02/27/16

Still alive, still in love with DCMK! I've been editing and trying to make things perfect so hang tight! :)

06/27/15

UPDATE: Yes, I am still very much alive and very much grown! Apologies for the long break, but any stories older than the first few will most likely be on permanent hiatus (my style has changed too much for me to do much other than grimace when I attempt to re-read). I still have a couple of new fics in the making and DCMK will always have a special place in my heart so please continue to read on!

07/25/11

Sometimes we put up walls not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down.

Are you one of those people?

You might be. You might not be. You might not care. I have no way of knowing.

Different people have different ways of expressing their inner emotions. For me, it’s writing.

Writing is my life, my fairytale, my imagination, my escape. It’s all of me and all of the story wrapped into one tight tangle of words and sentences so carefully and intricately woven that I fear even I cannot tear us apart.

(Do you care? Of course not—you are merely a visitor, an apparition, perhaps, or a distant person in a distant world so far away it might as well be nonexistent.)

Writing is my joy, my inspiration, my friend, my advisor, my freedom. It’s more than words can express, higher than wings could ever soar, more exciting than any ride ever invented, and the thrill it sends through me is an addiction that, try as I might, I cannot break free from.

Writing is my home, my comfort, my shoulder to cry on, my support. Can you imagine a world without words, a life without a story? (I don’t know, I’m trying to tell myself I don’t care if you do or not—but, I do care, as much as I don’t want to.)

Writing is my enemy, my torturer, my chains, my suppressor. (Now you think to yourself, “This is contradictory. Wasn’t Writing your friend?” And in my dreams, I answer you. I tell you a story of me. I tell you a story about a little girl who loved to make things up about a life that wasn’t her own, a life where she wasn’t shunned by others because of how she looked or acted or thought. I tell you how that little girl cried in corners of streets and how she learned to move on because she discovered that no one would love her if she wouldn’t love herself first.

I tell you how she always wishes she could be better and better, because she never thinks what she does is enough. I tell you how she sometimes stares at a blank screen for hours, wishing to write but not quite knowing how, wishing to entertain but not quite having the intrigue and fascination of a good writer’s work embedded into her own, wishing to write so she can live again but not being able to.

I tell you about her struggles and hopes, dreams and failures in the hope that you will not be like the others, that you will stay and listen and perhaps accept the cup of tea that she has put before you? Will you?

I don’t know, and I never will.)

Writing is my tears, my laughter, my blood, my child. Writing is me, and (perhaps) I might be part Writing, too?

Will you read? Will you listen to the story? Will you perhaps leave a review and let me know if I have reached my impossible standards?

I have built a wall of words so high that sometimes it crashes and comes tumbling down on me, nearly suffocating me with the unstable foundation of paragraphs that were written in the midnight hours on a mere flicker of a trace of inspiration, of a dying need to once again feel that rush of satisfaction after writing a good story.

I am not only one person; I am many, many more than you could ever count. Maybe your passion is not writing. Maybe it is dancing, or watching movies, or reading, or ice skating. Maybe you do not really care about what I have to say (most likely). Maybe you are reading this sentence mainly to entertain yourself and satisfy your own curiosity about this strange piece of words. (You probably are.)

Maybe.

Sometimes we put up walls not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down.

I have given you the hammer. Are you willing to use it?

oOo