On Concrit

I’ve had a pretty average day so far. Not much happened. I got up ten minutes later than usual because I had a late start this morning. The first thing I did was grab my journal to write my one page every morning. I wrote some pretty funny typos, or rather ‘writos’. One of them went ‘I have thrown off the covers of speech’ when I meant ‘I have thrown off the covers of sleep.’ That in itself might not be that weird, but for someone who’s studying to become a speech and language pathologist, it’s ironic, in a way.

This morning, I became engrossed in leaving constructive criticism, or ‘concrit’ for not-so-good writers on Fanfiction.net. It’s become a hobby of mine lately, since I really have no life. My best friends have both gone to other cities, and one of them has now become a study freak, so she never really talks to me even when we’re both online. I feel that we’ve grown apart. Before they left, I made a joint blog for the three of us. Come to think of it, I haven’t visited that blog for a long long time. Not that there’s much to tell.

Last time we had a reunion, T (my hardworking friend) and I didn’t really have anything to talk about. We talked about our parents, the different activities that we’ve been doing, her break up with her boyfriend, but we didn’t really have any deep conversations like we used to when we’d been in high school together.

So far, I haven’t managed to meet people with whom I could have nice long philosophical discussions. It might be because I’m shy. I’m working on it; trying to speak up when there is a need to. I find writing so much easier, and my internet alter-ego seems so much more interesting than my timid real self. I’m trying to download the alter-ego off the net and into real life. It’s not easy, but I have to try and pretend I’m on the net and being witty when in real life situations. I’ve improved somewhat but there’s still a long way to go.

People have started to notice that I’m one of those people who have chronic-reviewing syndrome (i.e. I review almost everything that I can bear to read). Certainly my reviews have become longer. Some of  them sound quite bitchy mean, but I try my best to leave something which authors can work with and improve their stories. Mostly I point out plotholes and inconsistencies, and problems with characterization. It’s understandable that girls would want their main characters to be female, but sometimes, those characters are just too over the top. Perfect hair, eyes, fiery personality, perfect figure, always falls in love with the author’s favourite male character etc. And I don’t know what it is with teenage girls and romance. Guys don’t have these delusions (or do they?). My only romance stories which I haven’t absolutely hated are all written from the point of view of the guy.

Reviewing stuff is pretty fun, especially if there’s room to be sarcastic. I’m big on sarcasm. It’s one of the things I try to emphasize in my creative writing.

 

Doing what you want because you want it.

As a student of history, I often get asked about why I decided to take a subject which seems to have very little to do with ‘practical real life’. Perhaps it is my nationality, but almost every person looks at me strangely when I tell them that I do history because I like it, simple as that. Usually, their response goes something along the lines of “History? It’s pretty useless, isn’t it?” to which I reply “No, history is not useless. It teaches you to look at the world from different angles and analyze situations. History shows me how to think, and besides, I love it.” I’m not sure whether they understood most of my lyrical rhetoric.

In our day and age, everything seems to need a solid practical reason. “Just because I like it” is no longer a valid reason for doing something. It seems to me that doing things for enjoyment is something we should feel guilty about. But that in itself is a misconception. Science, finance, practicalities — those are the means to life. But the meaning of life, well, that’s harder to define, isn’t it? Let’s face it. We only get to live once. Our lives could just end tomorrow. Why not enjoy life while we can?

Not everything is about money. I write, not because I want to be a famous author and get rich (although that would be nice) but because I like the act of creating a coherent story, and I like being able to show my readers another world, and other possibilities. I hope that when they read my stories, that they will for a moment glimpse another world, and enjoy themselves. I want to make them laugh, and imagine what life would be like if all impossibilities were made possible. It’s not practical, but those little laughs, those moments of spiritual satisfaction; they make life worth living.

My Journaling Story

My Journaling Story 

I’ve been a journal writer for seven years, going through five notebooks and numerous ink cartridges. I must say I’ve never been extremely diligent, unless I was going through a period of ‘non-activity’, by which I mean I have no school, and nothing else to do except journal. I’ve ranted to these notebooks, told them my darkest secrets, rambled on and on about boys and other things of next to no importance. There are some pages which I would like to burn, but I’ve kept them. It would make interesting reading for me in my old age (although that is still very very far away) and for my descendants, who are as yet non-existent.  

