Berlin

If one were to call one city a chameleon, that city would have to be the great, and often tragic city of Berlin, Germany.  At one point the city was the center of the Nazi regime, then at another time the city was literally divided into two, somewhat unceremoniously and awkwardly.  Imagine if you lived among the citizens of communist East Berlin and found that one day that you could no longer visit your boyfriend, girlfriend, father, mother, sister, brother, friend or cousin.  Families and loved ones were separated by the wall.

I have literally met people, en route to different locations in europe and the world.  Upon mentioning that I am traveling to Berlin, many mention that they have not been to Germany since it was divided.  It is interesting to think that there are people who only know one side of the city I am learning to love, and may one day want to live in for a brief period of time. There are those who only think of Hitler and the Nazis when they think of Germany and there are those whose thoughts unconsciously drift to communism.

In many ways, it is important to distinguish between East Berlin and West Berlin. Yet in my opinion, one must not paint the two parts of Berlin in black and white, or "capitalism" and "communism."  Where there is knowledge of sin and how to sin, there will be corruption.  That said, East Berlin was full of corruption. Sure, the West had it's share of corruption and misdemeanors.

Perhaps my favorite part about the Berlin wall is the contrast, through art.  On the western side one saw graffiti and all sorts of colors adorning the wall.  The Eastern side, however, depicted a much more somber setting, very drab and discomforting. I do not mark one side as good or bad, yet I do believe that one should not have to fear their government and the East German police brought fear into the hearts and minds of East German citizens and the Stasi (the secret police) often coaxed and often forced citizens into becoming informants which tore families apart.

That is my two cents for tonight. :)

The Art of Writing

For the past five to seven years of my life, probably more (I've lost count) I have wanted to be a writer.  Over the course of these years I have found myself wondering how one becomes a writer. Of course, they write. They sit at a desk, or on their bed, wherever they feel most comfortable and they write. Some writers work better on the computer while others prefer to write longhand. I, for one, am a mixture of the two.

Yet, how does one truly become a writer? For, surely not everyone who writes is a writer. If one does not feel moved, sometimes to tears, by the power of the stories entrusted to them, in my opinion they are not writers. Any fool can sit down and write. Only a true artist manipulates words, weaving them so that real characters and real emotionas surface onto the page.  Does Stephanie Meyer do this? Don't make me laugh. "Edward is dreamy" and "Edward is sexy" does not count as good writing.

Jane Austen, Harper Lee, Leo Tolstoy, J.K Rowling, Ray Bradbury. These are good, if not great, writers.  When I first read Jane Austen, I wanted to share it with my friends. The pure beauty of the words on the page captivated me. There are few authors who can achieve such power, such emotional intensity in a reader's response.

Writing is a craft that gets better through time and practice. I cannot say that I have always been a great writer. However, I can say that I have always had passion.

Mission Accomplished, sort of

So yesterday I officially finished my freshman year of college.

In a way, completing my freshman year feels good, great even. Spectacular. But would I live it over? I'm not sure. I made great friends, learned from some mistakes (luckily not too many) and came out relatively unscathed.

I finished my freshman year, yet there is so much I want to accomplish. There are more paths to blaze and more goals to make and reach.

This summer, I am editing the fantasy novel that I wrote. The book is a story in itself. I've been writing it for about 6 years now. Since I was 14. I'll be 20 in July. At this point in my life, the book is both an accomplishment and a nuisance. Sometimes, while editing it, I feel as if it's mocking me. I know that sounds crazy. But it's true, it's like the fact that I sometimes don't know what to do with it gets me sometimes.

I am also working on another book this summer.

One day, I will be published. I promise myself that much.