Writer's block, please don't kill me

Writer's block, please don't kill me

Posted using ShareThis

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.

I am asking people, everyday people--my peers--to give me their thoughts on human trafficking. So far I have collected a fair amount of thoughts. The nature of their thoughts can be summed up in three words: WTF?

We live in a world where we learn about slavery in the past tense, because American slavery is over. Yet, what about the other slaves in the world? Human trafficking occurs on a daily basis, even here in the United States.  In foreign countries, girls as young as five ares sold for sex. Young boys are sold for slave labor.

Imagine what kind of world you want to live in.  I am pretty sure that your ideal world has nothing to do with human trafficking, or slavery of any sort.

Proud Death

Here's one thing I've always wanted to do: write a novel in verse. So that's exactly what I'm going to do. This novel won't be "fluff". It won't be about a teenage girl and her teenage angst issues. It will be about death.

I am going to write a novel written from the perspective of "death". I have always wondered, if you could have a conversation with death, what would it say? Also, what would you say? Could you speak, even if you were able to?

I am going to write from the perspective of death, as well as the perspectives of those affected by this "death character".

As you can see, I've got a lot of thinking to do. This is no doubt a work in progress.

Who are you calling disabled?

I've recently started thinking about the person I want to become. I am not saying that I do not know who I am. But at one point or another, one realizes that the music you like, the actors you prefer, the books you have read only make up a small portion of who you really are. It's only a small bit of your genetic make-up.

What people see, and I can attest that this does matter to others, is how you treat others. But, most importantly, what matters most in the eyes of others is how you treat yourself. Now, I understand that not everyone reading my blog is going to be Christian, but the bible states that "your body is a temple". Live up to this. Doing this does not have to be literal. You can do drugs, you can do...whatever. After all, it is your body and it's your life. I cannot take that away from you. But you can learn that your life is valuable. Most importantly, YOU are a unique, multi-faceted human being. You have thoughts, ideals, dreams, plans.

If you are like me, you may have a disability or handicap that prevents you from doing some things that others can do better. If you are like me, hard of hearing, you might have to ask someone to repeat something several times before you can actually comprehend what is being said. Sometimes, I can hear someone clearly but still have to ask them to repeat it because I haven't quite comprehended what was being said in the first place. It's an annoyance, a nuisance.

While having to wear a hearing-aid, and having a mental health condition, may make me disabled, I beg to differ. Sure, according to the U.S Congress, this fact would be true. This, however, is the same congress who passed the Patriot Act, without reading it. In many ways, this same congress has not read me, either. They do not know me. No congressman (or woman) came to door, interviewed me and made a list of the places where I was deemed disabled, or not disabled.

The word "disability" is such a negative word. It implies that one cannot do something, and in some ways implies that one should never even attempt to try, either.

During my freshman year of high school, I saw a speech therapist, for only 3 weeks. I even remember her name. She took one look at my report card and declared (with shock) "I can't believe you have good grades." According to her biased judgement, I should be failing because of a stutter. How ridiculous is that? That my stutter (which is now virtually gone) should literally handicap me, make me unable to earn the grades of an honor student? I only saw that woman for 3 weeks. One day, she just stopped showing up. Go figure.