I first learnt the word journal when I was around eleven years old. I’d been reading teenage angst novels. It seemed like a good idea to try journaling myself. For one, it sounded a lot more exotic than keeping a diary. During that time I was a quiet child, immersed in pre-teen angst. I stood out in my primary school. My skill have always lain with pen and paper rather than with a racket and a ball. Somehow, my peers and my teachers found that too difficult to accept. I was marginalized, bullied, made to feel like an alien. My life then was a misery. I tried talking to my parents, but they didn’t understand. My mother’s school had been a mini paradise. My father went to an all boys’ military style school. Boys fought with their fists, and the thing that got hurt the most was their flesh. Me, I lost my confidence and my ego was very much bruised.

In actual fact, some of my problems stemmed from my parents’ influence. They made me do maths that was years ahead of what my peers were doing. I was a geek and a nerd. I was too mature for my age, and far too competitive when it came to anything academic. My self-esteem was low, and I hungered for approval. My parents often told me I was stupid when I failed to understand a certain mathematical concept or problem. Praise was hard to come by. If I complained, there were dire consequences and the problems remains unresolved. So, a journal seemed to be the most adequate way to vent. My first notebook was a tiny hardcover exercise book, with blue lines. I wrote with a pencil, since I made many language related mistakes. Most of them were rants of anger; against school, against the bullies, the teachers, my brother, my parents, my life, the world. It felt good to write those things down, even though now it makes for embarrassing reading. Needless to say, that little notebook was so filled with negativity that I lost interest in journaling, until the next little problem, that is.

Towards the end of that year, my aunt presented me with two notebooks —one bound, and one spiral notebook. I started with the bound book. I’d always liked those; they seemed so old-fashioned, and I had a fetish for old things. At first, I limited myself to one page a day. That book was so beautiful I didn’t want to finish it. It was aqua, with pictures of Donald Duck and dotted lines. Soon I gave up. One page was too little for a day’s entry. I went onto two, then three. Looking back now, I can track my change in thought and handwriting. I began in cursive, ended in printing. It started off being a diary, recording everyday happenings. It ended up a journal; my own private confidante.

Now I try to write every day. Sometimes I write half a page; sometimes ten. It really depends on my mood. The notebook which I’m using now is a bound book, with a faux leather cover which has the word ‘journal’ embossed on it. I’ve filled it with many things; drawings, sketches, pictures of Orlando Bloom (my favourite actor), drabbles (shorts snippets of stories/moments in time) which I’d written, bits of dialogue with my muses, random doodles, story outlines—basically anything that went on in my mind, I put in there, if I had the time. I print out my blog entries, stick in images that take my fancy, collage. It’s all good fun, and I’ve found that I’ve written stuff that I would never have written in my creative writing otherwise.

At the moment, I’m so into my journaling that I’ve been devouring any journaling articles I can find, on the net and off it. My favourite place to journal is in my room; under the window during daytime, on my desk at night. I really don’t have a specific place in my schedule for journaling. I just do it when the mood takes me. And if I miss a day? Pfft, big deal. It’s a hobby, not a chore. I’ll just write about two days’ worth of stuff the next day.

I like writing with fancy pens, so for journaling, I use a refillable Parker fountain pen. It feels old fashioned and posh, all the while writing smoothly and with an elegance that no ballpoint pen can attain. Over the years, I’ve tried numerous mediums with which to write; sparkly gel pens, sparkly gel marble pens, normal gel pens, ballpoint pens, inky pens. I’ve always gone running back to my fountain pen. It’s the peak of luxury to feel its nib moving over paper. My other journaling/scrapbooking equipment includes a glue stick for collaging and sticking in pictures that take my fancy, colour pencils, mechanical pencils, normal 2B pencils, and my most recent addition, a pack of ten Crayola Supertip markers which can draw thick and thin lines.

