The world is, in ways, designed to rip us apart. To chew us up and spit us out, leaving a ravaged soul on the ground to heave its few breaths, looking only for a way to cope. A way to push through the pain, a way to conquer the fears, a way to put regrets behind you, and a way to forget what hurt you in the first place. At some point in your life, in this cruel world, you will cry. In fact, I am certain you already have. Some of us cry more than others. That's okay though, we are all different. if you are like me, you find that the most inconsequential detail breaks your heart. That we will feel that gut wrenching pain, where it all hurts so bad and we just want to tear our hearts out and stop feeling, to let our eyes remain dry, and to go with the wind, that overwhelming desire is in us all. Some have already felt it, like they'd hit rock bottom, some haven't. Regardless of how badly you have felt, I know without a fraction of a doubt you have been afraid or hurt or sorry or disappointed. That is how the world works. The lucky few are the ones who have found that way to cope.
"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you." -Ray Bradbury
I found my way only about six years ago. Granted, I still cry a lot and stress a lot and drive everyone around me mad, but I don't know where I'd be without it, and I don't want to. Writing came to me, I didn't come to it. No, I wanted to be an artist. I still do, in ways. I enjoy art a lot, know I can sell it because I have, and hope to go to school for costuming. However, One thing in particular drives me, is always there when I need it. I started writing at a very young age, silly little stories, but ones with a purpose. When I was too young to know that A) not everyone had nightmares every night and B) talking actually kind of helped, I started putting my dreams into writing. They were scary, and I mostly did not share them, but they were a coping mechanism in the simplest, most innocent of forms. I think I was ten or eleven when I decided I was going to write a book. It happened in stages. Promptly after deciding I'd like to make something of those fantastic essay grades(always my best subject, even now as I struggle through AP courses many of which are making me crazy), I started "BRAINSTORMING".
This basically entails laying in bed until one in the morning coming up with wild stories full of horrendous plot-holes. Then I began attempting to write them. Needless to say, I failed miserably. I still have them, each attempt at a new absolutely impersonal, inhuman, awful story that lasted at most 70 messy pages. I loved fantasy, and I knew I couldn't give that up, but I was missing something-something human. I started writing one day and it morphed into a mix of those insane ideas and my dream-based scribbling of childhood. My fears, my passions, my anxieties, were pushed onto characters. Unreal characters, perhaps, but relatable ones. It blossomed into a book, and I was walking on air. Nothing hurt. Nothing felt scary. Everything, no matter how hard, was going to be alright. I could cope. Of course, on and on it went, until I sit here today with seven completed novels.
I am very much afraid. Life is hard, it always will be, regardless of that slight high, Id o feel pain, a lot of it. However, writing has become something almost magical. Just for a while, in a characters head, I can escape my own problems. This is how I learned why some people write so many novels; because why be destroyed by reality, when everything plays out so nicely on paper? Why be plagued by the truth?
I love this quote very, very deeply. I do not ignore reality. On the contrary, I am much to entwined with it. Rather, I fear that if I cannot hold onto the hope I get in those sloppy words on notebook paper, I will actually lose hope.
Coping may be different for you, like I said, we are all different. But, you know, it can't hurt to give it a shot. Write a poem, or a blog, or a short story or even a diary entry, see if it does anything for you. It's just a suggestion, but I highly recommend it.
"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you." -Ray Bradbury
I found my way only about six years ago. Granted, I still cry a lot and stress a lot and drive everyone around me mad, but I don't know where I'd be without it, and I don't want to. Writing came to me, I didn't come to it. No, I wanted to be an artist. I still do, in ways. I enjoy art a lot, know I can sell it because I have, and hope to go to school for costuming. However, One thing in particular drives me, is always there when I need it. I started writing at a very young age, silly little stories, but ones with a purpose. When I was too young to know that A) not everyone had nightmares every night and B) talking actually kind of helped, I started putting my dreams into writing. They were scary, and I mostly did not share them, but they were a coping mechanism in the simplest, most innocent of forms. I think I was ten or eleven when I decided I was going to write a book. It happened in stages. Promptly after deciding I'd like to make something of those fantastic essay grades(always my best subject, even now as I struggle through AP courses many of which are making me crazy), I started "BRAINSTORMING".
This basically entails laying in bed until one in the morning coming up with wild stories full of horrendous plot-holes. Then I began attempting to write them. Needless to say, I failed miserably. I still have them, each attempt at a new absolutely impersonal, inhuman, awful story that lasted at most 70 messy pages. I loved fantasy, and I knew I couldn't give that up, but I was missing something-something human. I started writing one day and it morphed into a mix of those insane ideas and my dream-based scribbling of childhood. My fears, my passions, my anxieties, were pushed onto characters. Unreal characters, perhaps, but relatable ones. It blossomed into a book, and I was walking on air. Nothing hurt. Nothing felt scary. Everything, no matter how hard, was going to be alright. I could cope. Of course, on and on it went, until I sit here today with seven completed novels.
I am very much afraid. Life is hard, it always will be, regardless of that slight high, Id o feel pain, a lot of it. However, writing has become something almost magical. Just for a while, in a characters head, I can escape my own problems. This is how I learned why some people write so many novels; because why be destroyed by reality, when everything plays out so nicely on paper? Why be plagued by the truth?
I love this quote very, very deeply. I do not ignore reality. On the contrary, I am much to entwined with it. Rather, I fear that if I cannot hold onto the hope I get in those sloppy words on notebook paper, I will actually lose hope.
Coping may be different for you, like I said, we are all different. But, you know, it can't hurt to give it a shot. Write a poem, or a blog, or a short story or even a diary entry, see if it does anything for you. It's just a suggestion, but I highly recommend it.