Sands Through the Hourglass...

I was supposed to write (and post) a really cool poem today. One about Halloween, of course. It was going be very awesome with fast pacing and eerie word-choice. And I was going to repeat the line: "On this the night of All Hallows' Eve..." It was going to be epic.

But, I'm having a little trouble focusing.

Because as I'm looking at the date, I can't help but thinking I have less than 24 hours before beginning a journey that I cannot turn away from.

I'm speaking, of course, of NaNoWriMo.

I have pledged to write a full novel in the month of November. That's 50,000 words in 30 days. Period.
Which averages to about 1666 words everyday.
Which averages to about 60 words an hour.
Which averages to like a word a minute
Every minute.
Of every hour.
Of every day.
For 30 days.

And why would I subject myself to such torture and stress? Because I'm a writer. It's what I do. It's what I love. And what makes me happy. Deadlines are inevitable. It's like Christa says, "Writing's never done. It's due." And this deadline I'll be forced to follow. There's no changing when November 30th will come and mark the end of NaNoWriMo.

So, here's to the next 30 days!

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

P.S. - Also, I've decided to start a new label for the series of posts specially dedicated to NaNoWriMo. Chronicling my progress and possible meltdowns and what not as I travel along this road.

Insomnia

It's the strangest feeling: Knowing that I should be sleeping now. Knowing that if I just laid my head on the pillow and relaxed my body, I would undoubtedly fall asleep. Knowing that History is going to be unbearable without a good night's sleep.

But I also know that I haven't done my Speech homework. And that is one of the many things plaguing my mind now. Ordinarily, I'd just say "Fuck it," close my laptop, embrace the darkness, and go to sleep. In the morning--okay okay, afternoon, I'd frantically rush to the library to type some sort of outline of a bs speech I plan to deliver in less than an hour....

Actually, that sounds really good right now.

I can't deny who I am.

Fuck it.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

P.S. - Funny, this is not the direction I imagined this post going in when I first began writing. :P

Can't think of a title... Tra la la ?

I've began to notice that when I sit down to write on here, I really don't know what I'm going to churn out. Often times, unless I'm retelling a story or have had some miraculous revelation about life I feel like sharing, I just stare at the blank screen, fingers hovering above the keyboard waiting for inspiration. And I start to think, "Is this healthy? Should a writer really not know what to write?"

It's scary sometimes. Knowing that even I don't find my daily life interesting enough to document or my imagination creative enough to produce something of merit.

But then I think of all the other ways my writing does live on. Being a self-diagnosed Gaiaholic, I undoubtedly write everyday. Multiple times a day when lucky. From stories of an orphaned French girls to a mystical forest dweller and his charming sister, I know I'm creative. But these things are only as good as what I'm given. These stories are not my sole creation. I'm always working on such projects with other people. People whom I've never met before. People who give me things to respond to and I them. And I fall in love with these characters we've created, with the luxurious worlds we've built for them and I am intrigued by how much we're able to conceal from each other until the moment is right for plot twists.

So I begin to wonder if I can do this on my own. Without someone else providing a question for my character(s) to respond to or ponder. Without someone else constantly awaiting my reply in order to continue something. (Because Lord knows I abandon stories like a 15-year-old crack addict abandons babies) And I don't think I like the answer I come up with.

So is that the answer then? To change my dream from being a best-selling author to a best-selling co-author? Ew. I don't like the sound of that.

I need some initiative.

A lot of initiative.

I need an English class.

Or at least a routine outlet for writing.

I miss Christa.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Sweet Stranger

I find myself where I’ve been before. Everything is the same, yet somehow greatly different. The people still remain as I remember them but there’s a change in them… a silent secret I know nothing of. It’s as if I’m missing something. As if I’m the outsider now. C’est la vie, I suppose. But I can’t shake the feeling that I don’ belong here anymore. That I’m no longer part of this cycle. It’s their time to shine. This is made all the more clear when they begin to share stories. Stories I’m not a part of. Stories I wasn’t there to witness. I’m an outsider. I don’t belong any more.

They were so happy to see me and I equally ecstatic to see them again. We talked, laughed, and joked as if nothing had changed. As if I hadn’t been away for months. As if I belonged. We were trapped in a time capsule, where we were all equals. Where we all belonged. Then reality struck again when it came time for them to depart. I couldn’t’ follow them this time. I wasn’t a part of what they were doing. I would never be a part of that anymore.

I thought this would work out more like a puzzle. Where we each had our own intricate designs, yet when we came to together, we fit. We fit in with each other to paint a beautiful picture of friendship. And no matter how far apart the pieces scattered, when we came together, we’d still have that same image. We’d still fit. I’d still fit. But it’s not so. Some of the pieces are worn, damaged even, now. Some pieces do not fit where they once did and the picture can never be the same. It’s a sad realization I’ve come to. But this is the way it is.

Make no mistake, I greatly enjoy anytime I spend with my friends and always wish I had more time. Who else can you laugh at David Bowie’s “smuggled grapefruits” and crappy 80s green-screening with? (Tra la la) Even in doing the most random of tasks, we still enjoyed each others’ company. At the very least, I enjoyed theirs.
Maybe we won’t be a perfectly fitted puzzle again, but hopefully the pieces can all remain in the same box…

.:~o*’Kaylyn’*o~:.

Hmm...

I always find it interesting whenever I begin to write here. What do I wish to say? What do I want people to know about me and my day? What I wish to discover about myself? Am I inhibited because I know people are reading? Do I hide things I wish not to be questioned? Why do I even do this anymore?

I wish I could write freely. Just.. whatever comes to mind... whatever gets typed out first. "Flush out the crap," as Christa used to say. But for some reason there is a critic within me. A mean, nasty critic constantly demanding the best; perfection. Try as I might, I can't escape her tauntings. You want to be a writer, don't you? Writer's don't write like that. Use bigger verbs. More mature adjectives! A middle schooler could have wrote this... You're going to starve.

The scariest thing, though, is the voice itself. It's not my mother. A teacher. Someone who I look up to. A critic. It's... me. I am my own worst enemy. I am my toughest critic. Perhaps that's why I try to correct other peoples' works. To know that, indeed, I do have some working knowledge of the English language and mechanics. To prove to this self-editor that I can write. That I'm meant to write. That I must write.

Am I crazy?

I'm so lucky to have the support I do. Friends. Family. Loved ones. Or, rather, one. I'm lucky that not just one... but many people have seen some small glimmer of light within me; even when all I see is darkness and error. That I "talk like a book" and often get more enjoyment from listening to other people talk, their vocabulary and mannerisms than hearing myself. That I can easily loose myself in a book and never want to return to reality again.

I have to remember why I started writing.

This critic must be silenced.

I gotta jump.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.