Filed under: autobiography, emotions, love, self-help, writing | Tags: auto-biograhy, books, cerebral vasculitis, parents, self help, writing
The following is an excerpt from an auto-biography I’ve been working on. I find writing it to be painful, but therapeutic:
I keep a mental snap shot of all the people who are important to me. The one of my mother is just outside of the craft shed where she worked, cutting wood into the shapes of flowers or buildings or angels. She is a large woman with wild, curly brown hair hanging just past her shoulders. She is wearing a red t-shirt and black stretch pants with stirrups and dirty white sneakers. Her glasses cover and magnify the apples of her cheeks, her lips are spread in a smile, and her open arms welcome me for a hug.
I am 9, and most of my mother is dying. We are at Methodist Hospital in Omaha, I came with my Grandma.
Dad and mom’s twin sisters are here too. They all think I won’t understand, so they do not explain. Mostly, they look at me in pitied glances. When I ask what’s happening, they tell me that she’s in intensive care, and I can’t see her because I’m not 13. They also say, “You’re so brave.”
I sit alone in the waiting room, there is a lot of light, but all the colors are dark. The chair I sit in is stiff and dark blue, just like the sofa across from me. I’m trying to read.
A moment just a couple weeks previous refuses to leave my mind: My dad and I were walking toward her hospital room, and a nurse was helping her shuffle through the hall. When my dad said, “Look who’s up!” She turned to look at us. Her features were frozen and doll-like. She wasn’t my mom.
Presently, I push the thought aside and bury myself in my book.
The book is not a comforting one, it is a young adult horror novel about a boy’s father transforming into a plant-monster. It is told in the first person, so I feel like I am the “I” that is trapped on the pages.
Right now, there is nothing else.
Filed under: autobiography, books, creative non-fiction, essays, writing | Tags: blogs, books, fiction, journaling, writing
Blank pages used to be somewhere I would go to feel free, and leave feeling I had created something worthwhile. While the latter still holds true, I do not find the same solace on the page.
Since my third year in college, 2006, it has taken me a concerted effort to not pain-stalkingly analyze any and every piece of fiction I am reading or in the process of writing. As a result, I get a lot more out of what I read, and what I do write is pretty solid; but I miss the days of devouring books in hours, simply enjoying the ride, as well as being able to sit down and free-write a piece of fiction without caring if it sounded like complete nonsense.
At a very young age, I decided that I wanted to write for a living. While I am doing that in some sense, it is definitely not what I had in mind. I thought I’d have books in stores by now. While I do have plans for a novel series, they are no where near ready for prying eyes. I used to think I wanted to be like R.L. Stine or Stephen King…Mainly the having the quality of churning out prolific amounts of good quality writing. Then I got to college.
I realized Stephen King didn’t think he was a particularly good writer…and honestly, compared to the depth existing in the works of numerous authors across all genres, he really isn’t. Before studying fiction writing in a formal setting, all I really wanted to do was entertain myself and others while making money in the process. Afterwards, I decided that rather than light amusement,what I really wanted to write was entertaining fiction loaded with meaningful messages, prompting the reader to reflect.
Suddenly, writing became much harder. And not as much fun. I didn’t want my writing to stay like it was. I wanted it to be more…better…
It is never good enough; the want for perfection is crippling, both for my writing and my soul.