Am I a Cliché?

I’ve been feeling weird the last few months. && the one thing that has plagued my mind the most is whether or not I’m just an average cliché or not. I know it’s silly to think of yourself like but it’s there. Floating around in my brain.

Since I was about eighteen I have been trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. What is it that I WANT to be – to do. I can always remember being younger and wanting to be in the medical field, help people – but once I lost my mother my mood shifted and I didn’t want to deal with the pain of telling their loved ones that I lost their person. So I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since.

But now I feel as if I may just be another cliché.

I can always remember having the love for writing – which isn’t a big secret if you know me. I remember writing my very first poem in school then spending years writing poems (I no longer have any of them, which is probably a good thing) before I slowly moved into writing short stories and then began my first novel.

But why is that making me feel like I do?

I’ve noticed lately that EVERYONE is a writer. If they don’t have a career path, any idea what they want out of life, or are stay-at-home mom’s – they are automatically a writer. They keep blogs, posting daily, write stories that they share with people, and self-publish novels that they write in about a week.

If they are not “writers” they are ‘chefs’ or ‘photographers’. *SIDE NOTE: I’m not bashing writers, chefs or photographers &&& you’ll see why as you read on.*

My second love is cooking and secretly, deep down inside, I would love to open a restaurant. Third love – photography. I even bought an EOS Rebel 35 MM camera when I was eighteen thinking that I will become a photographer. I even looked into photography schools to learn how to be better and develop film myself.

But just like when it comes to ‘writers’, a lot of people say they are photographer or chefs because they don’t know what to do with their lives. When I was looking into the photography idea I noticed just how many people do that themselves and I thought ‘if everyone is a photographer then what am I doing? I cannot compete with the whole state of Oklahoma.” (I’ll always have a soft spot for photography and any chance I get I take pictures for people.) But unfortunately, most of the people in my life call the other “photographers” around to do their photos. Or… they use their phone and take their own. That’s fine, whatever.

But am I just like the rest of people trying to do something with my life that EVERYONE seems to be doing? I will always have a love for writing, but am I being ridiculous in thinking that I will be published?

I just turned 30. I am 30 years old. I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything in my life. Sitting here thinking about my writing and I realize that I have never finished a full story. Even Frost, the novel I’ve been working on since November of 2012 – I’m still not finished with it. I actually decided to “rewrite” it. Now I’m sitting here with a half finished novel and I honestly think it’s complete crap. I wonder sometimes if that’s why I haven’t finished it. I even try to tell myself that Stephen King threw away Carrie – he hated that story. Threw it in the trash.

When it comes to cooking I’m perfectly find just cooking with the family or for them and friends. I can live my life doing that. It’s fine. One day I might open a restaurant, but I won’t be bummed if I never open one.

Photography is a very slow dying out occupation because of cell phone cameras and small pocket sized digital cameras. Why pay someone to do something your sister can do?

Writing. I have had a love for that since I was ten or eleven. (No, I didn’t start writing when I was four – that’s dumb.) In 2012 I told myself I’d be finished and published by 30 – but here I am. With neither crossed off my list.

I guess what I’m trying to figure out is what do I want to be doing for the rest of my life? I know for a fact that it’s not my job right now. I do NOT want to make it a career because I barely like it. (No offense to the job itself.) Honestly, I know the answer, but does it make me a cliché knowing that I don’t like my job, don’t really have any future plans but I want to be a published author?

Dear Diary : #1

I don’t know what happened to me. I used to be the epitome of writing. Wrote constantly. Anything && everything I could. But now – not so much. I know I complain about writing a lot, but I promise this isn’t going to be thirty-three paragraphs about how I just can’t seem to write anymore.

Nope. Not in the least.

Today’s Complaint = I am in a reading rut!

(This also won’t be a thirty-two paragraph rant, either.)

I have tried a few different styles && a part of me thinks that is what may actually have put me in the rut. Sadly, I LOVE romance novels. Always have. The idea that someone could have the perfect relationship – the kind they want, anyway – makes me happy. Even if it’s between two fake people with fake families and fake friends. The thoughts came from a real person. So it counts somewhere.

Me? I love reading romance, any kinds. I love writing romance – all kinds. (No “smut”, though, I can’t seem to get through that without laughing at myself.) So no worries about getting the next 50 Shades of Grey.

Romance is my thing – has been since I could remember. I love every aspect of a good romance novel. But I like taking a romance novel and putting a horrible twist to it, so when the love reunites it’s even stronger than it ever was.

So I started my novel. I figured I could do whatever I wanted and put the characters through what I choose fitting. So November of 2012 I began my novel (“Frost”). Oh, boy, was I excited. The excitement is still there it’s just a tad burned out. Not because I don’t want to finish it, I do! Oh trust me, I want to finish it. But I guess my goals just didn’t add up and now I’m a little on the sad part.

What goals?

I decided, when I began writing again (around nineteen), that I wanted to be published by 30. That seems like a good amount of years to write a novel, send out manuscripts, and get someone to fall in love with my story.

The problem?

