Stories I Never Wrote

A word can transform the dull and empty into something magic. It can transport you from the dread of a train commute to a fantastical world of unimaginable truths. In just a moment a word can express years of longing, wait, and brokenness. A word has the ability to make one thing seem like something completely different, or reveal the unseen truth. It was because of this that my entire life I have loved the idea of writing. I wanted to take people somewhere they had never been, remind them of something they once had, or make them feel nostalgic for something they never had. I wanted to inflict a sense of temporal displacement in other, that they may forget when they are, where they are, in such a deeply rooted way that they don't notice until interrupted. These were experiences that I had when I was younger, curled up in my closet experiencing the magic of a beautiful story. I wanted to give that to someone so that we could regardless of time and space have a shared experience. I wanted to be the catalyst to their adventure, their love, their great awakening. It was in this that I fell in love with searching for the right word, the one that made summer months feel like dripping honey, or the one that made longing for love to remind someone of being wrapped in a blanket, but not able to find warmth.

This morning was beautiful. I woke up just after the sun had risen and was met by the cool Fall air. My hometown often so warm and uncomfortable, I was not used to the refreshing breeze. The day continued and the sun brought back Summer memories; it was no longer Fall.

I lay in bed curious as to the state of the outside weather. I uncovered myself, walked to my window, and slid the glass open. I was met once again by the cool autumn breeze and could smell the season. I breathed in several deep breaths of this unfamiliarity - but felt the comforting feeling of seeing an old friend. I beckoned the season to join me in my room. It is stale and needs reviving - just like myself. Revive me. Fill my lungs with your beauty and my veins with your life. It is Fall. 

SEPTEMBER 28, 2010 (1:37 AM)

 

And so I wrote. It was never anything in particular, certainly never a complete story. Not at least in the traditional sense of the word. I wrote about missing people, about seasons, about my experience reading. I grew and began to establish my own ideologies. I wrote about love, and friendship, and honesty. I wrote about what it meant to live in this world, to be an individual. I wrote about feeling like I had finally arrived somewhere after years of waiting, only to be forced to leave.

Several people told me that my words reminded them of my favorite author, which I found exhilarating. The pretentious pretenses of the words I slung together weren't just vapid attempts at repurposing something someone else had already said, or so it seemed. I’m still not sure if unique ideas even exist, perhaps just unique ways of saying the same things over and over, and over again. 

 

That night was unreal like the war above us. Together, we walked out onto the water as the waves crashed against the night. The fleet of stars lit our souls as we sat together. I loved the world, and I loved you. We felt life like very few have. 

    NOVEMBER 5, 2011 (7:33 PM)

 

While studying I surrounded myself with brilliantly talented people and I thrived off their capacity to take something so meaningless and infuse such life into it. Everyone around me wrote such captivating narrative stories, and I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to share a story with someone, but I wanted it to be my story. I wanted to explain who I was, why I needed life to exist in certain ways, why I was hurting inside. I wanted to write for others, but for myself. Throughout my time in school, I tried countlessly to bring narrative stories to life. It wasn't just appropriately placed beats and well-executed structure that made me feel drawn to the pages, but the deep satisfaction of properly expressing an emotional experience. And I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to do the work, I was too caught up in my own experience. I couldn’t differentiate between the story I was writing and the life I was living. It was all emotive. My peers studied their craft and brought countless characters to life, people that I could relate to, people that anyone could relate to. The stories they told needed to be told, at least in my mind, but mine never did. In three years I wrote one story that made me feel pride. Five people read it. 

 

JAMES (CONTD)

You're my best friend too.  I don’t want to be far away.  But, we’re family. I'm sure mom would say something like, (Mockingly) "We'll always be together no matter how far apart we are.”

Ella smiles and shakes her head.

ELLA

Yeah-she would say that    

Parallels, December 2012

My stubbornness kept me ridged, never allowing me to write to my fullest potential, something I was consistently sure existed. I had put words down before, and people and loved them, but the stories I was telling before weren’t the type of stories that get made into scripts or short films. 

Once I wrote about my childhood, a breakthrough for any writer (he said with more than a dash of sarcasm). It wasn’t just my childhood as much as it was about my story of growing up, which undoubtedly is still happening. I was honest and truthful of my experiences. I took down the walls and told the world I had been selfish and had gone through too many people in such a short time. I learned from it, in some ways… but I’m still learning now. 

One of my favorite quotes says, "What a treacherous thing to believe that a person is more than a person." I read that quote, and I wrote it down, but I didn't understand it until I lived through it.

I’m an adult now. A real one. Bills mock me when I ignore them, loans haunt me when I think about eventually turning 30, and new tires aren’t something I write into an underdeveloped script. Though, I would love to write an absurd story about a person who chooses their daily coffee over fixing their broken down car; maybe in another life. I disappeared from the world of writing for a while. I truly had convinced myself that because I couldn’t write an excellent short film in one evening that meant I had been a failure, that words weren’t my friend, not at least in the way I wanted them to be.

I met someone who quickly spoke a lot of life into me in a short period of time. He told me over coffee he really enjoyed my writing. it infused me with this sense of confidence that I am ironically embarrassed by. I’d like to pretend my insecurities of my own self-worth, my own work, my own words weren't valued so low, but a few words by someone I didn’t really know all too well gave me a boost that was sure to eventually make me feel foolish. And it did in a way when opportunity slipped quickly away and I realized my blog had two posts on it, one being something I wrote a while ago and yet pretended like it was new material, and I realized I couldn’t even pretend to be a writer. I stopped writing for myself during this short time, and wrote for others, with the hope that someone would click like or comment on my blog with praise. I longed to once again be compared to someone I admired, but nobody was listening — rightfully so. 

Sometimes breakfast is my proudest accomplishment in a twenty-four hour period, and even though I make pretty delectable breakfast burritos, I think it leaves room for a lot of wasted potential in my life.

So I sit here writing a cliche story, about a cliche wannabe writer, at cliche 6am in the morning, putting in my cliche daily hour of writing. "If you want to be a writer, you have to write every single day!” they say as they sit on a throne of awards looking down to crowds of people. But they’re right. And I should. And I am going to do that. Today is day two, and I demolished a cinnamon roll during the previous paragraph, most likely because I needed to construct some sort of emotional barrier between me and the far too truthful words. Sweets make me forget how much I dislike myself — at least I did learn that in college. 

I sit here writing a story of sorts, hoping that it counts for more than everything else I have typed, written, or thought of and quickly forgotten while shampooing my hair. I sit here, too pretentious to not be self-aware, too tired to not want to be in bed, and too scared to open the folder I have of old ideas which I never got around to Frankensteining together. 

But I write.

We sat on the grass, leaning against the brick wall of a random apartment building. I wondered why we didn't do this more often, sit in the shade with each other. I looked over at you, and you looked back at me. The authenticity of the moment reminded me of Boyhood. You looked more real than ever before. I sat in hurt, and you didn't quite know what to say, except that you knew we would always be friends. The word bye can contain oceans of hurt.

    AUGUST 2, 2014 (3:14 PM)