A placid lake; a rushing river; a stunning waterfall . . . most people see them as a series of pictures, taking place one after another.
I see them as words, rushing and tumbling together until I find a quiet moment to write them down.
I am an author. I don't live to write; I write to live.
If you were to cut me off from the rest of the world, I would live. I am not social; I do not express myself vocally. My voice is imperfect. I stutter sometimes, trip over words. Cut me off from my computer or paper and pencil, and I'll whither away into nothingness. In writing, I can acheive perfection. How very Borg of me.
Example; I walk outside on a winter's day and glance around me, my mind already describing the majestic glitter of the snow on the ground. I breathe in. That too is described.
"The ice creeps through my lungs into the very center of my being. I shiver, but I love the cold like a dear friend. It is my balm to heal all wounds."
This doesn't have to be how I feel at the moment . . . maybe I'm describing how I once felt in the dream, or maybe how I felt the other day when my teacher handed back my paper with the big red "B" on it. It doesn't matter. I could supress a memory for years. It inevitably comes back to the surface when I write.
Writing hasn't always been my release. I used to draw, and, before that, sing. But I found myself more obsessed with perfection as time went on. . . and I could not draw like a master or sing like an angel. Writing was what worked for me. I took examples and styles from books I'd read and mashed them into a style that became my signature. If I see something I like, I try it. If it works, I keep it. If not . . . it's gone.
To me, and many others, writing is black and white, in a metaphorical as well as literal sense. It's simple, repetitive. A way to let random musings and emotions onto paper and not hurt anybody.
I don't write for others. My writing is my own; only for me. If I choose to share it, I share carefully. In writing, I'm essentially pouring my soul into it. Like I'm creating a horcrux, for you Harry Potter fans. I'm careful with my horcruxes. I don't let just anybody read them.
What do I do, then, when it's time to turn in a writing assignment for school? I do exactly what the teacher expects of us. I do what I have to to get an "A". Only very recently have I let a teacher see some of my "me" work.
I once got an e-mail from my cousin, whom I use to edit my stories, in response to a story I wrote. It went, "I don't know how you do it. You're amazing; you take a random mess of words and turn it into music."
So, what am I? A musician or an author?
My answer? I am both. I create something out of nothing. God-like, almost.
Why do I do it? Simply, because I can.
This is sims2girl, off to describe each miraculous breath
*Click*
