Diurnalis

I've been feeling so strangely about my writing for the past two weeks.

    My stories, according to the comments on Writerscafe and people I show them to, are great. Intelligent. Wonderful (though still need a little tweaking). I am a 'talented' and 'promising' writer. And on a certain level, I guess that's true; but getting esteem for stories I freely put on the web isn't going to be my life career.

    Since last year I have fallen in love with journalism, a passion which has been enhanced by interning at a watchdog press, studying under one of the more locally esteemed newsmen, and attending two media awards ceremonies. I still want to publish a novel or three and have wistful dreamers as fans, but all of a sudden writing for news filled a need in me, a purpose.
    There was this scholarship being offered by one of the top three newspapers in my country, annually given to only three students from each university. While I didn't really need it--I am studying at an already heavily-subsidized state university and paying only 10% of my former tuition--I wanted it badly. For the prestige, for the training, and mostly for recognition I was a promising, talented writer.
    I didn't get it.

    This year I enrolled under her again. Last week, during a class break she told me she submitted my name for consideration.
    If it weren't for a low grade another professor gave me, I would have had the scholarship.
    The hardest professor in the college, the acclaimed investigative reporter in the field, the former head of the best critical publication against corruption, my idol said I was a good writer.
    It was almost enough.

    Three days ago in an awarding ceremony, I had to run after the former dean of my college, also a journalism professor, for something entirely different. The moment I came up to her, however, she immediately said I didn't deserve the low grade that professor gave me.
    Was the whole department talking about me after I nearly cried in front of my mentor ?

    And a day after that, I was panicking about an article on said awarding ceremony.
    I may have lost some steam.

A Sorta Fairytale

Hi.

I've been busy. First, soaking up the last vestiges of summer (which ended spectacularly, with tears and 5-year-old bridges burned. Fun times, my birthday).

Also, there's that whole college thing, and my majors, my org, and the requisite drama will either draw time away from me and mmine (writing), or further fuel creative juices.

Writing. I've been depressed lately, under a sanguine mask (check my newest blog for that, comprised mostly of angst and emotion), and needless to say, it's not conducive to writing. The last pieces I've finished are too mawkish, even the paper seems a little soggy.

And the Novel has hit a major drawback. It only occured to me (after two years of careful character sketching, map drawing, civilization culturing, timeline mapping) that I have no THEME. You know, the core of a novel. The one that sets it apart from the myriad of fantasy junk out there.

Guh.

Serves me right for lumping 14 fairytales into one family saga spanning eons, with chunks of local mythology thrown in.

Critical: Writing

Note: this is a rewrite, since the original accidentally got swallowed up two hours earlier.

      Writing's in my blood. I've been making up stories, and putting them down on paper ever since I've learned how to construct sentences. I've always thought I'd end up using the pen in some way when I grew up. True to form, I'm studying journalism now. Yet there's still the dream of becoming an author, of publishing a novel or even a collection of short stories. Then why, do you ask, did I not enrol in a creative writing course? Or why don't I join a writers' organization?
      The answer to the first is my favorite writers didn't take cw either. Before they published their books, they were doctors, soldiers, and yes, even journalists. As a media practitioner, I would get a more informed view of the world, and probably get to travel, too.
      Why didn't I join a writers' organization, then? To be honest, I was leery of them. Based on what I heard about them from students from the colleges that housed them and friends, there were two types of writers in those clubs: those that gave flowery praises not worth a damn, and those with the egos the size of small countries. The former would laud your stories without giving any real insight, then snicker once your back was turned. The latter would bully you with their supposed literary, theoretical existential clout, utterly convinced in their superiority.
      Those organizations also have a crab mentality, in that they drag a writer down if he or she shows real talent. I didn't want any of that poisonous environment.
      But, if that was the case, how was I going to improve my literary craft, without receiveing any feedback from my fellow writers? I turned to the Net, published this blog in hopes of getting insights. A few weeks later a friend (Will, I emailed my problem to you) directed me to a site where writers freely interacted and supported each other. So I joined that site, fell in love with it immediately. It seemed to fulfill that promise. We could focus on the writers' work, and not the superiority complexes that came attached to them.

      Right.
      I'm less upset now, but awhile ago I was extremely distraught. A drunk writer immediately lashed out at what he perceived to be an offensive and insulting review from me. Normally I'd apologize if indeed I lambasted someone, but this...this response was vitriolic and plain nasty. I'm certain I didn't leave an arrogant review; I COMPLIMENTED him, in fact, and the suggestions I gave were his to disregard as he will.
      His response, as I see it now, wasn't really the thing that upset me. After all, he could be drunk; he could be one of those writer-megalomaniacs. What distressed me was the realization I've strayed into another toxic environment.

      What should I do?

Boy Met Girl

(At the risk of discovery, I'm reposting this)

He has nothing to sing about, nothing
To write—his dreams are all of dust.
He fills his journals with mad denunciations
And colors their faces with jade.

The works he weaves are women worshipped,
Naked, and sadly aware of their glory
The women and he have stale sex and beer
Trying—and failing—to revive their dead hopes.

He sits, the image of bitter youth.

She breezes in the sunlit class, chattering-blathering-yammering
Joy. Her eyes, how they sparkle, blaze with passion
For the world and life she says still believes in.
She gives a blinding metal smile as she giggles,

And her slight plumpness does not mask her light.
Blindingly oblivious of her beauty
She seems, and just as aware of the ways of the world.
She needs a keeper, or so he first thinks.

They sit together, the boy and the girl.

He is captured by the pictures she painted,
Of hope and dreams and great make-believes.
The sour taste in his mouth is getting sweeter,
And in spite of himself, he believes anew.

And she laughs at his jokes, though cruel they may be;
Of his pessimistic view, she’s extremely uneasy. Naïve,
She allows him to touch her,
In fleeting hugs and gestures.

Soon he’ll assume it is love at first sight.

But she’s not as innocent as she seems—
Her glass is half-empty. The veneer of cheer
Hides an angst-ridden heart—
And her eyes sometimes age an eon, or two.

She’s fully aware of his growing ardor,
Annoyed at his cynical jibes.
She’s far from the perfect princess he imagines,
And he’s in no way her knight-errant.

So ends the fairy tale of boy and girl.