What do I write about now? Mostly my journal entries centre around me. I rant on about my parents’ authoritarianism, and their lack of creativity. I lament my writer’s block. I write about fanfiction (another story entirely, but worth telling), my thoughts on myself and my own personality, my friends, how much I’m looking forward to/dreading University life, celebrity gossip. Basically anything that’s worth remembering. Believe me, it’s worth the time.

I won’t give any advice on journaling, since everyone’s different, but I will say what has worked for me.

·         Writing in bed ( a luxury especially in mellow light).

·         Sometimes changing locations (for me, I go to the nearby reserve, the lounge, outside under the washing where it’s drying in the wind).

·         Reserving prompts for when there is an actual need for prompting, and then doing those exercises in a different colour from what I usually use).

·         Drawing when the need to express myself takes me and I cannot think of the right words.

·         Writing dialogues between my muses and me, or just the muses themselves.

·         Write because I want to write, not because there is any obligation.

·         For privacy, I showed some of the most boring passages to my brother. He is now convinced that my journal is an utter bore and has no incentive to steal it.

·         I try to be as honest as I dare in my journal. It’s therapeutic.

·         I rant and say things that I would never say in real life, such as telling my dad in a letter that he has no right to criticize me and call me useless.

·         I try and take my journal with me everywhere I go.

·         Drawing when words fail me.

·         Choose a journal which I would write in naturally (on this point, I finally saw for myself the legendary Moleskine the other day at the bookshop. One of those notebooks cost NZ$40. I would not have been able to write in one, no matter how nice, because I would be terrified of making a mess in it. Recently, I’d bought two spiral bound A5 notebooks with sketch paper for NZ$4 each. They would work better for me than that hugely overpriced Moleskine, I’m sure. I picked them for their unlined pages. I’ve never had an unlined journal before; I hadn’t trusted myself.)

·         I read articles/books on journaling.

Saying No

This is a journal entry I wrote today, from a prompt which said ‘I want to say no to…‘. It’s supposed to be about me, but I turned it into an article about something psychological.

Saying No

I want to say no to a lot of things; my parents, junk food, peer pressure, my own sinful desires. Most of the time i’m not strong enough to do it. The word ‘no’ might be simple–two letters, one syllable. It doesn’t look or sound like a lot. But whether you utter it or not might just determine the course of your life.

Will you marry me? No.

Will you serve me? No

Will you plant this bomb inside the office? No.

It’s also a word, which uttered, might mean the end of friendships, romances, and other relationships. Appearances are deceiving, because the context of ‘no’ is not as simple as it seems. Humans are born with altruism. We want to cooperate and fit in with others. Saying no goes against that aspect of our primal instincts. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard. Saying ‘no’ implies that we’re going against the flow — that we disagree with something/someone. We don’t like that. We want people to agree with us, and that means we have to agree with the others.

Funnily enough, Children are good at saying no to what they don’t want. However, as they grow older, they learn that saying ‘no’ to their parents might mean unpleasant consequences. As if our own altruistic natures are not enough, we are taught that ‘no’ is not a very good word to say. How many times have you swallowed ‘no’ and said ‘yes’ instead? Why did you do it? You probably feared repercussions.

If I don’t say yes, what would everyone else think of me?

If I say no to this man who seems rather menacing, would he hurt me?

We ask ourselves these sorts of questions all the time. The answer is usually the same. I don’t want to know, and I won’t run the risk of finding out. So instead of the ‘no’ that had been on the tip of your tongue, you utter a single yes. That’s not to say that we shouldn’t say yes, but there will be times when you don’t want to. Those are the times when we should say no, since we mean it. Saying yes when you mean no is a form of lying, and lying is a sin. Will you rub my feet, massage my back, pare my nails, brush my teeth and cook me a five course dinner? Heck no, of course not. Give me a million dollars. No way Jose.