I’m a little under two months away from joining the 30’s Club &&& I still haven’t finished the novel. Yeah, no reason to reread that line – you read it correctly. I have been working on the novel for five years and I am still not finished.

Well, I have technically finished. I have been working on the corrections since 2015 when I finished the rough draft. But nope… still haven’t finished. So I made myself a new goal, that I am trying my hardest to keep – but I have moments where I can’t seem to keep my attention long enough to correct it.

I want to finish it completely by my 30th birthday. However, I honestly don’t see it happening, not because I don’t want to, but because it’s less than two months away and I’m still correcting chapter 11 out of… 24?

Am I up to twenty-three paragraphs yet?

I have faith, though, lots &&& lots of faith that I will finish the novel. When? I’m not 100% sure, but I know I will. Getting it published may be a different story. (Most companies, now, don’t take unsolicited manuscripts anymore.)

Anyhoo…

I’ll stop complaining now and go back to watching “Vampire Dairies” &&& playing Fallout Shelter on the PC. Yes, I do realize I should be editing (which is why most people know me as a procrastinator) but I’m not.

Go figure.

Need The Pickle.

I’m not much of a gambler, not because I don’t want to win, but because after I spend the money I feel horrible for spending money that could have went for something else; anything else, more important. This week I decided to swallow my pride and actually agree to “gamble” with money that was hard earned. What happened and what I learned is as follows.

Wednesday, January 6, I was digging through some of my mother’s stuff that she had in her purse (the coupons that expired in 1997 made me laugh out loud) and in it was two lottery tickets that hadn’t be bought. Basically what I think happened is that my mother went into a store, more than likely with my grandmother, and filled out two lottery tickets. Walked around the store for a couple minutes & then decided to not buy them for the fact that she probably didn’t have the extra ten dollars to do so. So instead, she shoved them into her purse which eventually fell to the bottom where she forgot they were and went on with her life. But then, I could be wrong.

From that point on that’s all I heard about. The Powerball is over 500 million. All day – every time I turned around – I joked about it at one point saying “If I believed in signs I would totally buy me a lottery ticket.” I was joking, of course, because I’m not a gambler.

By Thursday night the boyfriend & I decided to buy a ticket – nothing special just a couple numbers. It wasn’t anything to get in a fuss over but I will say this much, I can’t speak for everyone that gambles or who has bought a lottery ticket in the past, but for a brief solid minute when I was handed my ticket I was calm. Nothing bothered me and I felt free. I felt as if there was nothing that would bother me again and all my problems were taken care of. I felt a sense of being free. Quickly many things ran through my mind that I could get or help with. I pictured a house and a new car (need a bigger house & have had the same car for ten years), kitchen full of groceries, and new furniture. I pictured the looks on family’s faces when I handed the more money than they could even count in their heads. I pictured tipping a waitress 100$ just because it would make them smile.

For a single, sad, brief moment…

I slammed myself back into reality because logically I knew that I wouldn’t win & wouldn’t be a multibillionaire. That’s common sense but we did play. We bought us a ticket and spent 15$. I waited two days until the numbers came out and nothing. I didn’t match one number on five games.

It’s a saddening feeling when you realize that you’re not lucky enough to win something that could change you & everyone around you in an instant. Now I sit here and I wonder whether I want another ticket, or two, to try for the 1.3 billion dollars that it’s up to. The only thing I do know is what my grandfather once told me, “You will never win if you don’t play.” It’s the truest thing anyone has ever said. But I don’t know if I can afford to blow 15$ to 30$ again just so my numbers aren’t drawn.

Now I find myself wondering how other people feel. Do they sit around and mope for hours afterwards because their numbers sucked and didn’t win anything? Do they just toss the piece of paper into the trash and go about their day? Did they, for a single brief moment, think this could change my mind & I hope I win?

The only thing I know for sure is that life goes on and I have dreams and such. Will my dream make me a multibillionaire? Probably not – I’m not Stephen King, E.L James, or some other author that has sold 10,000,000 books, made 5,000,000 movies and receive 100,000,000 dollars. (That seems exaggerated.)

Meh…

On a totally new subject, I haven’t talked about it much lately because I haven’t done much on it (still editing) but the book is slowly coming together. However I came to a stop – sort of. Ever since I began writing this story I have decided that it was a sandwich. Beginning is the bread, middle is the bologna, cheese, mayo, pickles, and the ending is bread. For a while I have felt like something was missing that I couldn’t pin point not that I haven’t tried. Tonight I finally realized what was missing. Of course, though, I cannot go into great detail. We’ll just say that now that I have figured it out, I can fix it. Sadly, at the moment, I don’t have the answers && I’m pretty sure it’s going to add at least three chapters into the story. This may be complicated… But all I do know is if I want this book to be half way decent, I have to figure out this pickle. Without the pickle I have a whole in the whole story. I wouldn’t worry about it but I have mentioned some of it. I could just take it out, but then I have to take out a lot more && I feel like this needs to be in it.

