Welcome to WordPress.com. This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging!
Actually, I haven’t read a book (let alone a good book) in several months until just recently. With my life wrapped up in missed deadlines, love *smile* and Subway sandwiches, it can be hard to deter my attention to one. Yes, the sandwiches are that evil. Sometimes though it feels like years since I allowed literature to dance me into an escape… and maybe that’s my problem. I never thought I would need authors as much as I do now. Not to keep demons at bay, but to inspire me.
I always loved to read what I call “band-ees”: controversial titles that went under mega-censorship in their day. “Why” brings you to many great works of art, I’ll tell ya. I especially loved reading them long before school ever required it. Another reason why I loved English so much—I felt like my own teacher and I made-up my own questions, and I never complained when I was “forced” to re-read. The only book I couldn’t stand in school was, don’t kill me, The Great Gatsby, for the ending I couldn’t even begin to relate to and saw coming 200 pages before-hand.
Anyways, I guess I loved reading so much because it helped me write. I am a writer. Or… at least I like to believe I am. Since this is the time I made for confession then I’ll just be open about it all and admit that I haven’t written anything personal in a long time. I’ll scribble a brief journal entry now and then, but rarely anything detailed or of interest to anyone else. I don’t count Facebook notes.
The truth is I don’t have the guts to be honest with anyone about the way I really feel being here. I feel low writing it in a blog where probably no one I know will see, but! Here it goes… I hate it here in Journalism.
That’s right. The one who loves school, the one who never got expelled or changed institutions more than twice hates the current she’s being tugged and dragged through. You would think I’d follow my own philosophies and try to make good choices or make the best of what I don’t care about, but it’s a lot tougher than you think. “Want” exceeds “requirement” after a while, and then you just start doing decent instead of your best. I’m still trying at least, for the sake of approval from another field of my interest.
I felt really bad last week though. I envy anyone in the program who desires to further their skills as journalists; people who actually want to be here. I learn what I can and enjoy a few courses for the most part, but… none of it is for me. None of this IS me.
“It’s not for everyone,” Vero said with a crooked smile. “If there’s one thing I dread more than anything, it’s waking up in the morning and not wanting to do what you do. You should always look forward to life and be happy!”
I love Vero. She’s hysterical. And she’s right.
“You’ve got a lot of talent, you know,” she said. “A lot of talent.”
…. Earlier that day I overheard a student whisper to another that “it’s all about pleasing the teacher,” and about fueling their paychecks. And I thought: what a load of bullshit. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in Journalism it’s definitely how to read people. When Vero told me I had talent in that one moment, that one perfect moment of sincerity, my heart leapt into the next world… then tears formed in the corner of my glistened eyes. I knew. I knew better. That wasn’t money telling me I can write or succeed; it was a journalist.
My one-on-one convo with Vero encouraged me to keep trying, to keep suffering for only myself and take as much as I can from it all. So far I’ve managed to survive this week by handing nearly everything in on-time.
Problem is, forced effort isn’t enough to sustain the valor… and that’s why I started reading again. I want to write. I want to write what I want to, when I want to, and eventually call a style my own. Since it helped me once-upon-a-time, why can’t it do so again?
So far, I re-read “The Giver”. Then I read “Mind Games”, and my favorite high school love: “Speak” in one night. I’m now reading “A Clockwork Orange” and soon I’ll be starting on “Shaman’s Daughter”.
If I can write this one homage on suffering… then I think it’s working for me. Books save lives. I don’t read much, but I can’t wait to start again =)