Showing posts with label english. Show all posts
Showing posts with label english. Show all posts
21.2.13
Raymond Carver
"In addition to being in love, we like each other and enjoy one another's company. He's easy to be with."
5.10.11
Rain and Books
It's been rainy today and it smells like fall. I'm ordering my 2nd generation Kindle right now (I decided I didn't want to wait for the kindle touch to come out and that i didn't need to spend that much money on something just to have a touch screen) and I'm looking forward to when it comes. I want to curl up with a good book and a cup of herbal tea and read forever. I love being an English major. I love that I finally have figured out what I'm doing with my life.
9.8.11
I wanted to write
I wanted to write.
I wanted to write things that had the ability to move people. I wanted to create sentences that transported them to places that were beyond their imaginations. I wanted to use my words to paint pictures of the most vivid colors and textures and sounds-things so tangible and palpable that you would want to reach your hand out and test out the reality for yourself. I wanted to put a voice behind emotions that seemed too raw to have a description. I wanted to pen out every deep thought and idea that crossed my mind on paper and and create a solace that documents every beautiful and damaged thing I came across. I wanted to write.
I considered myself a writer in some respects. I wrote a lot. I wrote frequently. I told stories and molded my world around black print and letters. I tried, and hey, that's a heck of a lot better then doing nothing at all, or so they say. But sometimes, I stumbled across someone who wrote their emotions so brilliantly that by the end of the story I felt like they were my own and I thought: I want to write. I want to write like that.
and so, I kept writing. But between the lines and the dotted i's and the crossed t's and overused phrases and cliches, I realized that I'm not writing for anyone but me. These are my emotions and my thoughts and no one elses and that by putting them down in a concrete way, I'm becoming the writer I wanted to be all along. And that is good enough for me.
I wanted to write things that had the ability to move people. I wanted to create sentences that transported them to places that were beyond their imaginations. I wanted to use my words to paint pictures of the most vivid colors and textures and sounds-things so tangible and palpable that you would want to reach your hand out and test out the reality for yourself. I wanted to put a voice behind emotions that seemed too raw to have a description. I wanted to pen out every deep thought and idea that crossed my mind on paper and and create a solace that documents every beautiful and damaged thing I came across. I wanted to write.
I considered myself a writer in some respects. I wrote a lot. I wrote frequently. I told stories and molded my world around black print and letters. I tried, and hey, that's a heck of a lot better then doing nothing at all, or so they say. But sometimes, I stumbled across someone who wrote their emotions so brilliantly that by the end of the story I felt like they were my own and I thought: I want to write. I want to write like that.
and so, I kept writing. But between the lines and the dotted i's and the crossed t's and overused phrases and cliches, I realized that I'm not writing for anyone but me. These are my emotions and my thoughts and no one elses and that by putting them down in a concrete way, I'm becoming the writer I wanted to be all along. And that is good enough for me.
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