Bored

I have no right to be bored. I have an entire apartment to clean, a portfolio to put together, flower crafts to do, and a new subscription of Netflix to explore. We have a new garden. We have a dog. I have a piano, flute, and guitar that need dusting off. I could always write something. I could always COOK something. I'm about three or four YEARS behind in scrapbooking. I need to plan a somehow-absolutely-free graduation party for myself and a few friends since I'm not walking on Saturday. And my library somehow grew larger than I could keep up with this semester, although I don't remember buying so many books...

All of that aside, I'm bored.

So this is what I did this afternoon. I was inspired by my friend Kerstin's new logo...I thought to m'self, "Self, I need me one of those!" So I played around until I found something that was meagerly satisfactory. This is, of course, assuming I ever actually pick up the flower business thing, which is a BIG IF at this moment in time...Anywho, I'm not claiming it's my final pick, but it's better than the other two. Maybe I'll make a new one every day for a week and then let you folks vote on which is the best! Or maybe I'll get bored of this quickly and move on to the next thing. :)

Fanfic

Fanfic [fan-fik]: noun: "fiction written by fans of a TV series, movie, etc., using existing characters and situations to develop new plots."

My love for fanfic came about as a young teenager, in the wake of Touched by an Angel episodes and my parents' divorce. I used it as a self-therapy of sorts. I could create people who had problems far worse than mine, then use the "easy fix" formula of the show to have the simple words "God loves you" make everything all right for everyone. There was always a tease of romance in everything I wrote. And always the dove flying somewhere nearby to remind us of God's constant presence.

Fanfic is a beautiful thing because you don't have to do any of the hard work. The characters already have a history, and if you're writing it it means YOU'VE got a history with them. There are personalities, relationships, settings, and formulas already in place, and your only challenge is to come up with new numbers to crunch into that formula...and solve it, of course. While you have to battle the hundreds or thousands of fans who are crazy enough to follow the show so closely that they point out every discrepancy between your timeline and theirs, or your characterization versus their history with the same characters, it's still easy writing, light writing, like a salad with a light vinaigrette on a summer evening.

Then there's real writing. The steak-and-potatoes stuff. And everything's made from scratch. I have done very little of this kind of writing in the last decade, and what little I have done has been short (poetry) or I have killed it (because it was awful). School, family drama, illness, marriage, and school again, compounded with that darned companion Writer's Block, have pushed this out of my world for a while.

No more! While I may never be published or heralded as anything other than ordinary, writing is a passion that I have neglected for too long. I ache for the days of my kindergarten masterpiece, "The grl hoo at a apul" (The girl who ate an apple, for those of you non-teachers out there not used to deciphering children's spelling!).

This book was incredibly amazing. It was written boldly in fuschia marker, the pages went from right to left, I taped the binding with masking tape, and almost no words were spelled correctly. The story centers around our heroine, "the grl," who ate grapes morning, noon, and night and had lots of clothes in her drawers. She eats an apple and decides that she can eat those, too...so she eats apples AND grapes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Amazing tension and dramatic flair, no? :) And yet, I was ridiculously proud of this, my first story. I read it over and over. I made a library card slot for all the people I was sure would want to read my book. I had confidence in my abilities and I loved, loved, LOVED the whole process of imagining, creating, and sharing a story in my own words and by my own hands. Maybe that book (which I still have in my memory box, if anyone ever wants to enjoy it with me) will never win me a Caldecott or Newberry award, but it continually serves as a reminder of the childlike passion we should have for the things we love--and it makes me wonder what has happened in the twenty-two years since then to strip me of my confidence as a writer and as a person. I want to rid myself of the fanfic mentality--I want to be my OWN fan!

Today's challenge: Go grab a piece of paper, a hideous marker, and some masking tape, and see what you can make of it!

Breaking Up is Hard to Do...

So, I started a facebook writing club, and one of the prompts we could respond to recently was "Write a breakup letter with writer's block"...so here is what I wrote! It's ridden with cliches, but that seemed fitting under the circumstances...enjoy!


Dearest Writer’s Block,

We need to talk. We’ve been together quite some time, haven’t we—I think nearly seven years now! You’ve been there through it all, through the good, the bad, and the ugly. We’ve become so well-acquainted with one another that sometimes it scares me.

You are the only constant companion I think I have had in all of those seven years. The truth is, you’re “marriage” material, and I know that if we were to stay together, it will be a long-term relationship. I’m just not sure I’m ready to commit to you for the long haul.

The sad truth is, dearest, I lied to you. I never really WANTED you in my life. Who you are is killing who I am. I can’t keep up this charade anymore! I don’t want to hide from the world—and stringing you along would be utterly unfair to you and to me.

It’s not you, it’s me. You are a constant-- you know me so intimately that in my times of greatest joy, sorrow, or inspiration you’ve inevitably come around. I never really appreciated what you did for me. I know that there is someone out there who can appreciate what you have to offer her. I, however, need to sow my wild oats—I cannot keep up the pretenses any longer. I think we’d be better off as friends. No, not even that—I think we need a clean break, a fresh start, a new beginning. Don’t call, love. Don’t write. It will only make things harder for the both of us.

I’m sure that, someday, you will see where I am coming from, and perhaps you’ll even thank me. I think this breakup will make us both stronger. I will forever treasure the time we spent together, but in the end it was all a fairy tale, and we need to go our separate ways and start living reality again. I’d like to think that I just need some time, but the truth is I’ve got this fluttering in my chest when Inspiration comes around, and I just have to see what wonders we could create together. I do wish you the best, in everything. Please, don’t cry for me. There will always be a piece of you that is with me, every day.


Gratefully,
Celeste

Great Expectations

One of the things I hate most about myself is that I have high expectations. I'm an idealist. Now, don't get me wrong--this is one of my great strengths, as a teacher, a friend, and a person. But it's also quite likely my single greatest foible, and will probably be the downfall of my story, of my happiness. The REALLY sad thing is that I know this about myself, but I have no idea how to stop it from happening.

Our happiness in life, I believe, depends greatly on our hope. Hope in a Savior, faith in people, belief that there are things out there worth waiting for and that somehow I, who have done nothing of great importance in my life to date, deserve to take part in all those good things. Perhaps it's because I live in the age of entitlement, or perhaps it's because I've seen people far less obedient and patient than me reap rewards I envy, or perhaps it's from one too many romantic comedies I've watched in my life. Maybe it goes deeper, into the very fiber of my own being, and this hope for the very absolute best is just something I would never be able to live without. I'm not really sure.

I DO know this--that hope is a double-edged sword, slicing happiness and promises in chocolate-cake form to me some days, and cutting right into my heart others. I know that much of my own unhappiness is my own doing, because I expect things to be the way I imagine them, and, really, does that ever really happen? Yet every time the disappointment deals a steady blow, and I actually feel the weight of the world crushing me in a very literal way.

I wish I knew how to have hope without having great expectations. I wish I knew how to love selflessly and to feel deserving of that love back without ruining it with my girlhood fantasies. I feel myself start to look around me sometimes and want something more--something I've seen, maybe in a friend's life, maybe only in my dreams--and in that moment I most hate myself.

I don't know if any of this makes sense to anyone who cares to read it (and there are few enough of you anyway that I don't really care). I'm just putting a rhetorical thought out there in the hopes that maybe it'll make it make more sense to ME. I'm tired and I feel a twinge of regret and disappointment almost daily and I have no one to blame but myself, and I just really, really hate it. But tomorrow's a sunny new day...and a part of me can't help but hope it might be better.