I've come to the conclusion that the only reason my writing is any sort of good is because I don't follow the same old tired love plot lines. Everything is always tortured and sad but not so much that it makes you roll your eyes and wonder what the fuck I was thinking. I also realize that the reason I don't read love stories is not because I find then utterly ridiculous - which I do - but that they make me really sad. I have to write tragedy. I can't effectively write triumph. Whether it's some girl having a psych break and screaming to erase her voice or some lonely guy going after the daughter of his former lover or even the "abductor empathy" from a girl who was kidnapped by some guy who was obsessed with her online whatever, it's got to be a little dark, a little fucked up, and totally painful.

I've been told that my pieces read like poetry and that I can get so into characters' minds and surroundings that you never want to leave the sad bubble I've created. While I don't think that I'm all that good, I have my moments and I find myself never wanting to let go of a character or two. How warped is that? How screwed does a person have to be to never want to leave a place they've created? It's almost as bad as the cliche "happy place".

Looking back over my old journals... blah. I don't know. I was a better person then. Not anymore. I'm just lazy and fat and retarded. I can't even say I'm emo or mental. I'm just stupid.

Every night you cry yourself to sleep thinking, "Why does this happen to me? Why does every moment have to be so hard?"
Damn you Adam Levine. Damn you.

I'm lonely and tired and I really just want someone or something. You know... I love God and all but it can't take away the ache. Everyone needs to feel loved and wanted and not in some quasi-spiritual way either.  A human way. A way that only another person next to you can give you. And my dad is always saying he wished I had a guy. Trust me, Dad. Right now, I do too. I don't want to live my life alone.

Me singing at church went really good. The stage is an amazing place. I made people cry. In my way, I turned the entire service around so it was nothing but a worship thing. My dad said Justin is really critical of people singing and all and that when I hit some of my notes, all he could think was "Wow". Felt good to know that I didn't suck.

I'm almost willing to rejoin okcupid or something equally retarded to find someone. How lame, sure, but damn... I can't feel this lonely for the rest of my life.

Tags: emo, writing

It doesn't really matter.
(I know that)
It's bothersome.
Stupid.
Maybe I'm being childish.
No, I'm being a dreamer.
(Dreams aren't for kids)

What was it really, huh? I'm such an ego trip. I'm so the fucking cheerleader. Not for me, you see. Personal gain? Ha. What's that?

So the old man with the old face sat down for a nice warm glass of solitude and the tired girl with the tired face understood something. Maybe not the matter at hand - no, that was far too deep - but she understood a few things. She understood that sometimes things don't mean much & sometimes they mean the world.

Look me up in Merriam-Webster and give me a definition.
I can still be Ming Lo.
I can still try to move mountains.

Tags: emo, writing

I have a new writing journal. It's no9 #2. The problem with having a writing journal is the fact that I have so many great ideas floating around in my head and most of which I can't accurately get down on paper. I don't writing linearly because I don't think that way. I also have to have the spark to write and if it's not there,  nothing will come out. Aside from that, I just sort of write w/no real cohesiveness to chapters. I'm not saying that it doesn't flow - because it does - but I write each chapter as it's own mini-story and by some stroke of luck/pure genius (on my part), it works. I inadvertently make it work.

I have a killer story idea and figuring out how to get it out there is really bugging me. Basically, it's about a girl who, despite being quite pretty, is overweight. Tragedy strikes when she's raped. She knows she has to go to the police and when she does, she's treated as if she should be happy that someone showed an interest in her. The overwhelming sense of the piece is that because of her weight, no one would want to "take" something like from her, that she should have willingly given it up. As if that isn't fucked up enough, it's really the cause for her effect. Traumatized by the rape and the frigid attitude of the officers she deals with, she starts losing it... literally. She refuses to eat anything aside from miso soup she gets from an Asian restaurant that's next door to her apartment building. In essence, it triggers her decline into an eating disorder. She thinks that the smaller she becomes, the more serious people will take her. The only other main character of the piece is a male friend with maybe more she makes a couple of months after the fact. He's really attractive, thin, and girls have their eyes on him yet this guy is absolutely into her. It doesn't help her, however, because she thinks it's all an elaborate joke. She starts spiraling out of her control and he's the only one that bothers to figure out why.

So brief synopsis: overweight girl is raped, fucked over by the cops, develops and eating disorder to cope with her growing nervousness, paranoia, and depression all the while being aided, cared for, and pursued by a guy who shouldn't like her but does. Tell me that isn't fucking original.

I'm not so sure how I'll write it - first person, third, flashbacks of third person with current story in first person, etc. Fuck, I can't even get an opening line. GODDAMMIT.

LJ Secret almost annoys me... almost.

Someone help me!

Tags: writing