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.

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?