deepundergroundpoetry.com
A Writer's Journal: Entry III
I don't know what to do anymore. I get a good idea, I get excited and then I get overwhelmed and everything just seems like it's not making sense. Why doesn't anyone notice when I'm going to overboard? Why am I the only one who notices after a bunch of things have already been said? Why won't anyone offer to add and take away from my ideas?
I'm losing it.
This story is going to be the death of me, I swear.
Four narrators-- Can I really do it?
I'm starting to rethink why I started writing in the first place? I actually feel really low and depressed, and when I tell my boyfriend and mother they just-- They don't get it. I guess that why it's a good thing I have this journal. I can thank Kat Von D's The Tattoo Chronicles and her blood books that she wanted to share with the world because she was also going through a hard spot in her life. Emilie Autumn had her cutting, drug and depression diaries that were seperate sections of her book, The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls maybe that's what I've needed-- A journal. I mean, I have a journal, but it's a special journal that I've been writing for Andrew since we started dating, it's a journal about him and I that I'm planning on giving to him after we're married, hopefully by time it's filled up.
I've gotten other journals, even a River Song journal for my birthday from Andrew's parents and sister. It was kind and thoughtful of them but I can't write with pen and paper anymore, I'm not sure how I ever did considering now that I rely on technology, keyboards and keypads, touchscreens and notepad apps. My hands and fingers cramp up, that's what I get for holding the pen too tight, it's why I would break the crayons as a child. I would hold them too tight, put too much pressure on them and they'd break under my hand's weight. It's the same with a pen and pencil, I'm not even sure how I can draw half of the time. So here I am writing a journal that I am sharing with the deep underground world of poets and writers, I'm not sure if I should allow people to comment on it anymore-- Probably shouldn't, it is a journal afterall. An online journal that I want to share with someone but at the same time no one. I want people to read it but I don't want them to know about the pathetic girl behind the words.
It's what I feel like sometimes, a pathetic girl that wants to be everything and nothing at the same time. It's why I sign these journals with my pen name, my username-- because that means nobody knows it's me.
I can't even write my name even though some people know who I am on here, and I've shared my profile on here on Facebook enough times asking people to read my poems, to look inside of my shell and see the morally depressed girl that is the girl they see everyday.
This isn't even about writing anymore.
But then again maybe it is about writing, I'm not sure anymore. I guess I just want to get my feelings off my chest. I want to write so badly, I'm not sure when I decided that I wanted to be a writer. Maybe it was. . . Sixth grade, only I tried making myself, real name and everything the main character. I would never tell anyone about that because it was one of the most embarressing attempts at a story that I ever tried writing. And then there were those times, those morbidly depressing times when I'd read a book and wish that I had written something as a good as it, that this was my plot and my characters and I'd feel a jealous rage at the book and a wish that I could have someone made it better. Of course until I was sixteen years old I didn't have excess to write down my stories, so until then it was back of journals, notebooks and pens, cramping hands and not enough detail that there could've been.
I've finished books, and I have plenty more stories to tell. I want to be a writer one day but these bouts of depression and writer's block make it hard to believe that I'll ever make it that far. Even as I write this, I hope that after several works of fiction this journal is published as well and everyone reads it, all of my fans that I hope to have one day.
One day seems farther away then I would like.
I always dreamed of being one of the youngest writers to ever make it to the New York Bestseller's list but now, I'm not sure if I'm good enough. Three books in a row and I refuse to put the series down even if I've failed to write the fourth book way too many times.
What am I even doing anymore?
I have their emotions, their stories, their plots but I don't know how to fit together. It's the worst kind of puzzle ever because it's the one that doesn't have any easy answer. No edges to find to put the frame together first. That's what Grandma taught me to do when putting a puzzle together. Find the edges first so that you have the frame, then go off of that. But there is no frame to a story, at least. . . Not that I know of.
Maybe there is, and I'm just not seeing it.
Find the edges and start with the frame, then you can work on the picture itself.
- Paige Rider
I'm losing it.
This story is going to be the death of me, I swear.
Four narrators-- Can I really do it?
I'm starting to rethink why I started writing in the first place? I actually feel really low and depressed, and when I tell my boyfriend and mother they just-- They don't get it. I guess that why it's a good thing I have this journal. I can thank Kat Von D's The Tattoo Chronicles and her blood books that she wanted to share with the world because she was also going through a hard spot in her life. Emilie Autumn had her cutting, drug and depression diaries that were seperate sections of her book, The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls maybe that's what I've needed-- A journal. I mean, I have a journal, but it's a special journal that I've been writing for Andrew since we started dating, it's a journal about him and I that I'm planning on giving to him after we're married, hopefully by time it's filled up.
I've gotten other journals, even a River Song journal for my birthday from Andrew's parents and sister. It was kind and thoughtful of them but I can't write with pen and paper anymore, I'm not sure how I ever did considering now that I rely on technology, keyboards and keypads, touchscreens and notepad apps. My hands and fingers cramp up, that's what I get for holding the pen too tight, it's why I would break the crayons as a child. I would hold them too tight, put too much pressure on them and they'd break under my hand's weight. It's the same with a pen and pencil, I'm not even sure how I can draw half of the time. So here I am writing a journal that I am sharing with the deep underground world of poets and writers, I'm not sure if I should allow people to comment on it anymore-- Probably shouldn't, it is a journal afterall. An online journal that I want to share with someone but at the same time no one. I want people to read it but I don't want them to know about the pathetic girl behind the words.
It's what I feel like sometimes, a pathetic girl that wants to be everything and nothing at the same time. It's why I sign these journals with my pen name, my username-- because that means nobody knows it's me.
I can't even write my name even though some people know who I am on here, and I've shared my profile on here on Facebook enough times asking people to read my poems, to look inside of my shell and see the morally depressed girl that is the girl they see everyday.
This isn't even about writing anymore.
But then again maybe it is about writing, I'm not sure anymore. I guess I just want to get my feelings off my chest. I want to write so badly, I'm not sure when I decided that I wanted to be a writer. Maybe it was. . . Sixth grade, only I tried making myself, real name and everything the main character. I would never tell anyone about that because it was one of the most embarressing attempts at a story that I ever tried writing. And then there were those times, those morbidly depressing times when I'd read a book and wish that I had written something as a good as it, that this was my plot and my characters and I'd feel a jealous rage at the book and a wish that I could have someone made it better. Of course until I was sixteen years old I didn't have excess to write down my stories, so until then it was back of journals, notebooks and pens, cramping hands and not enough detail that there could've been.
I've finished books, and I have plenty more stories to tell. I want to be a writer one day but these bouts of depression and writer's block make it hard to believe that I'll ever make it that far. Even as I write this, I hope that after several works of fiction this journal is published as well and everyone reads it, all of my fans that I hope to have one day.
One day seems farther away then I would like.
I always dreamed of being one of the youngest writers to ever make it to the New York Bestseller's list but now, I'm not sure if I'm good enough. Three books in a row and I refuse to put the series down even if I've failed to write the fourth book way too many times.
What am I even doing anymore?
I have their emotions, their stories, their plots but I don't know how to fit together. It's the worst kind of puzzle ever because it's the one that doesn't have any easy answer. No edges to find to put the frame together first. That's what Grandma taught me to do when putting a puzzle together. Find the edges first so that you have the frame, then go off of that. But there is no frame to a story, at least. . . Not that I know of.
Maybe there is, and I'm just not seeing it.
Find the edges and start with the frame, then you can work on the picture itself.
- Paige Rider
Published 22nd May 2014
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