Tag Archives: fear

Time to Write Your Own Reality Check, Dear Storyteller.

13 Feb

Following someone else “Writing-Routine” isn’t going to magically fill the gaps in the story or book you’re writing.

Your experiences is what color your novel, and there’s a guarantee that no one in the world will understand your story better than you.

The answers to your problems, why it might seem unbearable to write because your writer’s block is so horrible, is in yourself.

You know what you’re going through.

If you’re anything like me, you’re great at giving other people advice. Your passion seems to be catching, and you have the habit of accidentally inspiring friends to take action while you’re talking of your own dreams. You seem to be able to inspire them, that it seems they are ruthlessly pursuing their passions. You seem to be able to talk down their dreams, to earth, to the possible plane.

You start to wonder, if you’re able to inspire people so well, to solve their own problems of self-esteem, or their “can’t-do-attitudes” why the hell are you so listless? Why are you so little motivated to move the mountains required to conquer your own dreams?

It’s you.

It’s your problem. Maybe it’s a fear of success, maybe it’s the fear or rejection, maybe it’s not fear at all, but your own complacency of failure. Instead of psychoanalyzing the people around you, seeing into their souls to see their problems… maybe it’s time for a little self-reflection.

After all, you’re the only person in the world who you can be sure is actually being honest with you, which makes great character fodder.

Look to yourself, Find out your fears, your creative blocks, and what you believe you can actually achieve and move from there.

As a writer, as a creator of worlds, you literally can shape mountains if you so please, so why in the hell are you not writing? Why in the hell can’t you finish that book? Why in the hell are you worrying so much about what happens after the book is completed rather than writing the book.

You’re a dreamer, all good storytellers are… I’m not saying deny your nature. Harvest it. If you can dream of the rewards of being an wonderfully illustrious writer… you can certainly dream up a book, with conflict, character motivation, and either a resolution or new beginning for an end.

You became, or decided you were a writer for a reason.

Maybe it was because you always enjoyed reading or being told stories as a little kid… maybe you found the nature of self-reflection calming. Maybe you wrote because you had to. It was a way to escape your little reality, and now you want to share it with the world.

Whatever your original reason was, you’ve certainly forgotten it. If you’re still looking at “successful” writers to solve your problems.

Figure it out, the you that you were, is most certainly apart of the you that you are now. The you that is having problems finding the passion, most certainly can take a page out of the book of the former you that wrote for hours, tirelessly.

Introduce the Passionate You, and the slightly-bitter-having-problems-finding-that-fire You, and let them affect each other. Let the one with their boots planted firm into the ground, reach and connect with the one in the clouds, and together allow them to make your story, the reason why you started writing, the story that you have been born to tell, rain down upon the world.

It’s that simple.

You’ve lost passion, right? Find it. You’re lost in your own story? Give yourself directions. You’re having problems with ending your story? End it, all good things come to an end, and I guarantee, that your story that’s changed you over the course of writing is good enough. Some things aren’t meant to be resolved and that’s the nature of the beast. Put a bandaid over it, and carry on.

Confession: I desperately want to act.

27 Jan Sunrise silhoutte

Shortly after in 3rd grade I was told that I was not going to be in the gifted program, because I talked too much. I was told that in the program, you could do whatever you wanted to, and got a zillion field trips… it broke my heart.

That moment became something that defined me, that has shaped my life in so many ways.

That’s when I became shy. I was afraid of talking too much. I was afraid that my mouth would screw me over, to the point, of no-return.

I guess that would make it, my first, real, original fear.

You see, I’ve always been fearless. Before I could properly walk, my Dad tells me, I was climbing and subsequently swinging from the cupboards in our kitchen. At 4 years old, I broke my neck, and heights… sort of became a problem. But I could deal, I just got a little vertigo, and then, I’d cope. Didn’t stop me from jumping off of our roof all the time, and at the neighbor’s house we’d jump out of the 2nd story window, onto a tramp at basement level.

At around 6, during a particularly high-stakes game of hide-and-go-seek, I resorted to hiding in the dryer, and my little sister started the dryer, and ran off. Claustrophobia, ensued after I had to kick out the door of the dryer to get out, and avoid getting more bruised and hot than bearable. But that only lead to some slight anxiety, when I feel trapped. Most people are anxious when trapped, it’s not a debilitating fear, and it didn’t stop me from napping in our linen closet on the shelves, in a less than 1×1 foot space.

After an encounter with a teenage boy at the not-at-all-ripe age of 3 or 4, my comfort in regards to anything of sexual nature was damaged.

At 10, as a renowned tomboy who could kick ass at any sport, and literally kick anyone’s ass, I lost my guy friends because girls became “icky” and were too weak suddenly to play with. Which lead to the ultimate distrust of the opposite gender, and consequently most people. (You have to realize, these were guys I had hung out with since I was 4, and had spent the majority of my life hanging out with them, who suddenly dropped me, due to what was under my shorts.)

At 7, when I wanted to be a ballerina, and my dad finally took me to sign up for a dance class, and we left without me being in a class because it was so goddamn expensive. I resorted to my much more achievable dream of being a rock star, and wrote a million songs, only to be told that my gift was in song-writing and not singing.

