have you snorted food out of your nose when you laughed? Have you ever had a conversation with only your eyes, or eaten pretzels with whipped cream? Have you ever cartwheeled down a sidewalk, or walked the length of a football field on your hands? Have you helped an elderly person with their groceries, or raked someone’s yard for free? Have you gone to a movie theater by yourself, or encouraged a bus-full of strangers to re-enact the movie “Speed” with you until the bus driver gets back?
Have you lived?
Our lives are just that: our lives. They’re ours to do as we please. Whether we fill them with friends and family, animals, fantasy worlds, charity work, obscene behavior, or overall grumpiness, it’s our choice. You can spend your life taking the backseat, steering clear of putting yourself out there to get hurt, or you can get your ass out there and live it. How you live it is up to you.
But please, PLEASE, don’t ever think that life is short. The people who think that, are the ones who are letting their lives pass them by.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
I Don't Need To Be Rich ...
It seems that no matter who I talk about publishing my novel, the first thing that comes out of their mouth is always: “Don’t plan on making a living off of being an author”.
I am not a stupid person. I do well in school, I make good choices in life, and I am a realist. I am not some star-struck optimist who thinks that the first publisher I send my novel to will love it, and offer me thousands of dollars to publish it, and any more that I want to write. That just doesn’t happen; I know that. I know that it could take me years to get published, if I don’t end up self-publishing - and if I do self-publish, I won’t necessarily make a profit off of my books. I am very aware of these facts.
I don’t write because I want to make money off of my writing, I write because I have to. When I get an idea in my head - either an awesome plot, a great scene, or a perfect line - I HAVE to get it down. It will slowly start driving me insane if I don’t. I immerse myself in a world of fiction and fantasy on a daily basis. I don’t do this so that I can write as much as possible so that I can then SELL as much as possible. No, I do this because the real world is far too disappointing for me.
The real world sucks, quite frankly. Does that mean I hide myself away from it? No. I have friends, classmates, and colleagues. But I do concede that at times, I prefer the versions of them that are in my poems. These are the versions without the flaws and quirks that we all have. My poems highlight their positive attributes, where those versions of themselves will live on forever in my binders and notebooks. The real world is full of so much tragedy, sadness, and hate, that the fantasy worlds I create are more than a reprieve or vacation; they are a sanctuary. And, quite frankly, they are more fun than the real world.
Will every single person in the world love the characters that I have created? Probably not. I don’t expect to be a best-selling author at 21. Would it be nice? Yes. I admit that I have certainly dreamed and fantasized about what it would be like to a renowned author, and go on talk-shows, and have people ask me for autographs … but that’s all they are: dreams. Yes, it would be nice, but it’s not something that I need. I don’t need absolution, I don’t need thousands of adoring fans. I WANT to be a published author, because it has been the one consistent love-affair of the last 15 years of my life.
I will always be a writer. Whether I’m working in a day care somewhere, running my own day home, working a till at some supermarket, or shelving books at a bookstore … I will always be a writer. But the thrill of walking by those shelves and seeing my book? That would feel pretty damn nice.
If I make enough money in my life to afford a small place for me and my dog to live, I will be a happy person. I don’t need to be rich, I don’t need to live in a mansion paid for by my writing success … I just want my books to be out there, for people to read, and for me to say: “Yep, I wrote that.”
I am not a stupid person. I do well in school, I make good choices in life, and I am a realist. I am not some star-struck optimist who thinks that the first publisher I send my novel to will love it, and offer me thousands of dollars to publish it, and any more that I want to write. That just doesn’t happen; I know that. I know that it could take me years to get published, if I don’t end up self-publishing - and if I do self-publish, I won’t necessarily make a profit off of my books. I am very aware of these facts.
I don’t write because I want to make money off of my writing, I write because I have to. When I get an idea in my head - either an awesome plot, a great scene, or a perfect line - I HAVE to get it down. It will slowly start driving me insane if I don’t. I immerse myself in a world of fiction and fantasy on a daily basis. I don’t do this so that I can write as much as possible so that I can then SELL as much as possible. No, I do this because the real world is far too disappointing for me.
