I'm so uneasy with myself right now. I don't know what to do with myself. It's raining outside, and i'm alone with my own thoughts, nothing to distract me, nothing that even could when this has been nesting in my brain for weeks like a poisonous little worm. I don't know why I can't stop thinking about it.
I broke off a relationship with a person a few months ago. Mostly for the benefit of someone else I care about, not myself. If left up to me, I would continue most of my harmful relationships until damage is done. I only end relationships when an outside factor forces me to. I am that way, and I don't know why. Apathy will be the end of me.
It was a good decision and I don't regret it. I don't like this person romantically, and I don't even like them as a person. Not anymore. I dream about this person. I don't even like them, and I had a dream about them. I dreamed that I saw them somewhere unexpectedly. We hadn't seen each other in months, and we didn't end on a good note. Being the way I am, I don't hold grudges about being wronged or take it very seriously when I wrong someone for long at all. This has been a good and a bad thing. So I waved at them. They glared at me and didn't wave back. I proceeded to continue to wave at them while they glared for a solid minute before deciding it was futile. You do irrational things in dreams like that. I was upset and angered by their stubbornness and resentment towards me.
Just another example of my symbolic dreams. I'm worried about this person's opinion of me, i'm worried because we ended badly and I can't fix it. I am frustrated because I don't even like them, and I don't know why I should care if we're not on good terms... I shouldn't care. But I always care. Sometimes I hate it. Nobody understands this about me, this obsessive need to be on good terms with everyone.
No, that's not it. I don't need to be on good terms with everyone. But I can't decide on a qualifying factor. There are certain people who I absolutely don't give a damn if they like me or not. Very few people, but there are some. These are just people who i've had a bad history with, people who dislike me as much as i dislike them. I don't care what they think, and that's that.
But there's people who I don't like, don't respect, or don't even know, and still crave acceptance from. This is what I don't understand... maybe it's because at some point in my life I did like or respect them. I don't know if this is a flaw in my personality, if it's just a pride issue within myself. Do I need these people to like me to feel better about myself?
But, this one person... I really cannot stop thinking about this issue. I facebook stalk them, for christsakes. Why, I have no idea. I don't know what i'm expecting to find. I can't talk to them, I promised I wouldn't. I won't break that promise. and really, I don't even know what I would say to them. What I COULD say to them without sounding like a complete idiot. After months of no communication, trying to tell them that even though I don't particularly like or respect them, and I don't want to have any sort of relationship with them, I need to know that they don't resent me. And what if they DO resent me? Then what am I going to do? Try pathetically to explain why they shouldn't?
Even worse, what if they don't care at all? What if they have absolutely no feelings towards the subject, and they think i'm being ridiculous and dramatic for even bringing it up again? What if they've completely moved on from it? Maybe that's what i'm the most afraid of. That i'm sitting here dwelling on them, thinking about them, this person that was once so important to me, and they're having a great time in their life, not giving the subject a second thought.
Why do I obsess over people like this in my life? the relatively unimportant people that I don't communicate with, that I don't ever see, that I don't even know anymore? Why can't I just let it go?
Writing this has at least helped me organize my ideas and come to a tiny bit of a conclusion. I'm still unsatisfied. This is eating away at me. I could have written it in a journal and not had to hide any specifics, but when I handwrite things it's not nearly as effective, because I type ten times faster than I handwrite. And it's just... not as satisfying as knowing my thoughts are being made public, for some reason.
I haven't told anybody my feelings on this subject, this in depth. I don't know why I am now voluntarily allowing anybody who wants to read this.
I hope nobody will make me regret it.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Jenna's thoughts on writing
my sister wrote this, and I think it's awesome. It's just how I feel about writing. I wish I could write like her.
SO
This is how it goes:
I gather and hoard ideas like a little gerbil for weeks. I scribble down what I think are quirky and funny and sometimes even brilliant little tidbits that come to me while walking down the street, or driving, or sitting on my front porch (basically the most inconvenient times to have a pen and paper on hand).
And on these scraps of paper (half of which I lose somewhere along the way, and then find again in my couch, in my dirty laundy, under my gas pedal, etc.) I feel I have the deep, messy innards of a piece of fiction. I just need to perform some kind of small surgery, stitch some words together--just a few strings of words, I tell myself--to make this into a beautiful, wonderful piece of writing.
It will convey my most deep, profound views on life, love, loss, etc. etc. etc. This will be the story I was meant to write; this story will change me; this story will change others. (Oh Jenna, you poor, poor thing).