I watched movies, lots of inappropriately adult movies that a girl as impressionable as me, and willing should not have been exposed to. Which led me to confessing my love of our next-door neighbor Ben, at the age of 8, who I so did not actually. Which led us to kissing a lot because that’s what people in love in the movies did.

I determined that when I grow up I was going to own a Siberian Tiger when I grew up after a trip to the zoo at 4, when I learned that siber-toothed tigers had been extinct for a long time. (My first choice of a pet, prior.)

My dream of becoming a clothing designer was dashed when my best friend at 12 Nicole, was better at sketching designs.

My dream of being a vampire, also was dashed when I reached 13, and still had no evidence that any real vampires had ever been alive, ever.

My dream of being a stuntman, is still alive, but I know that it would freak out my Dad, considering how scared he is of me using my tax return money to buy a motorcycle.

A job as an Art Director, Casting Director, or Pyrotechnic Technician is incredibly hard to come by. In Filmstudies/Filmmaking, I quickly learned that being the director, was not exactly where I belonged… or at least not when my scaredy-cat friends refused to get behind the camera, and I had to be the talent in every movie we made, as well as direct.

After every single play I’ve been in, (including 2 different versions of A Christmas Carol, oddly enough when I hate Christmas, plus rehearsals for a Christmas Play during Halloween is lame) I’ve always been inconsolably depressed, after closing night. Not only because being on stage is exhilarating and fulfilling, but because I always miss the weird in-jokes that happen during a production while waiting in the wings. As well as the queer mischievous nature that comes while working in a completely empty theater that may or may not be haunted.

Being an Actor was my older sister’s dream. Being a singer was my younger sister’s dream. Being an artist, writer, was supposed to be my dream.

It is in ways. I will always love writing, and creating art… but it is a lonely, solitary business.

All of the things above, as well as my weirdo ability to completely memorize a movie after seeing it 2x, are factors in why I want to desperately be an actor.

Being an actor, combines so many of the things that I love in this world.

I’m a dreamer. I do want to try everything out in this world. A production, it’s magical, whether it’s film or stage, you get to create something breathtaking with weird milk-water rain, clever camera angles, waving a thing of sheet metal to create thunder and lightening. You get to tell stories (which if the above doesn’t tell you about my love of stories, I don’t know what does). You get to show real, raw truth by deceit, illusion, strings and pulleys.

I can’t say there’s anything that tells more about human nature, than people pretending to be living lives, that they don’t live, loving people they don’t love in that way, pretending to be people who they aren’t. Trying to resolve a neat little problem in 3 acts or less, all while trying to possibly fit it under an umbrella overlying theme about what it means to be human.

I love memorizing lines, I love pretending to be someone and experiencing things that I’ll probably never experience in my real life. I love that I get the chance to go into the woods to escape my mother (who isn’t actually my mother) who locked me away in a tower, and meet my brother who’s trying to help his wife conceive a child by finding a cow white as milk, a cape as red as blood, hair as yellow as corn,and a slipper as pure as gold.

It’s the stuff that dreams are made of. It’s what my dreams are made of.

I realized this last semester when I was working 50 hours a week, signed up for 18 credit hours, and still wanted to audition for my school’s production of a space-age version of Romeo and Juliet (I was hoping for the part of Mercutio, because he’s the only one I liked.), and was heartbroken when I was too busy to do it.

I miss acting. Like writing, it’s an outlet, it’s a dream, and just a little unrealistic. But good things happen. It makes me happy, no matter what little parts I get. I want to do it. Plus, I seem to be pretty good at it.

I haven’t told anyone, the extent of how much I want to strike out in California and join a wonderful community of artists, and creative types… but right now, I don’t see many other options in my dream future.  For someone who has a pretty hard times limiting their options. That’s a pretty freaking big deal.

Good always Triumphs Over Evil

7 Jan

So I got to talk about some crap, because it might make me feel a little less angry….

 

I was one of those children that came from an abusive home. The abuser happened to be my mother. Sadly enough, any major issue with a life event can be traced directly to her.

My weird inability to accept imperfections came from her telling me to scrub for hours.  My hatred and distrustfulness of new people  stems from her screwing me over and then, proving it again by my dad being desperate enough to marry another crazy woman (who luckily is mostly out of the picture now…)

My poverty, the reason in me being a semester late in college was caused by her, stealing my childhood home from my father the breadwinner and the only one with a job. My belief that hospitals are basically obsolete stem from staying too long in them… from her hypochondriac ways.

She’s screwed over my entire family and ripped me from many of the people I care about.

She’s literally, clinically insane. She has quite a few problems with her, and from the moment that my father tried to get her help, she’s been plotting how she would ruin his life.

She has.

Amazingly enough, my Dad has the ability to brush it off and pretend like he’s got a shot at retiring.

Her contribution to my collection of emotional scars has been unprecedented. Ranging from my brother being whipped, for stopping her from nearly killing me, to causing us to basically starve for a couple weeks.