I just don’t know – I just know there is way too much to think about &&& not enough time to figure it out. Okay, that’s a lie – I have all the time in the world unless I want to finish this book completely by the age of 30. Yes, I gave myself a two year gap. It’s not unreasonable to put a two year gap to finish a book that I’ve basically finished. All I have to do is finish the edit process – figure out my pickle – edit again, read it completely through, throw it away because I hate it – dig it out of the trash because I worked too hard on it, flick off the nasties that the trash left on it, notice all of the pencil marks throughout it, edit again, and then print the finished project. Then of course I’ll stare at it and explain to the boyfriend the 5,000,000 reasons why I should not try and attempt to publish this book – one of which being, this book sucks butt and no one is ever going to want to read it let alone buy it. He will of course tell me that I’m wrong, because that’s his job.

But then again, I’m still in the early stages of this whole deal – so what do I know?

Writing. Novel. “Frost”….

After two years of writing I finally finished the rough-ruff (yes, that’s exactly how I have decided to spell it) of my novel “Frost”. I have been waiting patiently for the day I was able to say that, but now that I am & have, I’m a little on the scared side. When you’re writing it it’s still a secret in your mind. Planning out everything & then putting them to words. The moment you’re able to tell people that you’re done and on to the editing process people get excited.

But now I go into the editing process I wonder to myself, “is this going to be any good?” I’m trying so hard not to toss it into the trash and running away like a coward but it’s extremely hard.

After I finished the rough-ruff draft I decided to sit and scan the whole story – basically rereading what I had forgotten that I had wrote. To me, yes, I still find a few clever things I had written and I got all excited. But then I wonder, do I find it clever and good because I wrote it? Or do I find it good because it’s actually good. My wondering mind seems to go all over the place – crazily. Maybe I should stop wondering.

Either way I have been working way too long just to throw it away, so that’s not an option. I’m going to continue and I’m going to edit, etc, until I am completely satisfied with what I have written, even if it turns out to be complete crap. Then one day – hopefully, get published. Maybe. I might just keep my first novel in a box in the back of my closet and let it collect dust.

…worse enemy

I decided that I am my own worst enemy. Hard thing to admit, but it’s true. I am the reason my book isn’t getting finished. &&& what I decided the most is that it’s not because I can’t write. All I would have to do is sit down and write. But it seems when I sit down to write I find something else to do. Then, I turn around and blame it not having inspirations (although, at one point I didn’t have any, but I do now.) or not being able to write when I want to.

Truth is – I’m lazy. I never thought a person could be too lazy to sit in a chair && do nothing but hit buttons on a keyboard. But apparently I am. I go into my “writing room” – which isn’t actually that, it’s an empty room that my computer sits in with a calendar, cork board, & dry erase marker board on the walls – pull out my chair, sit down, roll around the wooden floor screaming “weeeeeeeeeee” for about thirteen and a half minutes – finally pull up my story and then I sit and stare at the words on the screen. My eyes bounce around the words as my brain tries to decide if I want to remove some of them. When it finally decides to stop they bounce around the room. I’ll turn around in circles in the chair. I’ll roll over to the window and stare out at it, which would be my sister-in-law’s house. I watch the children run up and down the road screaming, laughing, and having fun. I’ll get a grip on the wall and push hard, rolling my chair across the room until it stops abruptly on the other wall.

I do this for awhile.

I always feel so accomplished when I finish a chapter. Especially if the chapter has given me a tiny headache. When I finished chapter twelve I was so excited because that means I was going to start chapter thirteen. As I pulled up word to begin chapter thirteen I got discouraged and aggravated. That would be the moment I wish I could wiggle my nose &&& the words just appear on the paper. Yes. I know it doesn’t work like that. But it would be nice.

As I sit here I have wrote maybe three or four pages into chapter thirteen. Just staring at that blank chapter is a moment where you just think ‘ugh! Never going to finish!’

I eventually roll myself away from my desk and into the living room, abandoning my rolling chair and removing myself to stare at some shitcom playing on one of the six channels I receive in my living room. I sit on my lovely couch & think that only a few minutes of television then I will go write some more. (Just fyi: at the point, I haven’t wrote a single word.)

Fifteen hours later I awake in a puddle of drool and crusted over eyes & realize somewhere I fell asleep and it’s now tomorrow. At this point, it’s still dark outside and I decide that if I go to sleep, in my bed right now, I will wake up at a decent time.

But first, I’m hungry.

After rummaging through my kitchen, I shovel the food in, yes, using a shovel, my mouth before I proceed to go to bed way too full. In the middle of the night I wake up with heartburn so bad I have to vomit back up all of the food I decided to shovel into my face, half of which falls out of my bra and onto the bathroom floor.

Sweaty and weak I take myself back to bed where I doze off again. 49 hours later, I awake with a headache so bad I can’t open my eyes or move my legs. (How that works, I’m not sure.) I wake up in just enough time to go back to sleep so I can get a little sleep before going back to work.

I work three days, twelve hours a day – that’s it. Then on Tuesday I repeat everything I did the previous week.

I’m mostly joking. Expect for the truth in there. I will leave it to you to decide what is true.