The real world sucks, quite frankly. Does that mean I hide myself away from it? No. I have friends, classmates, and colleagues. But I do concede that at times, I prefer the versions of them that are in my poems. These are the versions without the flaws and quirks that we all have. My poems highlight their positive attributes, where those versions of themselves will live on forever in my binders and notebooks. The real world is full of so much tragedy, sadness, and hate, that the fantasy worlds I create are more than a reprieve or vacation; they are a sanctuary. And, quite frankly, they are more fun than the real world.
Will every single person in the world love the characters that I have created? Probably not. I don’t expect to be a best-selling author at 21. Would it be nice? Yes. I admit that I have certainly dreamed and fantasized about what it would be like to a renowned author, and go on talk-shows, and have people ask me for autographs … but that’s all they are: dreams. Yes, it would be nice, but it’s not something that I need. I don’t need absolution, I don’t need thousands of adoring fans. I WANT to be a published author, because it has been the one consistent love-affair of the last 15 years of my life.
I will always be a writer. Whether I’m working in a day care somewhere, running my own day home, working a till at some supermarket, or shelving books at a bookstore … I will always be a writer. But the thrill of walking by those shelves and seeing my book? That would feel pretty damn nice.
If I make enough money in my life to afford a small place for me and my dog to live, I will be a happy person. I don’t need to be rich, I don’t need to live in a mansion paid for by my writing success … I just want my books to be out there, for people to read, and for me to say: “Yep, I wrote that.”
Monday, January 3, 2011
The Road to Publishing My First Novel
A long, long road ...
A little over eleven months ago, I began compiling a list of characters for my very first, full-length novel. I wrote my first short story when I was in grade one, I’ve written poems, songs, fairy tales, short stories, and screenplays all through high school. I’ve been writing fan-fiction for almost four years now, but I had never been able to stick with one story long enough to make it book-length.
Until now.
On December 31st, 2010, shortly after 1:00 in the morning, I completed the first draft of my first novel, totaling in 67,759 words.
So, it only took me fifteen years, but here I am. Getting ready to publish my first novel. It’s exciting, intense, fun, fulfilling … and terrifying. I’d been putting off figuring out the best way to get my novel published, but as I’ve made my New Year’s Resolution to get it published, I can no longer procrastinate.
While the thrill of finally completing this novel was a high like no other, the journey down the publishing road is a daunting one. I can’t afford to self-publish, so I need to find a literary agent to pitch my novel to publishers - which I can’t afford to do, either. But, even if I could, there are supposedly only 30 literary agents in Canada, and most of them reside in Ontario. One of the closest ones, in British Columbia, probably won’t accept my novel, as it’s young-adult fiction, and they cater mostly towards non-fiction, and some children’s books. Certainly she might be the way to go when I try to publish my children’s book series, but for now, it doesn’t do me much good.
Sigh … but, I am nothing if not persistent. Yes, it will be hard. There will probably be lots of nail-biting and teeth-grinding, a fair amount of rejection letters, and lots of tears, but, eventually … I will be a published author.
A little over eleven months ago, I began compiling a list of characters for my very first, full-length novel. I wrote my first short story when I was in grade one, I’ve written poems, songs, fairy tales, short stories, and screenplays all through high school. I’ve been writing fan-fiction for almost four years now, but I had never been able to stick with one story long enough to make it book-length.
Until now.
On December 31st, 2010, shortly after 1:00 in the morning, I completed the first draft of my first novel, totaling in 67,759 words.
So, it only took me fifteen years, but here I am. Getting ready to publish my first novel. It’s exciting, intense, fun, fulfilling … and terrifying. I’d been putting off figuring out the best way to get my novel published, but as I’ve made my New Year’s Resolution to get it published, I can no longer procrastinate.
While the thrill of finally completing this novel was a high like no other, the journey down the publishing road is a daunting one. I can’t afford to self-publish, so I need to find a literary agent to pitch my novel to publishers - which I can’t afford to do, either. But, even if I could, there are supposedly only 30 literary agents in Canada, and most of them reside in Ontario. One of the closest ones, in British Columbia, probably won’t accept my novel, as it’s young-adult fiction, and they cater mostly towards non-fiction, and some children’s books. Certainly she might be the way to go when I try to publish my children’s book series, but for now, it doesn’t do me much good.
Sigh … but, I am nothing if not persistent. Yes, it will be hard. There will probably be lots of nail-biting and teeth-grinding, a fair amount of rejection letters, and lots of tears, but, eventually … I will be a published author.
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