Choosing The Right Tiles

If people are like artwork, then what does that make me? I've been told many times by many people that I'm just a combination of people in one entity. I'm a tye-dye. I'm a quilt, patched by the seams. I'm a melting pot of natives and immigrants we call the United States of America. I am not any one painting; I am all of them. They make up a mosaic of morals and mannerisms from everyone around me, the tiles cemented together by the impression they had on me to form a single work of art: me. But I am no longer considered a painting. No, I am a mosaic. However, I am a tricky mosaic. Only certain tiles reveal themselves to certain people. Only one person has seen the entire work of art, and that is the art itself. It knows everything inside, the background, foreground, and middleground of each painting. It is a gift.

And yet, it is also a burden.

It takes all of my concentration to reveal my true colors. Being me has become increasingly difficult. Having absorbed all the uniqueness that made my mentors likeable, I have lost what has made me likeable. People know me for the other paintings inside of me, but not the one tile that began it all. The one that knew there was good in the world; that the good guy always wins. In my quest to become greatly unique, I have become great, but I am also generic. Average.

But don't doubt for a second that I'm not proud of who I am.

From being ordinary I strive for extraordinary. I will now take an oath to be the best that I can be. To always share the best parts of me with everyone. I have all the traits, all of the paintings, I just need to choose the right tiles, and discard all the rest. Start a newly refined mosaic.

Let's start by removing the laziness and the need to not give a crap that high school poisoned me with.

Motivation: found again.

Artwork Is Personal

Normal people are like paintings. There are images in the foreground that jump out at you almost immediately, such as farmers holding pitchforks. Once you are familiar enough with that aspect, you may begin to examine the middleground (is that even a compound word? I'm a writer, I should know this). In the middleground, you may find something that you would not have seen during your first glance. Maybe, behind that twisted, screaming man, you see a beautiful horse on a farm. Then, you find that the twisted man still has a nicer side of him. And as you look deeper into the darkest depths of a person's painting, you might see something few have seen before. In all of that darkness in the background, you'll find a yellow dot. But not just any dot: a star. It illuminates that one spot in the corner of this living painting. Through all the dark secrets, embarrassing moments, and memories we would love simply not to remember, we have a reason to resurface them. Because once they darken a person enough, the victim will soon realize that those memories are lit just enough to bring positivity and happiness through the negativity they bring. They shape us, make us who we are. And, eventually, we may only hope that one day we will be able to be shaped into a dot ourselves; to be the star that lights up someone else's night sky.

Battling The Eraser

It is the pencil that puts words on a page.  However, a small part of the pencil, the eraser, hides those words from intrigued eyes.  In my quest to write, I have succeeded in devising a story--two now, actually--that I am proud of.  I have all the words in my head.  Though some of those words have safely reached the page, others have been stopped by my own personal eraser.  This is not the pink menace that threatens to rid the world of all printed language.  No, my enemy is much worse; laziness.  The very act of not acting delays my motivation and my accomplishment.  I fear that, as time passes, I will no longer be able to finish my work, whether I lose interest or forget where I wanted the story to be taken.  It is an inner battle of wits between me and my eraser, to see who will perish first: me, the eraser, shaven completely and scattered across New England, or me, the pencil, too short to hold and create the words that I desperately wish to reveal to the public.  My determination is strong, but my longing for academic success and social interaction distorts my drive for completion.

The victor is yet to be seen.

Inspiration VS Infringement [EXPLICIT]

Let me be clear: My intent is never to take an idea from someone. I research every one of my ideas to see if they have been done before. I take extra care to make sure that I'm as original as possible. But let's face it. There are aspects of certain stories that I like. Not necessarily a specific idea, but more of a general concept or style. Of course, this argument won't help me in a court battle. And that's the thing about being original: either it's been done or it's copyright infringement. All the aspiring writers out there just want to make a living doing what they love, and then some greedy SOB (son of a billionaire) wants more dough. So, rather than publish the writer's works, they sue his ass for all it's worth. And trust me, a writer's ass is worth a lot. We sit on it for so damn long typing away at our keyboards. So, the writer is so poor that he or she would do anything for money, even get a job putting fringes on scarves. And I know for a fact that I am even less willing to infringe a scarf. So please, to all you publishing companies, TV stations, production companies, and, hell, scarf makers out there: how about instead of falsely accusing us of stealing your ideas, you either let us live our lives, strike a deal to publish our work, or af least appreciate that you've inspired us to express our creativity in 350-or-so pages.

Bookception

You can never have too many Inception references. Now, for those of you who have been reading from the start (which is basically the two people that will read this), I have finally decided what the central theme of my blog should be on: writing. Yes, I'm writing about writing, whether it be my writing, someone else's writing, or just writing in general. And I'll occasionally throw in a random story about something that's frustrating me (which could also fall under the category of "the way the world works") or about life in general. Except being a college guy, it won't be that general because I'll probabaly just end up writing about a girl. You'll see.

On the subject of bookception, keep in mind that I'm also writing about a writer who writes about a writer. Really interesting stuff.

The Jungle Book Is Now A Jungle Of Books

I am taking a creative writing class at school, and what I didn't realize is that there are so many people my age who at least like to write. Not only that, but I also learned that almost everyone (in my class, anyway) is majoring in something other than English. I'm hoping we all write best sellers so I have plenty of friends in the industry and less hostile competition. (Does that even exist in an author's world?) I also hope that in the jungle of books out there, people will see mine as the giant tree to rondesvous (did I spell that right? dang French) at.

The Broken Record of Improvements

The one thing that I don't like about writing: revising.  I am always so eager to progress the story that I rush events to the point where the plot could end within three pages.  When I try to resist the temptation of continuation, I suffer through revision after revision until I decide that I'm sick of reading the same lines over again.  That's usually the point in my projects where I abandon it entirely.  Otherwise, the writing would seem forced.  If I were to ignore the need for changes and carry on with the plot, however, my gut would eat me alive.  Currently I am at the same crossroads.  Luckily, I know that this is the project I want to finish.