There isn’t a person that deserves to be killed more than her, in my eyes.

My fear of being published (Which is a terrible fear for one who means to be a writer) comes from her trying to track me down and hitch a ride on a rode to fame… taking credit for raising me.

I’ve sworn to myself that if it ever happened, I’d smear her name so horribly that her remaining loved ones couldn’t look her in the eye, let alone strangers.

She’s found me on almost every site I’ve joined. I’ve had to block out things, lie about things to try and hide from her. If anything happens to make my family’s presence known… like a wedding, or a visit from someone on her side of the family… she comes. She has her new husband spy on the house and take pictures and messages or calls us nonstop. Calling my Dad names so awful that only she’s so evil to say such things about such a good man.

My grandma had to get a restraining order because she tried to knock her car off the road.

I don’t want to see this woman in my life, or connected in anyway. I avoid seeing her, not because I’m afraid, but because I don’t want to do jail time.

She deserves jail time at the very least for what she’s done to us. Unfortunately because children don’t have a voice in the U.S. she’ll never do any time.

There’s a reason why I’ll never let my voice go unheard.

She sent my little sister a message, through someone else’s profile and I plan on making sure she learns not to come into contact with us, ever again.

She cannot harm us any longer.

-Aspiringtobesomeone

I’m out of my head…

13 Sep

I have no idea where I’m going in my life. As I can consider myself (at least slightly) Bohemian. There’s nothing wrong with that, in fact, in many ways that’s where I want to be. I don’t want to plan things out anymore… I don’t want to plan out my life and be disappointed when things don’t turn out the way I envisioned them.

Fact of the matter is: plans fall through. Almost anything that I’ve planned out a week in advance hasn’t happened. Anything I plan out 30 minutes prior to actually doing it, does. So why should I plan out my life? What college I’m going to, what my major is, what my profession will be, if I’m going to get married, if I’ll have kids, if I’ll be a skank who makes any lucky son of gun who gets me for a night wear a condom? There’s too many unknowns in life to plan.

I don’t know what’s going to happen in the 12 hours before I go to sleep…. We could be hit by a tornado and be homeless by then. People change their views, their opinions, their selves all based on what happens to them. I don’t know the future me, and I don’t know if that ‘me’ is going to appreciate any choices I make for her, now… I know who I want to be. So far, I just haven’t been that. So far, everything I’ve planned out seems to go to pieces. Even when it comes down to myself.

You think I wanted to grow-up to be a cynical, pessimist that is too afraid to share her opinion, because she’s afraid that when people disagree (and they will) it will start a fight… and then she’ll turn into something that she can’t control?

Naw, I wanted to be somebody that people would listen to, I wanted to be the line between right and wrong, a guiding star. I wanted to be someone that actually matters in this world.

I chose the rule of invisible myself. I chose for all the kids in my school to not even notice me, so they couldn’t get in the way of my life. I’ve also trapped myself into this role. Maybe, after graduation, I’ll move somewhere… where nobody knows me, and I can be my literal self, and maybe I’ll even go to my high school reunions, and people may not even have an idea who I am, or maybe they will, and they’ll think, ‘she’s changed.’ The fact would be, I haven’t, not one bit.

School is either chilling out now, or I’m getting used to it, whichever. Either way, it’s not as hard as it was last week. I feel better about it. However, I can feel myself blinking onto everyone’s radar. I don’t know how I feel about that. In one way I’m happy because then everyone will know what kind of person I really am.

In another way, I love being anonymous, in the crowd just enough to know what’s going on, but apart enough that I can observe without bias. I think I might be sad to know that I won’t have it again, here. People remember you, you can’t change fact, once you’re noticed, there’s no going back. You just exist. You become known, and all those little things that you used to get away with, are spread and heard and seen. There goes your anonymity, with it, your freedom. Not that it was ever that free, not that you’ll be less free with your discovery, it’s just which freedoms are important to you?

I don’t know, I’m in a philosophical mood, it might be the storm that’s coming… it might be that I haven’t worked on my book since school started… it might be that I haven’t eaten anything yet. Who knows? I still feel it’s important to go into your life… and move a few things around, see if your perspective changes with it.

I feel alone in anonymity, alone in my unplanned life… alone in all my views… singular. Like there’s only one of me. Uniqueness and Singularity are worlds apart. One, you’re in common with at least something, part of something… with Singularity, it’s just you. Sometimes that’s a good thing, sometimes it’s a bad thing.

I’m not saying I’m depressed or lonely or anything… just alone. It feels nice right now… and yet, I wish I did have a future that I believe I can just map out… like my peers…. I wish I could have that undeniable optimism that for once, things were going to go my way. I can’t.

I’ve lost my expectations to many things in life, with each major, life-changing event… I’ve lost 3, 4 sometimes… Now I have none. It’s weird to not expect anything, no loss…. yet an emptiness lingers.

If I were going to write about someone without a soul, I think that last paragraph is the closest you could get to it.

Well, good night fellas… sleep tight, plan well.
Truly,
♥Aspiringtobesomeone