Then. It is time.
I sit down at my desk and boot up my computer. At first I am excited and overjoyed to be embarking on what I know will be the best thing I have ever written. I am just bubbling over with excitement.
And then.......not much later I am staring at my computer in loathing. Oh you evil machine. How I hate you and the vast whiteness of your word processor.
An hour, maybe two later I get about 3 paragraphs down. And I realize all of my brilliant ideas and witty dialogue and heart-wrenching scenes could be the script of a Lifetime Original movie. It seems I have performed the surgery with a giant, electric carving knife. The kind my dad uses to butcher the Thanksgiving turkey every year.
I erase, try again. Erase, try again.
I make some coffee. I play with my cat. I go in my closet and try to put together new outfits out of old clothing. Then I want to go shopping. I'm broke, so I reluctantly go back to the computer.
THEN--I have a burst of inspiration.
I write it down.
Terrible, I tell myself. God-awful.
Erase.
I do this about a billion times before I finally will myself (practically have to blindfold myself) to write pages and pages of words without going back and reading and analyzing the hell out them.
It's like an abusive relationship. I hate it, I want out....and yet....I keep going back for more every time....
Eventually I end up with a first draft of something. It's not life-altering. It's usually pretty terrible. But it's something. And I can deal with something.
As much as I complain about my advanced reporting class and news writing in general, there is something to be said about taking a bunch of facts, following the recipe down to the teaspon, sprinkling in some interview quotes and throwing it onto a paper plate, popping it into the microwave and serving with plastic utensils. And all in a cold, calculated way. Sometimes it's a relief.
Fiction writing is like spending hours and hours (AND HOURS) in the kitchen mixing this and that and sticking a finger in for a taste, deciding it needs a little more of this, a little more of that, and then placing it in the oven for a few hours to marinate. You take it out, decide next time to add a little more of this, a little less of that. Then the next day you try it again, and it's a little bit tastier. And so it goes, until you've got the dish you've been wanting to make for quite some time.
(P.S. I'm still in the don't-go-back-and-read-a-damn-word-you've-written-or-else-you'll-want-to-pluck-your-eyelashes-out-one-by-one stage of the story I am currently working on).
P.P.S. It is nearly 2 AM and I am in the ILC and I am a little bit delirious. Good job if you made it all the way through this one.
SO
This is how it goes:
I gather and hoard ideas like a little gerbil for weeks. I scribble down what I think are quirky and funny and sometimes even brilliant little tidbits that come to me while walking down the street, or driving, or sitting on my front porch (basically the most inconvenient times to have a pen and paper on hand).
And on these scraps of paper (half of which I lose somewhere along the way, and then find again in my couch, in my dirty laundy, under my gas pedal, etc.) I feel I have the deep, messy innards of a piece of fiction. I just need to perform some kind of small surgery, stitch some words together--just a few strings of words, I tell myself--to make this into a beautiful, wonderful piece of writing.
It will convey my most deep, profound views on life, love, loss, etc. etc. etc. This will be the story I was meant to write; this story will change me; this story will change others. (Oh Jenna, you poor, poor thing).
Then. It is time.
I sit down at my desk and boot up my computer. At first I am excited and overjoyed to be embarking on what I know will be the best thing I have ever written. I am just bubbling over with excitement.
And then.......not much later I am staring at my computer in loathing. Oh you evil machine. How I hate you and the vast whiteness of your word processor.
An hour, maybe two later I get about 3 paragraphs down. And I realize all of my brilliant ideas and witty dialogue and heart-wrenching scenes could be the script of a Lifetime Original movie. It seems I have performed the surgery with a giant, electric carving knife. The kind my dad uses to butcher the Thanksgiving turkey every year.
I erase, try again. Erase, try again.
I make some coffee. I play with my cat. I go in my closet and try to put together new outfits out of old clothing. Then I want to go shopping. I'm broke, so I reluctantly go back to the computer.
THEN--I have a burst of inspiration.
I write it down.
Terrible, I tell myself. God-awful.
Erase.
I do this about a billion times before I finally will myself (practically have to blindfold myself) to write pages and pages of words without going back and reading and analyzing the hell out them.
It's like an abusive relationship. I hate it, I want out....and yet....I keep going back for more every time....
Eventually I end up with a first draft of something. It's not life-altering. It's usually pretty terrible. But it's something. And I can deal with something.
