Sunday, October 16, 2011

What is happening.

What is happening. No question mark because it feels like a statement. As if there’s no answer to be sought but just a simple declaration to be uttered—what is happening.
I miss so many things. I miss so many people. But none of it seems to matter anymore. These are all statements. I miss you. No question mark because it’s merely a statement and there won’t be an answer from you. It’s just a simple utterance, anyways.
Then there are the people who seem to be angry that life is moving along, that your life has to move along, that you can’t do anything but move along with life, and they’re angry because you aren’t there (why aren’t you there.) when you should be there. But they’ve forgotten that life moved along and when you went that way because that’s where you were supposed to go, they went the other way because they chose to. Then they don’t understand why you didn’t jog after them. Why were you not there, anyways.
Then there’s the grade on the paper you received back. The creative writing paper. What is happening. Your characters weren’t developed enough. You knew this but you still turned it in because you were writing at 4 a.m. and you knew an ending had to come so you forced it to come. The characters weren’t done yet though. I mean, what were you trying to do, anyways.
Then there was the midterm. Oh gosh, let’s just forget the midterm. Why didn’t you study more, anyways.
So many unuttered non-questions. So many things at the back of your head making you question statements. And making statements into questions. (ex. You like to write. Wait, do I? Do I really like it?)
What is happening.
So, I’m sitting here typing. Wondering what words and syntax and punctuation can do. The answer: so many things. Yet, they still ask me what English majors do. What do we do. Haha, no question mark because that doesn’t deserve an answer.

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Detective Fiction

I'm reading the Sherlock Holmes mysteries right now. My detective fiction class has gotten me into mystery again. Did you know it was the Nancy Drew series that got me into reading? For the longest time I wanted to be a detective. And then I read a ton more of other books and wanted to be/do a million other things (ride horses, be a wizard, go to wayside school, have a pet fish, swim with dolphins, discover a stream with magical capabilities, dig holes, etc.) that I realized the reason these stories fascinated me so much was because they came from the imagination. It was then that I realized how powerful books can be and how words are so beautiful and creative. Then I realized I wanted to write because all these stories were given birth to by ordinary yet amazing authors. People who picked up books when they were little, who sat at libraries and bookstores reading and imagining...until one day they picked up a pen and became as amazing as the people who wrote the stories they had read and been inspired by.