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.

Musings

Grr. I can't get into Writers' Cafe for some reason--has it suddenly become extremely popular over the two days I haven't checked it? At the meantime, I'm researching for a story.

See, I have this idea, one that features and awful lot of cheesy puns about food (the idioms, in fact, are really my motivation for doing the story). But developing it is starting to become a massive headache.

That's all. Summer's started, along with summer class (community service), and with the infernal tropical heat I'm not sure I'll be able to churn out fiction and prose easily.

Writing Recuperations

I was out on a week, exploring some pretty exotic sights. Lots of inspiration came, however the fruits of my sojourn are thoughts that no virginal semi-convent-raised 19-year-old girl of supposed moral fiber should have. Not to mention that manifesting such thoughts into stories really won't fit into the mood of ths blog.
    How can one right erotica, after all, when one hasn't experienced the mechanics involved herself? No matter how many Regency trash and other fiction of questionable literary value I devour, I'm pretty certain I'm going to freeze up in my first real date.
    And there you have it. I confess, I'm nearly two decades old and never dated, never had a proper kiss. And I'm really not torn up about it. I don't like it that many of my peers get boyfriends just for the sake of saying they have such, even if the boys are really disgusting and have the brain cells of a sex-crazed lemur. What will happen will happen, and despite all pragmatism I do believe I will end up with my equal, someday.
    I'm fully aware the picture-perfect images of romance and love are just that, far from reality, and it's highly foolish of me to persist with my idea of chivalry and true love. At heart however I'm still that little girl who grew up wanting to be a Disney princess.
    A quandary, then, only resolved by dreams and writing. For the past five years, however, those dreams grew steadily more sensual, and in my stories I've tried to portray the world in vivid colors both passionate and full of wonder.
    I've written two pieces with two mature scenes, and I'm wondering now if I should post it. As a writer, I should, if I follow through with what I've been threatening to do and become the first ever virgin romance novelist. Criticism is a must. On the other hand, here the paradox reasserts itself, and I shy away from revealing my hidden desires, the depths of my dreams and escapism.

Any ideas?

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.

Once More Into The Breach

I've been under a lot of pressure lately--academic, filial, amicable, aesthetic, and yes, even physical expectations.
Strange as it is though, the more work piles up the more story fragments drift into my head.
I'm going to try to write more...at least once a week.
Shouldn't be too hard, since I'm pretending to be anonymous.

Here's to professionality, and the shaping of a new persona.

Here's to the pretensions of a wide-eyed dreamer.