Home Again.

I remember the first time I ever felt that inexplicable need to write. I was so young, yet I knew that I had to commit these thoughts to paper, give them some permanence. I would admire their structure, their sound, their ability to give my creation life.

I think it is when I am home that I truly feel inspired.

A bicoastal life requires constant attention, inspiration becomes mechanical. As I try to maintain a certain level of productivity in life, work and my education, I lose all sense of the comforts of a home and begin to feel somewhat lost.

Most times, I come to loathe the phrases that once seemed true. They lose their charm and become tainted with the self-doubt that plagues most of my words. The passage of time ruins my perceived perfection, exposing it to be flawed, imperfect.

But sometimes, I succeed.

Sometimes the words just flow; I let the sound of them guide me. It is organic, the music in the language creates the meaning. It is these bits of creation that feel the most natural, and the most genuine, the most true. Sometimes I must simply allow the words to show me what I mean to say, and I feel them guide me to a place that, before, I could never have imagined or thought up. Some expressions reveal truth that I didn’t even realize, until I deconstruct the words that seemed to lead me to this place of beauty and truth.

It is in these moments that I feel truly inspired.

Inspiration

“If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead, either write something worth reading or do things worth writing.”

— Benjamin Franklin

50 Best Tips from the San Francisco Writers Conference (Part 1)

50 Best Tips from the San Francisco Writers Conference (Part 1)

By Pauline Wiles

“I think writin…

“I think writing really helps you heal yourself. I think if you write long enough, you will be a healthy person. That is, if you write what you need to write, as opposed to what will make money, or what will make fame. ”
— Alice Walker

Reading to Write

“There is creative reading as well as creative writing.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson

While browsing the internet for inspiration and tips on how to improve my craft, I came across a bit of advice: If you want to write well, you need to read, a lot. Simple, right? Kind of a no-brainer..

I think I always knew this, but somewhere along the way, I forgot. I grew up with a voracious appetite for the written word. Books sustained me, I couldn’t get enough. I would read these beautifully written passages and wonder how the authors packed so much meaning and detail into them.

But then, I just stopped. I stopped reading, and, eventually, I stopped writing.

It wasn’t until my last year of high school that I took up the habit again. I rediscovered the wonder that a reader is afforded: wonder at the landscapes, the details, the characters. Reading great literature is like peeking into the mind of some great author and seeing how it works, how the ideas come together, how problems arise and how they are solved. 

It’s easy to get discouraged about writing when you feel that you can’t express the most important details and remain true to your subject. But when you’re armed with an arsenal of knowledge, knowledge of what works and what doesn’t  it’s easier to start, to keep going, and to perfect your writing.

On Life, Goals, and Expectation

My first post, I made a sweeping declaration that I would write every day, a conclusion I reached after about four cups of coffee, combined with a serious lack of sleep; I don’t regret it (that’s what college is for, right?), but I now realize that this goal might have reached a bit farther than reality will allow.

But, sometimes, you’re in the middle of going to class, writing papers, working, eating, not to mention dealing with family, friends and life’s delightful little curveballs; those days, blogging seems a little less important.

Even my most important goals can simply fade into the background and become “somedays” again (as in, “Someday, I’ll write a novel. Someday, I’ll learn French. Someday, I’ll fall in love.”, etc.).

But these “somedays” are only enough to make me regret my past, not change my future. Unfulfilled aspirations weigh down my past, and are starting to drag my future down with it.

I wish I could say that these “somedays” will all become “todays”, but I can’t: life gets in the way. So, I’ll simply say that today, I accomplished something, and that’s enough for right now.

Changling

“A serious writer is not to be confounded with a solemn writer.”– Ernest Hemingway

I used to believe that a serious writer had to tackle the deep, depressing aspects of life. So, I would let myself become anti-social to sulk and be “serious”.

I only recently realized that, in buying into this mentality, I was sabotaging myself. Suddenly, I couldn’t believe that I had let so much time pass without really trying.

On a whim, I decided to go to an informational session for my university’s newspaper, and now I’ve already written my first piece and am a contributor. Before I applied, I knew that it was a great opportunity to start doing what I love (and begin to be involved in something I could be passionate about with people who shared my love of the written word) but, in the back of my mind, I thought it would be just another opportunity I let pass me by because of fear: fear of rejection, fear of scrutiny, fear of success, fear of failure. That would have been so easy.

But, somehow, I forced myself to be better than I thought I was, to do something substantial. I took my own advice, and the advice I had always ignored from those wiser than me, and I let myself do something a bit out of character (at least concerning the past year or so). I found that I was capable of change, that I could alter the bits of myself that I found to be lacking, and discover qualities I never knew I had.

I love it when I surprise myself like that.

A Writer’s Escape

Writers get to create worlds, to re-define humanity. That’s what I love about writing: that feeling I get, that sense of escape from reality as I know it to a place where anything is possible. Landscapes are more lush, details more vivid, stories unfold before our eyes. Each word has been carefully selected, elegance is key, the truth is sought out. Everything matters: balance, composition, diction, metaphor, irony, detail. The written word catapults us into new worlds, offering new exploration and release from the troubles and pain of reality. New life springs into existence before us, leading us into the unknown.

Turning Points

Curiosity made me; it lured me to that place that I would never forget. I quickly realized that I had stumbled upon something that would affect the rest of my life. As I stared at the photographs lining the gallery walls, a quick surge of passion took hold of me.

The photographs were so vivid, so saturated with color; they captured a lifetime in a moment.

Then, it hit me, the self-doubt that plagues me. I doubted if I could say as much as these photographs said, with such elegance and honesty. They were so beautiful, so poignant, that they made me feel small. I was a child before the ocean: its vastness overpowering me.

But that doubt quickly faded away to reveal something even better: the realization that I had discovered a passion so great that it made me question if I was worthy of it. Finally I had a dream so intense that it made me change the way I lived, to alter parts of myself, to become better.

We all have pivotal moments in life, I was lucky to experience one early; even more, I was lucky enough to recognize it as it was happening, and fully enjoy it. These are the moments that I am most grateful for. These are the moments that capture the heart of humanity, and define lives.

What Could (Never) Have Been

I regret not being able to do everything. Life sets up these boundaries: one life, one choice, one chance to be the best version of yourself. I really hate that. I don’t mind so much that we have to die, but I do mind that our lives are so restricted. Being forced to choose makes our choices in life more important, but it also limits us to a single experience. I know that what I want to do most in life is to write, but I wish that I could have had the chance to do a million other things.

I wanted to play the cello, be fluent in other languages, live in different countries, be a doctor, pilot, musician, actress, director, pastry chef, and world traveler. I wanted to paint, design buildings, be a dancer, spend days on end philosophizing, and so many other things. But I can’t. Maybe in some small way I may be able to dabble in my smaller passions, but I can never completely fulfill them.

My bucket list is riddled with impossibilities.

I’ve come to accept this, but when you’re in college, it is always there, festering at the back of your mind. “Pick a major, pick a career, pick a life”, as if it is so easy. The choice permeates daily life, impossible as it is, until one day you are forced into the confinement of your choice: in choosing this life, you annihilate all others. And that is what scares me.