Post by Teacakes on Jan 14, 2016 14:26:04 GMT
I was going to write a story today. This was going to be a story. But then it became more... Personal. I'm just going to put it here anyway. Just take it as a story that is about... Me.
I’m at a cross road and I’m not sure where to turn. There are so many paths to take, so many possibilities of where I could go or what I could do. Yet I’m still here, at this junction, wondering what to do.
I’m 16 years old and will be turning 17 this year. I’ve gotten to the point where I should be thinking about where to go and what to do with my life, where society and everyone around me expects me to grow up and make my own decisions. Become an adult. But I can’t. I’m stuck in this mindset where I still act like a kid, but at the same time I can say or do clever things, but I’m just not ready for things like a job, or living on my own.
It scares me.
One day I’ll have to go out there into the big world where I have to be my own person, not rely on anyone. I’m not ready. I feel so lost and unprepared for what’s to come.
I’m afraid.
For a long time, I have dabbled in many things, trying to find what I am good at, something that I want to take with me and use later in life. Drawing, making videos, voice acting and so much more. But there’s something that’s always been with me.
And that is writing stories.
When I was younger, I had a friend. They were my best friend. My only friend. We would make up stories together, we would make up our own characters and come up with ideas. At school we would just go to the playground and talk about the worlds that we had created together. People thought we were strange, but that didn’t matter to me, I was young and foolish, and I enjoyed what me and my friend created. It was our bond, what held us together. Our own special and unique thing that we had together.
Until we stopped being friends.
Our friendship died when we grew up. They moved on, found more friends… And I was left behind. With nothing but our stories and memories of what we once had. I miss those days.
I isolated myself from everyone. I don’t even remember when it started. I just grew so distant from everyone and everything. I was so alone.
But I still had my stories. That was enough, right?
For a long time, I tried to come up with original ideas. I wrote so many things, I had so many ideas. Some of them never made it onto paper. I wrote two stories for a competition, but I never even reached the finals. Did someone just look at my story and toss it aside? Was it not good enough? What could I have done better?
Eventually I sought of fell out of my love of writing. That was when I had nothing.
No friends. No stories. Nothing.
Until I discovered that I didn’t need to write my own original ideas. I could write something based on different types of media, expand on someone else’s universe. I spent a while writing stories for a TV show, but that didn’t go anywhere special. I was still learning at that point. What makes a story good, how to write it, what sort of words I should use and so on. I was getting better. I then put my time into writing stories for video games, and that took off from there.
I joined a site where I could post my stories, I could get reviews and feedback, people could follow and favourite it. And for the first time in a while, I felt proud of my work. I was happy.
I continued writing for video games. I got so much feedback and so much support, and it motivated me to carry on. I had so many ideas, so many plans.
That’s where I went wrong. I wrote a story and then I’d move onto another idea without finishing it. There are so many that aren’t finished, so many that never will be finished. And I don’t know why I did that. When I went back to them, I just didn’t feel the same drive as before, I just couldn’t find it within myself to carry on with this idea, like it didn’t mean anything to me anymore. Even projects that I put my heart and soul into eventually turned sour, and I just couldn’t bring myself to finish them. The last proper story I wrote with a connecting plot was a collaboration, where my co-writer dropped out and I was left with a story that we had rushed out after a previous successful collaboration story, as if we were trying to capitalize on it, on our success. We hadn’t thought it through, and the sequel suffered.
And then I stopped.
And I had nothing again.
There are so many stories within me that I want to show people, but I can’t. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to show all of them.
Sometimes I get lost in my own fantasies. In my ideas. Like I can become someone, that I can escape my life. Someone other than me.
Then I get pulled back to reality and I realise how much I am drifting through each day. They don’t seem to mean anything anymore. Nothing seems to give me the same drive as they once had.
My life is a fantasy. Around the time that I started writing stories for games, I fell in love. I fell in love with someone I could never be with. For a while, I thought there was no harm in my feelings, that this was like one of my stories, that everything would work out in the end, that there would be a happy ending.
But there isn’t one. Not for me. But maybe for them. They’re moving on with their life, while I’m just left behind. With memories of what we had and what I thought were special. They were special to me, but not for them.
I still love them. No matter how much I try to bottle it up and deny my emotions, I do. I love them. And I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to move on from that and find someone who was made for me.
I started writing stories again. Short stories with no interlinked plot between them. I got feedback and praise. I found that people that I know liked them too. I had a connection. I wanted to show what I had made to everyone that would understand. And they liked it. They really liked it.
But the feedback that I get seems to all be the same now. And it’s dying down too. Getting feedback… It made me feel special. That I had finally find something that I could keep writing, that was easy to do, that I wouldn’t give up on. People still liked my stories. They still liked me.
