Bits of my writing.

Soo... I decided not to post that bit of my essay after all.  I deleted that post, as I just thought it was pointless.  But, then again.... I don't know.  Today was amazing, just in case you were wondering.  Cuz I saw her.  And smiled at me.  And she told me she liked my hair cut.  She said it was cute.  She said it makes me look older, which is good.  She said she loves it. ♥

But anyway.  That's not what this post was going to be about.  I thought I'd share some little bits and pieces of things I've wrote with you all.  I love writing, especially writing in first person.  I can't explain the way it makes me feel, to write from the point of view of someone else.  You have to create this imaginary person, and make them real.  You have to, when you're writing, completely become your character.  For whatever amount of time you spend writing, you're you, but at the same time, you're someone other than yourself.  You're right where you are, but you're some place else too.  You're real.  You're imagined.  You have feelings, but they're not yours, and you can let go of them simply by taking a break from what you're writing.  Most of my writing is in first person, but keep in mind that it's not always me telling the story.  It's most often my character.

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I stayed in the darkness, avoiding streetlights and cutting through the neighbors’ back lawns.  Before I realized where I was headed, I was at the lake at the edge of town.  The full moon reflected on the water.  I tossed a rock into the blackness and watched the moon’s watery image shimmer, break apart in the ripples, and come back together once it had calmed.

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He was weird, a loner, a nobody lost in a sea of somebodys.

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Though the darkness was falling fast and heavy, he didn’t go straight home.  A glance at the sky told him the moon would be bright tonight, bright enough for him to see enough to get home.  He knew these woods anyway; he kept all his secrets in the trees.

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She grabbed my arm and looked at me with her deep brown, dark chocolate colored eyes and said, “I choose you.”  I giggled and said quietly, more quietly than normal, as if it were a secret meant only for the two of us, “Good, I choose you too.”  She laughed again, making me laugh again.  Her eyes found mine, and I was hypnotized.  I couldn’t have looked away if I wanted to.  Though neither of the two of us moved, it felt like her eyes were pulling me in closer and closer... until the boys broke the moment.

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I almost turned to see him shaking his head at me, looking at me with that disapproving glare, but decided not to.  I let the door slam behind me.

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“I don’t love her.” I said quietly to myself, or maybe to the empty kitchen walls.  I could keep my secrets hidden in the four walls surrounding me, couldn’t I?  “It’s admiration or something.  I can’t like her like this.”  I shook my head, trying to get my thoughts all together, still trying to get the image of her smile out of my head.  It was like her face, her smile, her eyes, had been burned into my eyes, like I would forever see her no matter where I looked.  “But I do.”

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An old yearbook, one Jax had probably been looking through after reading the same article I’d just finished with, flipped open to a page with a candid shot of Jaxton and Brady, was at the foot of Jax’s bed.  Their twelve-year-old black and white faces would forever have their mouths open in laughter, their eyes shining brightly, their worlds perfect and safe.  They would be forever outside, standing in the shade of the big tree behind the school.  The baseball hats they both wore would forever be on in that sideways fashion that never was cool.  Separate from each other, you’d never guess it, but together they were class clowns.  And now they were frozen in time with their arms around each other, best friends from preschool until the end of eternity.  I hated it, needed it to be on another page, any other page.

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My gaze stopped on a sharp looking rock.  I picked it up, rolled it around in my hand, got used to its feel.  Without a thought in my mind, I dug the rock into my skin, making a shallow cut.  Blood trickled out slowly, I felt its warmth.  It wasn’t enough.  Again and again, deeper and deeper, I ran the sharp point of the rock over the cut I’d made until it felt deep enough.  The blood was coming out faster now.  The pain of life was coming out faster.  I ran my hand over my bloody arm, felt the warm sticky blood on my fingers... and laughed.

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Soooo..... yeah.  That's just little bits of longer stories I've written.  My mom tells me I'm a good writer.  Others have told me I should try to get some of my writings published.  But they don't understand.  I write for me, not anyone else.  If other people like it, well that's just an added bonus.  But I don't think I'd ever become a writer.  I write because it's fun to me.  If it was my job, if was something I had to do, it wouldn't be fun anymore.