If owning a pencil makes you a writer, then this football makes me a football player

I try to be supportive in everyone's dreams and ideas, but I hate when I tell people about an idea I have for a story and all of the sudden they're writers and they have a great idea for a book too. Writing is the one thing I've never grown tired of. The one think I work at, take classes for and stress over. You can't just walk up to me and say, "You write? Me too! Or well...I have an idea for a story, I just haven't had time to write it out, but I have a great idea for one!"
When you tell me you're going to be a surgeon, you don't hear me saying, "Yeah? I happen to be a very good sewer, I could sew people up too." To assume that what I do is child's play is like saying you think I'm of little importance.
I read, I learn and I experiment constantly. My stories are never finished and I'm constantly looking for a way to dive into a different genre. Everything I do is to help me with my next story. Point of view, plot formation, folklore, popular culture, foreign language, television viewing, chemistry...eventually it is all tied into something for me.
These people don't do this stuff. For most of them, their knowledge on point of view doesn't go beyond first person and third person, the stuff we learned in third grade. And the idea of plot is simply rising action, climax, and falling action. Second person may as well be non-existent, metaphors and alliterations belong in poetry, and as long as they have character dialogue and throw in as many descriptive words as possible, the story's going to be great.
Subtlety is lost on them, metaphors aren't used and their description of anything is in list format instead of sprinkled throughout the story like chocolate chips in a chocolate chip cookie. no one wants a cookie where all the chips are concentrated in the middle. We call that a screw up.
Granted I tend to take metaphors and alliterations for granted. As always, alliterations are just things that happen in whatever I'm writing (and if you caught that I used it in the beginning of the sentence, then congrats).
The point is, I know how to use them and I'm fairly certain that I use them well when I do use them. Writing is an art form. You don't just pick up a brush and paint a Monet, and you don't just pick up a quill and write like Shakespeare.

When the Hell Did I Cross to this Parallel Universe and How Do I Get Back?

I was followed today by a man with a beard and he wore a dark cloak that went down to his ankles. He was whistling 'It's a Small World' and eating cherry pie. After about five minutes I finally got fed up and turned around to confront the creeper whose name turned out to be Alex...what an un-stalkerish name to have. Now Jason...that's a good stalker name. I'm just saying.
Ha ha, I'm just kidding. I haven't been stalked of late, however there had been a woman walking behind me while whistling creepily and I felt as though she were stalking me. She wasn't of course, but that's paranoia for you isn't it?
Now me, I'm the Stalking Queen and so I am insulted when someone is trying to out stalk me. Granted that was not the actual case because she was not, in fact, stalking me. Well whatever, it was fun while it lasted.
Mom's getting along with me now and I feel weirded out. Between her and Brandon I'm just not ready for this. Brandon's being nice now too and I can't for the life of me figure out what that punk wants. Mom seems to be making an attempt to take an interest in my life and I just don't know how to handle the situation. I just keep waiting for something blow up or overflow, but she just keeps saying nice things and I want to ask in the most polite way possible, "Who are you and where is my real mother?"
But hey, maybe I changed too and just haven't noticed it much. Either way, I hope I get used to these nice people because if I don't I fear I'll go insane due to paranoia.

Play It Like a Movie

I couldn't wait for college. All summer I was just waiting impatiently to jump into the college life and take my college classes, but now I just want everything to freeze. Class starts Monday, it's opening weekend and I just don't want to take the next step anymore.
Don't get me wrong, I've had my reservations about the future all summer, but I've gotten over them and moved on because I always figured, 'Everything's going to work out, don't sweat it.' Except what if it doesn't? What if I'm not driven enough to get a story published? What if I'm not good enough to become a writer? It's all I've ever really wanted, and I just can't see myself doing anything else.
Well hell, why can't we just freeze it like I said? I'd stay here, my friends would stay here, I'd continue writing with the hopes for tomorrow and I'd never have to risk having my heart broken when it didn't happen.
Sometimes I feel like life would be better if it were a movie.

Yes I'm Drunk! Why aren't you?!

Had my graduation party tonight. Met my third cousin who is also a writer (and a good one if the information I've managed to gather is correct). I have a feeling that if we had ever lived in the same state, we would've gotten along quite well, and been close friends.
I spent the majority of the time with her, though I avoided her in the beginning since everyone was pushing for us to chat. I'm not fond of being pushed, but I'll admit I was extremely curious as to what her stories were about.
Uncle Gunther and Aunt Ericka (my grandmother's siblings) came out and chatted happily about old times. Gunther got drunk, as did most of the adults at the party. Kids ran about playing in with the slip and slide, dogs rushed under tables for scraps. My friends each stopped by in turns to laugh, eat and be on their way.
I didn't expect to have so much fun with everyone, but it was a blast, and I think that Allie (my third cousin) and I could really benefit from one another, bouncing ideas back and forth...editing a little.
And God, to see so many German-Americans standing around a keg laughing and accidentally slipping German words in with their English. It's a scene you'd have to live through.

