I've tried my inexperienced hand at writing many a time, coming out of the attempts a little bruised and scratched after fighting off the badly worded beasts and friends of my imaginings and out of breath from re-reading my many long sentences with minimal punctuation because I must stay true to my writing style.
Just last night I realized the past maybe 10 -- okay that's a bit generous -- 7 years I've been trying to write about people when I have only just begun to comprehend something of the human nature.
What does a young 15 year old know of people? What does she know of herself?
I found it very boring trying to draw up a character because he needs substance to fill his form and substance is the deep things in all of us that, to be honest, are not very exciting to think about, never mind imagine for my imaginary, very exciting protagonist.
But an imaginary story needs a real hero. What makes us 'real' is our baggage that we carry around each day like Christian in Pilgrim's Progress carried his burden of sin. Even those of us who are saved pick up our worries like a globe on our backs, in true Atlas-style.
And the everyday conflict in out hearts and heads is quite boring (mundane) and all anyone wants to do is share our little mundan-ities, connecting with everyone else (who's also mundane by the way). We're all just ordinary. Now I'm not being pessimistic here. We're all the same, with the same needs but just different enough to make life interesting. No one is special because everyone is special and that's alright because life isn't even about us and about being great. It's not that great being great really. Do you think Alexander the Great was better than you?
My point before my fingers started typing was that I've grown a little in understanding and I might try my hand, again, at imagining some characters, stirring them together with a few cups of calamity and baking at 180 degrees. We might just have a delicious book on our hands.
Just last night I realized the past maybe 10 -- okay that's a bit generous -- 7 years I've been trying to write about people when I have only just begun to comprehend something of the human nature.
What does a young 15 year old know of people? What does she know of herself?
I found it very boring trying to draw up a character because he needs substance to fill his form and substance is the deep things in all of us that, to be honest, are not very exciting to think about, never mind imagine for my imaginary, very exciting protagonist.
But an imaginary story needs a real hero. What makes us 'real' is our baggage that we carry around each day like Christian in Pilgrim's Progress carried his burden of sin. Even those of us who are saved pick up our worries like a globe on our backs, in true Atlas-style.
And the everyday conflict in out hearts and heads is quite boring (mundane) and all anyone wants to do is share our little mundan-ities, connecting with everyone else (who's also mundane by the way). We're all just ordinary. Now I'm not being pessimistic here. We're all the same, with the same needs but just different enough to make life interesting. No one is special because everyone is special and that's alright because life isn't even about us and about being great. It's not that great being great really. Do you think Alexander the Great was better than you?
My point before my fingers started typing was that I've grown a little in understanding and I might try my hand, again, at imagining some characters, stirring them together with a few cups of calamity and baking at 180 degrees. We might just have a delicious book on our hands.
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