I told myself last year that I was going to do it this year. Well, this year has come around. And knowing that there are going to be others cheering me on and doing the same thing with me has made me wish to feel the beautiful experience all over again. And if I truly want to be a writer, I can’t wait around to write my novels. I’ve got to do it myself.
“The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.” — Stephen King, On Writing
I need to get a copy of Steven King’s book. I like him as an author, and he knows what he is talking about in every review I’ve ever seen him write for a book. I just didn’t know I’d be hit this hard with his words, because I think I have found my scariest moment yet.
It’s been awhile since I’ve come to this dusty blog. how have your summer’s been? Mine has been filled with writing with a good writer friend of mine.
But then I ate cookies.
As a child we are not told to be aware of the world around as us fervently as we are at a university or when we’re an adult. When an adult, the world is our oyster. When a child, the world is but your room or your friends or school life, or some small part of the vastness that makes up this world. Looking at some videos I had made when I was younger, I am amazed at how easy it was to be creative back then. I was creating things for me and drawing things not because they were right. I just convinced myself I would fix them later. But then somewhere down the line I got it into my head that I wouldn’t get things fixed later, and so I’ve been stuck in this rut.
The rut is called trying to fit into the mold of being an adult as defined by American heritage: to discard childish things, to think practically, to think logically.
Yet the very things we demand as adults—ingenuity, creativity, enthusiasm—are the things we’re supposed to throw away.
How does that make sense?
It doesn’t. Only creating to create makes sense. Letting the criticism come later will be the only way to move forward.
Ever since I was little, I never quite understood why my mom and dad loved to record my piano recitals and other performances on video tape. Having been in my third showcase for an extracurricular last night, I think I see why on both sides.
This performance was markedly different form my others. Instead of singing a slow, dramatic song from a musical, I went with a fast-paced Japanese pop-song that I translated to English. I danced across the stage, encouraged audience participation, and did things totally at random that I wouldn’t normally do in real life. As my mother put it, I even gave the audience a tiny flash of the shorts beneath my dress as I sang that I might get “cute and naughty” in the lyrics I had crafted for the occasion. I had transformed on that stage from a cute, quiet girl with a powerful voice, to a sassy, flirtatious, and boisterous entertainer that encouraged the audience to clap. I got much applause that night, but most importantly, I proved to my fellow club members that I was capable of having a good time and acting silly on stage. Plus this was also a time for me to test my theory: if using my nerves to move would make me feel better.
Needless to say it did, but I don’t think I’ll be watching my performance again and again. I’ve lived through that moment. I don’t need to remember it again.
But my friends would definitely want to watch it and my parents. Because to them, watching a video of my is like when I watch a TV show I haven’t seen in a long time from my childhood or read a book I thoroughly enjoy. I’m not a part of it directly, but I’m in love with the material presented and it’s execution. That’ll be the same for those who read my books and poems eventually.
And yes, there were times when I viewed old videos of when I was ten years younger, but that’s because I’d forgotten them. I’ll probably look at these videos ten years or some years later and look back on them, but I’m not that kind of girl that can turn around things pretty quickly. It takes awhile before my spontaneity meter to strike.