Red Lights, Hopeful Dreams and the Hell that is Science Class

Brandon is constantly running red lights after work. We watch him and warn him laughingly that he's going to get pulled over one day. Well I guess last night was the night because he ran the red light with me behind him. I waited for it to turn green and start to go, nearly getting T-boned by a cop car who then takes a right following after Brandon.
The ironic part? He just finished his 'Safety Class' after getting a speeding ticket. I had to laugh.

In other news, I've sent out six query letters to Literary Agents. Two have replied with 'not interested' and the other four have decided to keep me holding my breath for a while longer yet. Still anxious to get away, still resigned to sitting in my room.

I wish someone would at the very least call and ask me out or something. Anything to get away from the boredom that is my room. I've a few books under my bed and I've been going through them in whatever spare time I have between work and sleep. I'm panicking over Chemistry class for my first real semester of college. I hate science and yet I decided to sign up for one of the most difficult ones. Bravo.

The Art of Not Existing

It seems that half year lull in the arguments between mom and I has come to an end. We are fighting again. Not as bad as before, but bad enough that I've been flat out leaving and not coming back until it's time for bed. Then I show up, say five words or so and close my door.

I don't want to be here. Maybe it's just my age, not a child but not quite an adult. Every other night I find myself wondering if they would even worry if I were to go rent a hotel room. Could I? Am I old enough? Sometimes I know you have to be twenty-one to rent a room.
I want to disappear for a night or two. I want to not have to hear about everyone's problems, everyone's expectations, their favors.

I just want to not exist even more than I already do for a day or so. I'm not big on silence but maybe with no one to talk to I can get some things straight, make some decisions, do something to help my future.

We'll see how it goes.

Damn Good Stalker

So there's this guy (sorry I've not been writing, been busy with stuff and other stuff) in creative writing workshop that I'm sure I've told you about. Being me, and considering I know myself fairly well, I knew the day I saw him that he was just going to be one of those guys I moon over, crush on, consider asking out and then run away because I know I'll never get the words out of my mouth. So I just stare at them, listen to what they say, read what they write, and try to decide if I can continue to like them based on the words that come out of their mouths.
He, bless his cheery little soul, passed the talk test. Meaning he actually had decent things to say, and I could tolerate his opinion because he seemed genuinely open-minded.
Until that dreadful, 'don't mess with the writer' day occured and he made the mistake of not liking my story. Don't get me wrong, I don't expect everyone to like my stuff, but when he was the only one to say something really negative about it, I got pissed. And then the guy that happened to skip class that day, the idiot who is narrow minded and idiotic, e-mailed me some crap about how my story lacked plot and a conclusion and character development...I'm not going to drag you through the details because they are unimportant for this particular story.
Anyway, I send the cute guy (the guy I like, remember?) an e-mail because the other guy managed to push me to my limit. I e-mailed him a long angry e-mail basically demanding to know what he thought my story was missing, and how I could 'perfect' it. And when I hit the send button I had one of those, "I'm going to regret this for the next three weeks until I forget about it" moments.
I get back from work later that night, still shaking my head because I knew I sounded like a moron and what do I find? An equally long apology from that cute guy from class.
So I started slowing my pace or speeding my pace up so that I could leave class with him and we could talk. About anything really, I just enjoyed talking to him, you know?
Then today we did his story in class, workshopped it I mean, and I was all ready to tell him what I thought. Except I didn't. I just couldn't think of anything 'brilliant' to say and I didn't want him to think I was a moron.
And after class? I booked it. I was out of there.
Buuuut I slowed down as I was walking out. I knew he was about twenty feet behind me and I knew he walked slow, at a kind of lazy pace. I am not fond of lazy pacing unless the situation calls for it. I was curious to see if he'd catch up to me this time. He did.
"My God, you just would not shut up would you?" he asked. "Hard to get a word in edge-wise, it was kind of embarassing."
I laughed, "Yeah, I tried to contain myself, but sometimes my mouth just gets away from me, sorry." He laughed and I added, "I really liked your story, I was going to say something but Kirk (that guy I don't like who said I lacked a conclusion) was doing his thing and I just didn't want to interrupt."
"Yeah, but I have to admit that Kirk was...." blah blah, about Kirk.
I smiled and looked over at him. "Yeah and I have to admit that while he was talking I was busy trying to come up with the loudest song I knew to drown him out."
"And how did that go?"
"Poorly," I admitted. "I kept switching stations."
Made my day, right? Right.
But then I used my detective skills (which no one seems to think I have) and looked him up in the student directory. It only gave his number, his e-mail and where he was living. Nothing of interest (what am I going to do with his number? I know the line between creepy and acceptable, calling him when he didn't give me his number would be creepy) there...so then I looked him up on google. JACKPOT!
I knew he lived in Michigan, but I was trying to determine his age. If he was in GSW (which he happened to mention he was) he was likely a Freshman, maybe a sophmore. Then google, my lovely search engine friend, directed me to a paper from his old high school. He got an award in 2009 for something with Boy Scouts. Translation? He graduated last year. Meaning? His age was from 18 to possibly 20, but he's smart so no older because he wouldn't have had to repeat a grade.

I just don't understand why people don't think I could be the next Sherlock Holmes. That's got to prove something, doesn't it?