Reading is like apples for the brain...

...whatever that means.  I know that the human brain can do amazing things if the owner of it is willing to train it well (I see that Obi Wan has trained you well). In my little analogy, if reading is like eating a barrel of healthy apples, then what I'm doing must be the poop that comes out later. What was I going to say? Oh yeah, I've been reading loads of books. Two weeks ago, I was like "Huh, I haven't seen my kindle lately. I should totally like charge it, man. Like woah." And so I went forth and fetched my kindle, plugging it in to charge so that I may begin to rekindle my love of reading and stuff. I finished the first 5 novels and when looking through my "Next reads" folder, I saw the first Harry Potter book. I thought, "At last! A mystery that should prove to be quite entertaining! Hmm, quite! Pip, cheerio!" (read that last bit in John Cleese's voice). I have started the 5th Harry Potato book today, and am addicted as was predicted. I suspect that once I've finished with the lot, I'll turn to reading The Hungry Games and Anne of Green Bagels. Er, The Hunger Games and Anne of Green Gables. I turn back to Montgomery as my inspiration for writing (as well as DuMaurier). I have always thought of her as being a great story teller. Now I must stop being such a lazy-ass and start actually doing something with myself instead of making excuses. So many excuses....

For one, names are the bane of my existence. I can appreciate names when I read them, and I take for granted that a character would be called anything else. However, I'll start writing something and then stop and say, "No, no. That won't do at all. It seems preposterous to call her that! How unfitting!" and then I'll be at a total loss for what else I could call her, and then just stop mid-sentence never to pick that story up again. 

Or beginnings. Yes, what an awkward thing to say, "or beginnings". They are so awkward with me. I feel like I can pick up in the middle just fine, but where to start? I think I'm going to start writing and then go back and write the beginning last. I can't seem to bring myself to do much of anything in a linear fashion; I work best at random (which is probably why I'm never going to finish a damn thing). 

For now, I think I will cling to my muse for inspiration: Muse-ic. Yes. Hmm, quite. More on that later.

When I grow up

I want to be a writer when I grow up, but I don't know how. I'm virtually at the same point I was all those years ago, when I would daydream in my bedroom and scribble notes on anything that would take to a pencil. I still like to think of my entire life as being far ahead of me, like it isn't too late to fulfill my destiny if there is something greater I can achieve than what I am now. I think this drive was much stronger during times when I was unhappy. It was a way of making a life for myself, creating a world that was under control. It was a way of releasing the anguish I felt when I was alone. Now that life has become exponentially more fulfilling to me, I find the urge to write has weakened. I still adore stories, but some of the longing is gone. I still have the same characters trapped in my head, but they slowly change over time as I grow. I don't know if they will ever make it to paper, or if I will ever be satisfied with their manifestation. I still get stuck on names, for crying out loud.

I got an itch to go on another reading binge, and blew through 6 books in a week. I read two yesterday alone. Reading is the best tool I have for learning how to write. I have never taken a legitimate creative writing class, and sometimes I don't think it would ever help. The more I read, the more I can identify what good writing looks like, and it becomes ingrained in my brain. Today, however, my kindle battery died and I was forced to put it down long enough to charge. I got antsy, so I wrote on two blank printer pages front and back. I shared this experience with Jorge over dinner and he asked to see what I wrote. I hesitated. It would leave me vulnerable to criticism, and I get discouraged easily. It was like leaving my brain exposed to get picked at. He'd see the nonsense I have floating around in my head day after day, and it's a bit embarrassing to admit that to someone whose opinion matters so much to me. I knew it was irrational, because Jorge is a kindhearted and encouraging person by nature, but there was still that fear of disapproval. He's brillant, and he can tell good writing from bad in an instant; I'd hate for him to know the rest of our lives that I was the kind classed as "bad".

I finally gave in, making excuses for how badly the words were formed messily on the page in black ink- it was not thought through, it was jotted quickly, it wasn't meant to do more than capture a thought the moment it entered my brain, I still needed to re-write, etc- and he simply assured me that he would take that into consideration. I studied his face as he read, forgetting what details filled those two pages. Oh, I hoped I didn't write anything I didn't want him to read. Maybe something cheesy. At some point after he grimaced in concentration, I covered my face and watched between the cracks in my fingers. It was a far more dramatic affair than it should have been.

I expected to hear criticism, to hear him pick apart the flaws and tell me how to do better. Isn't that what people expect they are supposed to do when giving feedback? I mean, if we are both held to a certain standard, then I should know well enough, and should be told straight away what my problem is. If I'm so well read, I should know how to write better.
The suspense was finally over, and the verdict was in: It didn't surprise me to hear I need work on dialogue, but inner monologues and narration got his seal of approval. He told me it read like it came straight out of a book. Hopefully this is a side-effect of reading those 6 books cover-to-cover in a week (dear god in heaven, I'm obsessed!). I felt joy welling up from within when I got his approval. I have not written much, and the feedback I've gotten in the past has been predominantly negative. I don't think I've changed too much. I've read more over time, but I think the ideas and skills I have are the same as always. Sometimes I feel so capable, albeit untested. Most of the time I'm tremendously insecure about my skills, constantly doubting my own supposed abilities. It must have been a fluke that he thought I wrote something good. He was very tired, after all, when he read it. Or it must have been his unwavering love for me. That is a very plausible explanation for this rare praise; his affection is often a factor in the clouding of his perception of me. He has a tendency to see me as better than I am because he loves me.

A writer that doesn't write is a ____

Sometimes I feel like a sham. I think about writing quite often, and have never finished a damn thing. It makes me feel vulnerable. Even if it's all fiction, I'm confessing my thoughts to the world anyway. Without getting too much into the introspective or theories on writing, I just want to take a moment to say that I really think writers should write. I mean, as much as possible. I like to do a lot of different things. I can confidently call myself a cook, a knitter, a quilter, and even a gardener (even though my plants are dying) because I've tried it and either failed or succeeded. But I found out what I was capable of by trying. I understand that NaNoWriMo is a great goal for those with self-discipline. It took me nearly a decade and I'm still not finished with that quilt, so maybe it will take a decade to finish the first story I'm concocting.  If you read about two posts before this one, I stated that I wrote 13,000 words in four days. I think I could do that every week. If I don't get distracted, that is.