As much as I complain about my advanced reporting class and news writing in general, there is something to be said about taking a bunch of facts, following the recipe down to the teaspon, sprinkling in some interview quotes and throwing it onto a paper plate, popping it into the microwave and serving with plastic utensils. And all in a cold, calculated way. Sometimes it's a relief.
Fiction writing is like spending hours and hours (AND HOURS) in the kitchen mixing this and that and sticking a finger in for a taste, deciding it needs a little more of this, a little more of that, and then placing it in the oven for a few hours to marinate. You take it out, decide next time to add a little more of this, a little less of that. Then the next day you try it again, and it's a little bit tastier. And so it goes, until you've got the dish you've been wanting to make for quite some time.
(P.S. I'm still in the don't-go-back-and-read-a-damn-word-you've-written-or-else-you'll-want-to-pluck-your-eyelashes-out-one-by-one stage of the story I am currently working on).
P.P.S. It is nearly 2 AM and I am in the ILC and I am a little bit delirious. Good job if you made it all the way through this one.
"Weird" is the word of the day
It's been a weird sort of few weeks. I've been sick for like, two weeks now, and it's really getting frustrating. I want to be able to frickin breathe through my nose.
I'm just in a weird mood right now. I've been having weird dreams lately. Last night was the second time recentl
y that I had a dream about unintentionally killing a bird. it's not as morbid as it sounds, don't worry. In the first dream I had, I was on the beach and there were hundreds of seagulls flying around me, but none of them were touching me and I wasn't scared, I was happy. For some reason I had to run around and catch a bird, I had to find the fattest bird that I could and catch it. I caught one in my hands; it was a fat pigeon with glossy green peacock feathers. I was proud of myself. I started to run with it in my hands, making sure I wasn't holding it too tightly or hurting it. It was trying to flap its wings and fly away but I wouldn't let it. I brought it to a group of my friends. As soon as I stopped running I knew something was wrong. Its wing beats had gotten more and more feeble, and I finally couldn't feel them anymore. It couldn't be dead, I had to make it fly. I opened my hands and it wasn't moving. I wanted it to be alive so desperately, but I just knew it wasn't. I couldn't accept it. I flung it up in the air, wanting it to fly but knowing it wouldn't, and it fell back to the ground. I was so sad, and felt so horrible that I had killed it...
I guess it was kind of a morbid dream. But the one last night was even stranger.
I was in a place with a lot of animals, but not a zoo, I don't know where. Every sort of animal. They were all in cages, but the electricity had failed, and I heard an announcement over speakers that all their cages had opened and they were loose (I think this was my brain regurgitating a part of Shutter Island... I saw it last night; i tend to dream about movies if i see them late at night). I remember being really afraid, and looking down around my feet, like I expected to see animals attacking me. I knew the animals would be wild and violent. Official people were running around trying to subdue the animals, but it was just making them more angry. I remember thinking, if i'
m just nice and calm with the animals, they'll do what I want them to. There was a dog-like animal trying to attack me. I just stayed calm and let it chew on my hand, like my dog does when we're playing, and it stopped struggling and became calm. I was proud that my theory was right. I saw a fat white bird on the ground, and when I tried to approach it, it was startled and flew away like all birds do, but I knew that I could catch it if I was calm and slow. So I approached it again and it let me pick it up in my hands. Just like in the first dream, It was beating its wings in my hands while I was walking with it. It was inflating like a balloon, and it kept getting bigger and bigger. I must have been trying to take it somewhere, but I don't know where. Same as in the first dream, when I got there, it was motionless and I knew I had killed it. I opened my hands and it floated up, then slowly floated back to the ground, like a helium balloon that's lost too much air. Just like the first dream, I was horrified with myself and couldn't believe I had killed it.
I don't know why I have these dreams. They must be significant in some way, but I can't imagine how. Dreams are interesting.
I've been thinking about the past a lot recently. even more than usual, and I usually think too much about the past. There's just been certain things bugging me, unresolved relationship issues, etcetera, and I can't figure out why they should bother me at all. I think i'm huge on relationship closure. Just closure in general. I just can't end on a bad note with someone, even someone I don't like, don't know really know, or don't care about at all. I always end up trying to fix things, even months down the line, when most of the time it's either too late, or people just get irratated with my concern. And if I don't fix it, it just eats away at me until it starts cropping up in my dreams, and then I know it's a real problem.
