This was written earlier in the day, when I was in between classes (and during one, actually, since in Stats we were just going over the test and I had gotten the highest grade of 97, purely because I picked one wrong answer out of confusion from the wording). I know, not too long ago at the very beginning, I said this was an arts-school-artisan-crazy-nerd blog and that personal details were going to be left out. I would hope that everyone realized that there is a massive blur between feelings and art and that sometimes you cannot separate the two. This is one of those times, but it is focused on the art of writing so no dramaly-whinings can be found here.
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I read a journal recently from an artist I follow and admire. She is, or was, an author, a writer, one who loves the written word. Through a series of events spanning several months, maybe a year or more, and culminating in the sudden and unfortunate death of an artist she admires, she decided to quit writing. She had felt for a while that she didn't have the same love for it she used to, that novels were restricting to her characters and didn't allow them the freedom that they wanted; but her love for art was increasing and did allow the characters freedom without the restrictions of cannon. So she was giving up on her half done series and becoming a fully visual artist.
The problem with me finding this is I've somewhat begin to feel the same, and I do not like my visual art. It's not terrible, I know that, this isn't artist angst coming out, this is pure and honest realism. I'm not that great, I could never make a reasonable living as a visual artist. Graphic and web design I can get away with because it's more along the lines of architecture: the sociologist's art. I do admit I'm halfway decent at furry art, but that's unfulfilling except when I manage something technically brilliant for my skill level (thus why I love my 14th banner). So art is mostly out of the question for me.
Writing... writing has been my love since 5th grade. The only reason why I didn't like it before that was because school demanded I write only exactly what they wanted, even when they asked for fictional stories it always had some dumb theme. But somewhere along the way it clicked in my brain that *GASP!* I can choose to get pencil and paper at HOME and write whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want! And thus began my first novel at the age of ten (after I'd already gone on to 6th grade). It fell flat on it's face. Although a character did survive into several more incarnations and into the present day. She is where my most common pseudonym comes from.
Now, I'm going to wax philosophical and spiritual here. if you don't care for it, go read something else. At about the age of 11 or 12, I picked up The Silmarillion. Of all the people I've met who have read it and gotten into any sort of discussion about it, I was at a fairly young age when I first encountered it. I also seem to be mostly alone in the fact that I utterly adored it. Most have noted it was deep, but depressing and confusing and left on drained. I, on the other hand, found it... expansive. In the sense that... you are a hawk, watching the whole world unfold before you: destruction, creation, triumph, failure, sadness, joy. And you live through it all, far beyond your years, and feel and touch every mountian and stone in your heart that eventually becomes hill and sand right in front of you. And it's glorious. Not to mention the fully fledged cultures and languages. perfect. Tolkien is 90% of the reason why I started pursuing linguistics. The other 10% is the desire to build my own languages and understand the origins of the ones that exist. Back to the people, I've found that most who found it depressing and draining also reject most forms of religion. I was practically raised on the King James Bible (something I also credit to my ability to understand Shakespeare when all my classmates are completely dumbfounded, because where do you think he learned HIS English from?). While my little partition of what most people refer to as "Christian" never had a sect name and was just Christian - and we do often rib the KJV for being poorly created and mainly a vain derivative work of the English-speaking pioneers Wyclyff and Tyndale who did screw some things up - I am a religious and spiritual person with strong beliefs. I am also perfectly capable of divorcing myself from reality and still maintaining my beliefs with the knowledge that while I'm in another place for the sake of the story, the real world is still around me. So the concept of one god with powerful servants who maintain and protect what has been made and trust and serve him despite not knowing all the future holds for the things they protect and themselves is not hard fro me to grasp and to hold on to. Life is life, it's not puppy dogs and rainbows no matter how much we try to collectively ignore the darkness. History is not a depressing thing, it simply is. You either accept it in it's whole and what it shows, or you try and ignore it for the parts that make you feel good~~. ignoring and rejection lead to depression. Acceptance and understanding while still retaining your beliefs leads to personal enjoyment if nothing else. While The Silmarillion is a fake history, it is a history none the less, and the fact that I enjoyed it should tell you something.
Back to what this has to do with writing, I came upon the saga of the Silmarils at a very impressionable time in which I was learning most while imitating others. What caught me most about the books was the descriptions, oh God, the descriptions! I could see and touch and taste and feel the Valar. I could dance with Luthien (she still holds my imagination like no other). I could walk through Gondolin and Utumno, feel the light of Laurelin and Telperion on my face and cried inside with the others when they died. Descriptions! And I took this to heart like no other. Descriprions would be my signature too, and people would feel my stories. And people did, especially as my vocabulary expanded. I cannot forget the time I let my father read a short story I had written in a creative writing class in high school. He asked me if he was wrong when he assumed (which, he sort of was at the time) that the man in the story had saved the woman's life more than just a few times before what happened in the story. And, of all people, my father almost choked up when he asked about this. As if the mere thought was stirring. I had wanted Nera and Surinen to have a deep relationship, one that lasted beyond time and boundaries and worlds, and I poured every word and feeling I had into this description and not only succeeded in what I wanted, but started to form a back story I hadn't even considered in someone else's mind. Description was my thing, and I was good at it.
The something happened and... I stopped. I stopped describing. I have no idea why. I have a few inklings but nothing can really be fingered as a solid cause without employ of a time machine. I started turning more to dialogue and inner thoughts. I always liked the limited 3rd person format, allowing me to partially sympathize with the character I was giving the spot light for the time being. I started to go beyond that to form this weird out-of-body-1st-person with just about the only separator being that I had a few details the character didn't know about and I used 3rd person pronouns. And dialogue, I started experimenting with phonetic accents and speech patterns so the characters sounded different than me; thus more believable as themselves. This I like, this I definitely like, but the sacrifice of description for accents and confusing loyalties from the narrator was not good. I hated this. I began to facepalm at my writing so often that I didn't want to do it any more. while the cause is unclear, I think I understand the reasoning that lead me to this point. I heard a quote from Edgar Allen Poe once on an educational video we watching in 7th grade English, and immediately agreed with it but have been unable to find it since. Too many people are obsessed over quoting his emo works and want nothing to do with anything but his darkest personal writings. Over time, however, I have morphed what I remember of the quote into one of my own. Possibly enough of me to no longer be considered his.
"I write because my paintbrush fails me. I draw because there are not enough words to describe what lives inside my head."
I feel, more than ever, that this frustration is true. My art is not good enough, my words fall short of the potential glory winging over my head. I am trapped on all fronts. BUT, it doesn't have to stay this way. The nice thing about humankind having free will is being capable at any and every time to change yourself. So how do I want to change? I want my description back. I do not have the option of falling back on my art. It has ALWAYS been supplemental to my writing. Merely a tool to enhance when necessary. I want to write, and I will.
I'm going back to my roots. I'm rereading The Silmarillion, and already by page 43 I feel it again. I want to write, I want to describe, I want to do it right and make people feel again. May this be a second revolution in my writing...
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