I’m not writing as much as I’d like, so I bought a pocket calendar that lasts until the end of 2015.
For every day that I’ve written, I get a green check. For every day that I haven’t written, I get a red ex. Seeing this calendar over time will hopefully motivate me a little more.
I finally started it. All the random memories, along with the feelings associated with them, are now being recorded on virtual paper.
It’s something I was afraid of doing before. I was afraid of being absolutely honest even when it was to no one in particular. The fear of offending someone else’s sensitivities gave me pause.
But I’m ignoring all of that now.
I finished the series a best friend got me for Christmas. The Legend Trilogy by Marie Lu. Not the best writing I’ve ever come across, not even the best story. It wasn’t terrible enough for me to just abandon reading half way through. The ideas it put forth was familiar and the execution of it was admirable. I just didn’t feel sympathetic to the story or the characters–and I generally grow attached to books that CAN make me feel something.
I started another series that I came across while shopping for Steak. The book aisle at Stop & Shop is directly facing the meats. Miss Peregrine’s Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs. Now this book is more up my alley. It’s horrifying at times and it reads as it the author drew the story from genuine feeling. The writing is fluid and the story enjoyable. There are certain areas of the book where it feels like a heavy-handed plot device inserted to get the characters from point A to point B, but it doesn’t distract enough from the story itself.
My family. How do I explain this? I changed my facebook profile photo to one of my younger self propping up my baby brother. The only comments this drew were from my mother and my aunts.
My mother: “You miss your brother.” What she’s really trying to say is that I don’t miss her.
My other aunt: “Good! Now when you come back you should continue to love your brother oh!” ……………
Why is my choice of living in a separate area from family viewed as desertion? Why am I accused of loving my family less simply because I live in a different area from them? The idea of what “family” means for my Chinese relatives prevents them from understanding this, but their lack of decorum is preventing them from keeping their thoughts to themselves.
There is nothing like being guilt tripped by one Chinese mother. I’m being guilt tripped by multiple because apparent my mother’s sisters all band together when it comes to their children’s wrong-doings. Let’s quadruple the guilt power, shall we?
So that’s today in my life.
So I researched a job posting today posted on a prestigious online software company. I meet all of their requirements and then some.
My father has always told me, do what you enjoy to do.
But then there’s that saying: Your hobby is what you love to do; your career is what you’re good at.
So the question is, do I devote my time to perfect my skills in what I love to do? Or do I give in and simply pursue what I’m good at?
All I know is, the stories will never stop showing up in my head and I will never be able to keep the demons at bay without writing these thoughts down somewhere. Writing is not a hobby; it is a necessity.
Creative inspiration–I don’t have it.
I have two existing novel projects that I’m slowly trudging away at. In both projects I’ve reached a plot deadlock.
With Realm, I have an outline that I’ve been following. But I’m so unsatisfied with the current conflict that I can’t seem to write beyond the certain point.
With Translation, the plot is completely stuck. I threw a major plot device in there but now I have no idea what to do with it. i can’t just trash the idea because it was such a central part of the story. If I were to trash the idea, I would trash the entire project.
One of these projects is too close to my life for me to take too much creative license with it and the other is so far from my life that I have no personal experiences to draw from..
Someone just stabbed that man
The only thing that’s changed about NYC since 1993 is that there are way more tourists here who try to make New Yorkers talk to them.
Sometimes a city is just a city.
Who’d have thought they’d be so cool?
I mean, really.
Here I am, 27 years old, and trying on fake nails for the first time. I did the glue and everything. The back of the box read that to take them off, I’d have to soak my fingers in acetone until they [the nails] melt off.
I might as well be soaking my fingers in acid.
I guess I did manager to keep my fingers glue-free. Knowing me, I was expecting an American Pie based incident, involving glue and private parts.
Don’t judge. We all masturbate.
Haven’t had the time to read for pleasure lately. I miss it. Can I be a professional reader? Of course I can–that’s called a publisher.
I want to achieve great things. I will achieve great things.