Obviously, there’s an ‘or else’ that accompanies that last demand. So the ‘no’ is an indication of your spiritual strength. We all want to think of ourselves as having strong spirits, but do we really. The only way to find out is to be brutally honest and try not to say yes when we mean no. Can you do it? Yes? That’s great. You don’t need to be reading this.

Now this time, I’m sure no one wants to say no. Ironic isn’t it? Can you say no? No. But you just said it.

No; the deceiving, seemingly simple and yet profound two letter one syllable word which computerized anagram games won’t accept because it is too short. It’s hard to use though, and at times, potentially practical (or impractical)

Should I stave off exercising today? Now I just have to muster the strength to say no.

A long long winding road…

Clouds gather in the sky — the sunlight casts a sickly yellow glow on them. A crow caws, flapping its wings rapidly, fleeing from the oncoming storm. There, the lone tree stands, watching over the road. Watching…for what? The road is one that I’ve never seen before, leading on into unknown lands. I regard it with some trepidation. It’s a long road ahead of me, and I want to turn back but I can’t. I’m not alone in this, and it’s not my choice. It’s his. I look up at him with a question in my eyes. He nods gently and touches my shoulder, urging me forwards. I do not move. I am too afraid of what I’ll find. He smiles, and steps in front of me. His booted feet make imprints in the dry red dust. My mind is set, I follow him to wherever he leads me. I trust him, for he is my inspiration. The dry red earth is in need of nourishing rain. Thunder rumbles. The first few fat heavy droplets fall. In front of me, he throws back his head, rejoicing in his existence. And then he breaks into a run. More rain falls. I strain to catch up with him, and he seems to notice that I’m falling behind. He stops, and waits for me. And then when I do catch up, he takes my hand and starts running again. Energy surges through me where my skin meets his. I run with him, and I don’t really care where we’re going.

Plans for novel

I’ve decided to try and write journal like bits of narrative for my characters, because it really helps me to better understand them, and I like the journal writing style. It’s so raw and personal, and I do love writing in my journal, despite not always having something to write. For the guys it’ll be slightly harder because it means I have to take a masculine perspective, but I’ve started with the girl. Anyway, here’s a bit of writing/inspiration thing.

The light swirls in the dark night sky, like some surreal mystical dragon with no set shape; always changing, changing. The moon is but a small glowing globe next to its magnificence — the lantern of someone who’s come out to see what is going on and is absolutely amazed by the sight. I guess that’s inspiration. You don’t see it until you look it straight in the eye and it is dancing before you, like a dragon, tantalizing you, tempting you to go with it. I open the book. There is nothing save for a white page. As my pen flies over it, my mind is flying with the dragon. He and I are one, inseparable. I ride him, and he is a most willing steed, and yet it is he who dictates the direction. I am at his mercy. For now, he can tolerate me riding him, but who knows when he’ll cast me from his back, and let me fall to the ground abruptly, the rough landing knocking the breath out of my lungs and leaving me forlorn and alone, wanting to fly again but knowing that I cannot do so without the dragon. That is Inspiration. It’s a free creature, servant to none but itself. Whatever it does for you, it does as a favour and not a duty. But for now, it has accepted me, and I fly with it, above the mountains, the stars, to a world which can only exist in my imagination.

Journalling

This week I’ve been mainly working on my journal, especially today and yesterday, because I’ve just finished a book on journalling. It’s got some good tips and prompts and it really suited me well. Interesting reading at any rate. It’s quite amazing what you discover when you write down your thoughts. I found things I hadn’t expected– things dragged up from the murky pool of my subconscious mind. It was refreshing to see what and who I really am. I think I might even have gotten some ideas for short stories which are totally out of my genre (as in raw humanity and real life stuff). I also worked on A Game of Chess and I think I’ve reached the word quota. I’m not sure though, until I type it out. I finally don’t need to write in calligraphy to put words onto the page. White paper is no longer daunting. Does that mean my writer’s block is over for the time being? Well, I wouldn’t know really until I try and do some more of my novel, but I think that journal writing stint really helped because it got the words flowing. I wasn’t even thinking much and my hand moved non-stop. It’s interesting when that happens.