Barn cabin in Quebec, Canada. Submitted by Ian Brochu.
Barn cabin in Quebec, Canada. Submitted by Ian Brochu.
Nicola Yeoman, from the series Scrapbook Circles
Because I like sharing writing processes. I’ve been pondering this story for a while and I’m not sure yet what the plot is, but finally this morning the characters became a bit clearer in my mind and I thought I would share.
(It hasn’t been revised or anything, this is a quick first draft)
Everything had always felt so tight to her. So closed off. That’s why she liked sports. That’s why the only thing she was truly good at was running as fast as she could through a field, through the grass. That’s why she could climbed mountains, and why she rode her bike everywhere, even though she could definitely afford a car. Everything was always so tight: the rooms she was forced to stay in at home, the classrooms where she had to sit still for hours, her own skin. Nothing was ever open enough, except the skies and the fields and the burning muscles in her thighs when she had run for too long.
That’s why she didn’t get Georgia. Or why she could spend hours with her, sitting in Georgia’s room watching Star Wars and episodes of Buffy and never ever feel like going outside. Never feel like she had to leave. Georgia, who lived in rooms most of the time: her bedroom, her computer, her television, her mind. Georgia, who seemed to prefer four walls to the outside. Rose didn’t get how she did it. How she could live like that without pulling at her hair and screaming and pounding against the tightness until it broke away. And she didn’t understand how Georgia could make her feel like it was okay, like she wasn’t about to be swallowed whole, like her skin was stretched just enough across her muscles and not trying to suffocate her. There was no explanation for it.
Except that maybe Georgia was a field in herself and that being with her was like running a marathon.
(PLEASE DO NOT REBLOG?)
went and tagged most of my writing and other personal entries on this blog, so it would be easier to peruse.
I feel like reblogging a lot of them, though. So many are still so relevant even a year later.
Also, weird picture of my face.
Is is me, or my blog used to be much better than what it is now?
I shan’t ever be a writer I think. I keep loosing my words, they scatter on my wooden floors, like the pearls of a broken necklace, and no matter how many I pick up again, there always seem to be some missing. And every time it happens I lose some more, until one day I will be left with prepositions and articles and empty stories that don’t tell anything and nobody wants to read, while my words continue to live happily without me between the cracks in the floor and the dark, dusty corners of my bedroom.
(reblogging because it’s relevant today. how sad things are when something you wrote 7 months ago is so appropriate, that it’s as if Time didn’t exist, as if you are the same as you were)
What I mean is irrelevant.
I’m far more interested in knowing what YOU feel when you read my words. What they mean to YOU.
Art, of any kind, is a dialogue, a conversation. As the artist I’ve done my part, I’ve said my piece, in the form of words, or paint, or music, or dance, or whatever else, now as the reader/viewer it’s your turn to talk, to react, to take in and make it your own.
If you really want to know what I felt while writing something, let me know and I’ll tell you, but to be honest I’m far more interested in knowing what it means to you. It’s partly why I share it here. I am fascinated by this process more than in the act of creation itself.
Does it remind you of your childhood? Does it make you sad? Happy? Lonely? Does it talk to your bones? Do you smell the salty air of the sea when I write of the woods? Do you find yourself smiling when I talk of heartbreak? Seriously, tell me, and I’ll probably love you forever :)
p.s. kinda relevant to the John Green post going around.
This made me so happy!
It’s like you wrote a mini fanfiction with me in it :)
I LOVE YOU. xxx
Um. I’m not sure what to tell you.
I want to tell you to write write write if you feel like it, no matter who reads you or not, but I also understand the desire to share and be heard. It’s part of the beauty of art, this sharing and connecting and loving.
As for tumblr, I would suggest to just start your own blog (if you haven’t already). Post whatever you like: your writing, pictures, songs, quotes etc. Tag everything (this will help you gain followers if you want) and just…be patient.
As for the spilling of words and the fear of having only a blank body left, I find that the more I spill of myself, the fuller I feel.
Hope that helps a little, please write again if you want to know something more specific or have more worries :) xx