I seem to have a lot of good story dreams. The sort of dreams that are entertaining to tell people because they're so weird and/or symbolic. Like the teeth falling out in the halls dream. Or the reoccuring unpreparedness dream, where I have a performance or a competition and I don't have my music learned at all, or I forgot the music, or i'm wearing a horrible outfit. Or the dream where I drove my car into a pool on accident (I've also had two recent dreams about having to rescue my flute from inside a pool... what could that possibly mean...). Or the dream where I was elated to find I could play the soprano saxophone beautifully when never having played it before.
God. This has been a weird blog. Sorry if my bird killing dreams were at all disturbing.
On a lighter note, I got my acceptance letter to UA. so it's official. Now I can officially be mediocre in school and nobody can rightfully give me crap about it, i'm already accepted! hahah.
I'm just in a weird mood right now. I've been having weird dreams lately. Last night was the second time recentl
y that I had a dream about unintentionally killing a bird. it's not as morbid as it sounds, don't worry. In the first dream I had, I was on the beach and there were hundreds of seagulls flying around me, but none of them were touching me and I wasn't scared, I was happy. For some reason I had to run around and catch a bird, I had to find the fattest bird that I could and catch it. I caught one in my hands; it was a fat pigeon with glossy green peacock feathers. I was proud of myself. I started to run with it in my hands, making sure I wasn't holding it too tightly or hurting it. It was trying to flap its wings and fly away but I wouldn't let it. I brought it to a group of my friends. As soon as I stopped running I knew something was wrong. Its wing beats had gotten more and more feeble, and I finally couldn't feel them anymore. It couldn't be dead, I had to make it fly. I opened my hands and it wasn't moving. I wanted it to be alive so desperately, but I just knew it wasn't. I couldn't accept it. I flung it up in the air, wanting it to fly but knowing it wouldn't, and it fell back to the ground. I was so sad, and felt so horrible that I had killed it...I guess it was kind of a morbid dream. But the one last night was even stranger.
I was in a place with a lot of animals, but not a zoo, I don't know where. Every sort of animal. They were all in cages, but the electricity had failed, and I heard an announcement over speakers that all their cages had opened and they were loose (I think this was my brain regurgitating a part of Shutter Island... I saw it last night; i tend to dream about movies if i see them late at night). I remember being really afraid, and looking down around my feet, like I expected to see animals attacking me. I knew the animals would be wild and violent. Official people were running around trying to subdue the animals, but it was just making them more angry. I remember thinking, if i'
m just nice and calm with the animals, they'll do what I want them to. There was a dog-like animal trying to attack me. I just stayed calm and let it chew on my hand, like my dog does when we're playing, and it stopped struggling and became calm. I was proud that my theory was right. I saw a fat white bird on the ground, and when I tried to approach it, it was startled and flew away like all birds do, but I knew that I could catch it if I was calm and slow. So I approached it again and it let me pick it up in my hands. Just like in the first dream, It was beating its wings in my hands while I was walking with it. It was inflating like a balloon, and it kept getting bigger and bigger. I must have been trying to take it somewhere, but I don't know where. Same as in the first dream, when I got there, it was motionless and I knew I had killed it. I opened my hands and it floated up, then slowly floated back to the ground, like a helium balloon that's lost too much air. Just like the first dream, I was horrified with myself and couldn't believe I had killed it.I don't know why I have these dreams. They must be significant in some way, but I can't imagine how. Dreams are interesting.
I've been thinking about the past a lot recently. even more than usual, and I usually think too much about the past. There's just been certain things bugging me, unresolved relationship issues, etcetera, and I can't figure out why they should bother me at all. I think i'm huge on relationship closure. Just closure in general. I just can't end on a bad note with someone, even someone I don't like, don't know really know, or don't care about at all. I always end up trying to fix things, even months down the line, when most of the time it's either too late, or people just get irratated with my concern. And if I don't fix it, it just eats away at me until it starts cropping up in my dreams, and then I know it's a real problem.
I seem to have a lot of good story dreams. The sort of dreams that are entertaining to tell people because they're so weird and/or symbolic. Like the teeth falling out in the halls dream. Or the reoccuring unpreparedness dream, where I have a performance or a competition and I don't have my music learned at all, or I forgot the music, or i'm wearing a horrible outfit. Or the dream where I drove my car into a pool on accident (I've also had two recent dreams about having to rescue my flute from inside a pool... what could that possibly mean...). Or the dream where I was elated to find I could play the soprano saxophone beautifully when never having played it before.
God. This has been a weird blog. Sorry if my bird killing dreams were at all disturbing.
On a lighter note, I got my acceptance letter to UA. so it's official. Now I can officially be mediocre in school and nobody can rightfully give me crap about it, i'm already accepted! hahah.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
