For those of you who don’t know, I’m a writer. I’m majoring in English and Creative Writing not just because I want to work in publishing someday and because of my love of books. I’m a writer, and I figure while I’m in school learning, I may as well improve my writing while I’m at it. Plus, it’s what I truly enjoy. So even when I’m forced to read some literature that I’m not quite as excited about, at least I can write a short story or memoir piece or SOMETHING for a creative writing class. Or look forward to going to a writing seminar.
I’m a writer, but for the last few years (okay, it’s going on 3 years) I haven’t been able to actually write. Like, sit down on my own and just write and write and write. I did this all throughout middle and high school (less so near the end of my high school career), and just kind of stopped in college. I had an idea for a book at one point, and was getting in the groove again, but lost it. Go figure. (Literally and figuratively; I lost the motivation but also have no idea where the file went or what it was even about? Maybe I imagined it? College, amiright?)
I think part of the problem has just been my lack of actively writing for classes and my time to read freely. I wrote papers in high school and middle school, and I had a lot of time to free read in middle school and early high school. I haven’t had that time in a long time, until recently. Not that I have all this free time suddenly, I actually have less of it, but I’ve been making reading a priority AND taking writing and literature classes and I’ve just felt inspired. Not the MOST inspired from the classes, but sort of.
But it’s mostly due to the reading. Seriously. I’ve been taking writing classes for a year and, while I’ve been able to create something worthy of being workshopped by my classmates each semester, they were all nonfiction essays. All of them. Every single things. Now, is that a bad things? Of course not! I love nonfiction essays, they’re so interesting and pretty fun to write once you know what you’re doing and what you CAN do. But, but, but . . . My creative juices weren’t exactly flowing. I find it easier to write about my own life than to create a fictional one, which is how I know I’m deep in this state of WhatAmIDoingWithMyWritingAmIEvenAWriterOhMyGOD. I used to come up with, like, a story idea a DAY. And now I can’t even get creative enough to write about anything other than myself. Ugh.
BUT BUT BUT.
I’ve been making time to read lately (thank you bookstagram and blog for giving me an excuse!) and I’ve been feeling myself get more and more inspired with each sentence I read. Like my mind is on the verge of something, but it’s just not quite there yet. My fingers are twitching in anticipation.
Today (Saturday), I moved into a new apartment. I transferred universities and moved into an apartment with my boyfriend (oooooh I know wow what yeah) and I’m literally sitting here on my living room couch in the pitch black darkness, listening to him game in our bedroom, looking out the window. And I got inspired. Like, kind of really inspired. Because I’m starting something new, and I’m excited about it.
So, I would like to show you guys what I wrote:
The darkness of the room is disrupted by the streetlights as I twist the blinds open. I ease myself down on the couch and take it all in, the brake lights, the headlights moving when the light turns green, the street lights reflecting off the hoods of cars parked at the bar three stories below me. I look up and can’t see the stars, but after twenty-one years of seeing them every night outside our dead-end house on our dead-end road, I find I don’t mind their absence. Long nights were spent staring at the moon and stars out my bedroom window, stopping to look up at the night sky as I got out of my boyfriend’s car when he drove me home. They’re beautiful, there’s no denying that, but the stars are for dreamers. You look up at the stars and you make a wish, wanting to get out of there, as much as you love it you just want to get out and see the world and do what you were meant to do, things you just can’t do in that small town in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. Stars are for dreamers. I don’t want to be a dreamer anymore. I’m here, I’m making my future happen instead of dreaming about it and wishing for it upon a star. I’m a doer.
Dreamers have stars in their eyes. The light you see in a doer’s eyes is the reflection of city lights.
I know it’s not much, and you’re probably thinking, You literally are just writing about what you’re doing right at this moment, you just told us that’s exactly what you’re doing, how is this monumental you F R A U D. Hahahaha thanks I know.
No, but okay. The thing is, a lot of this is kind of fictional. Like, I don’t really think some of this stuff, okay? And, it goes on past this and turns into someone else being in my situation. No longer about ME, but about a fictional girl in a new beginning and UGH. Okay sorry. Yeah, it’s not about me, okay? My situation just inspired me.
And maybe it won’t go anywhere. Maybe I’ll write a little bit more on this and then move on to something else.
My point is, I’m sitting here and I actually just started to write, and not because I have a deadline to meet. I wrote because I felt like I needed to. And now I’m writing this post at 10:07 PM on a Saturday night, in the dark in my living room, because I just had to document this.
But this isn’t going up until Monday. Darn.
Do you ever read a book that makes you want to write, even if you aren’t a writer?