Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Progess (Or Lack Thereof)

I heard the train go by a few minutes ago. It's funny. I never heard it once throughout the whole winter, but it's suddenly back again, as familiar and regular as ever. I think I'm beginning to pay attention again, which is a good sign. The train makes me think wistfully of the summer, when I'd sit in my window and listen to the frogs singing and the crickets chirping, and the rapid percussion of the trains passing through. The spring is coming. I can smell it in the still cold air, see it in the glass edged puddles, hear it in the tentative chirping of the returning birds. I don't think I've ever been so ready for winter to end. Let the ground thaw! Let the grass grow! Let the rain fall and let the stars touch the earth. Let the warm breeze catch me and take me away.

I've been thinking about writing. Not in the sense of, I should write something down. More in the sense of why I do it and why I don't. I mostly write when I want to create something. But lately, I've been wanting to create music. I'm hopeless when it comes to instruments. I'd like to learn to play the piano, but opportunity offers me no venue to try. All I can do is write the words and make a tune in my head. It inevitably gets kept to myself. Not only that, but the words sound all wrong. I never was much of a poet.

I digress. I've mostly been thinking about reading versus writing. Anyone who knows me is aware that I am an avid reader. I love having a book with me, I love the feel of pages between my fingers, the words that paint pictures behind my eyes. I love getting caught up in a story. So often, however, I will leave my own writing to read someone else's. In my own writing, I have complete control. I can create worlds, change them and destroy them in a heartbeat. The story is mine to craft. I should be more invested in the lives of my characters. If I want a story, wouldn't I be better off to work on my own?

We live in a world where everyone and their mother wants to become a writer. Obviously I am no exception. I think, in general, we undervalue the importance of the reader. When someone says they write, but never read, it makes me want to lock them in a library for a week. How can they take themselves seriously as writers if they don't take other (published and successful) writers seriously? I may be guilty of occaisionally ignoring a tantalizing new read for my own work, but rest assured that I've abandoned my writing for a book much more often.  I'm not sure if this is a good thing. It just is.

I need to make time to fit in all the things I need to do. I should crack down on my wasted hours doing nothing on the computer. Yes, facebook is all lovely and shiny, but it won't do my homework for me, or write my stories for me. It is a yawning canyon into which I am throwing away my free time. Not just facebook, mind, but the entire internet.

I guess this means I need to get organized. I suppose I should begin by doing my homework, no matter how dull and boring it may be. And then, I will write. Then, if time permits, I will read a few chapters of Stolen.

Speaking of reading, do any of you, my readers, faithful and fleeting alike, have blogs (tumblr, independent website, whatever) that you'd like to share with me? I'd love to know what you all do. Drop me a comment with a link, and I'll check it out!

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