I need someone to tell me that my stories are good. Otherwise… I won’t believe they are.
If someone tells me my stories are good, that I’m good at what I do… Does that mean it’s true? Are they really worth people’s time and effort? Do they mean what they say? Is it what they really think? Are they afraid to hurt my feelings? Do my stories mean something to anyone other than me?
I don’t know what to believe anymore.
I’ve been trying to get back into writing stories again. Stories that are big, with an overarching plot and interesting characters. But I can’t. I can’t bring myself to do it, and I don’t know if I ever will write what I’ve been planning for so long.
One idea. One story.
I just don’t know how to tell it. There are so many ways to turn, so many possibilities, and I have to choose just one. Does this sound familiar? It should. It’s where I am in my life right now, not just with my writing.
I want to write this story. I want to show it to people, I want them to know that I can still do things like that. But would it be worthwhile in long run? Would people still like it? Would they understand why I haven’t been doing it for so long?
I don’t need you to understand. I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I just want to know if you read all of this, that you know how I feel and what I’m going through right now. Because sometimes I don’t.
I wanted this to be a story. I wanted this to not involve me, to portray some of my feelings, but to have it be someone that wasn’t me. To project my feelings onto. But it’s not like that anymore. Instead it’s a story about me.
I’m at a cross road. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know where writing will take me. I don’t know if it will take me anywhere. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to move forward.
I just want to know if I’ll be okay.
I’m at a cross road and I’m not sure where to turn. There are so many paths to take, so many possibilities of where I could go or what I could do. Yet I’m still here, at this junction, wondering what to do.
I’m 16 years old and will be turning 17 this year. I’ve gotten to the point where I should be thinking about where to go and what to do with my life, where society and everyone around me expects me to grow up and make my own decisions. Become an adult. But I can’t. I’m stuck in this mindset where I still act like a kid, but at the same time I can say or do clever things, but I’m just not ready for things like a job, or living on my own.
It scares me.
One day I’ll have to go out there into the big world where I have to be my own person, not rely on anyone. I’m not ready. I feel so lost and unprepared for what’s to come.
I’m afraid.
For a long time, I have dabbled in many things, trying to find what I am good at, something that I want to take with me and use later in life. Drawing, making videos, voice acting and so much more. But there’s something that’s always been with me.
And that is writing stories.
When I was younger, I had a friend. They were my best friend. My only friend. We would make up stories together, we would make up our own characters and come up with ideas. At school we would just go to the playground and talk about the worlds that we had created together. People thought we were strange, but that didn’t matter to me, I was young and foolish, and I enjoyed what me and my friend created. It was our bond, what held us together. Our own special and unique thing that we had together.
Until we stopped being friends.
Our friendship died when we grew up. They moved on, found more friends… And I was left behind. With nothing but our stories and memories of what we once had. I miss those days.
I isolated myself from everyone. I don’t even remember when it started. I just grew so distant from everyone and everything. I was so alone.
But I still had my stories. That was enough, right?
For a long time, I tried to come up with original ideas. I wrote so many things, I had so many ideas. Some of them never made it onto paper. I wrote two stories for a competition, but I never even reached the finals. Did someone just look at my story and toss it aside? Was it not good enough? What could I have done better?
Eventually I sought of fell out of my love of writing. That was when I had nothing.
No friends. No stories. Nothing.
Until I discovered that I didn’t need to write my own original ideas. I could write something based on different types of media, expand on someone else’s universe. I spent a while writing stories for a TV show, but that didn’t go anywhere special. I was still learning at that point. What makes a story good, how to write it, what sort of words I should use and so on. I was getting better. I then put my time into writing stories for video games, and that took off from there.
I joined a site where I could post my stories, I could get reviews and feedback, people could follow and favourite it. And for the first time in a while, I felt proud of my work. I was happy.
I continued writing for video games. I got so much feedback and so much support, and it motivated me to carry on. I had so many ideas, so many plans.
That’s where I went wrong. I wrote a story and then I’d move onto another idea without finishing it. There are so many that aren’t finished, so many that never will be finished. And I don’t know why I did that. When I went back to them, I just didn’t feel the same drive as before, I just couldn’t find it within myself to carry on with this idea, like it didn’t mean anything to me anymore. Even projects that I put my heart and soul into eventually turned sour, and I just couldn’t bring myself to finish them. The last proper story I wrote with a connecting plot was a collaboration, where my co-writer dropped out and I was left with a story that we had rushed out after a previous successful collaboration story, as if we were trying to capitalize on it, on our success. We hadn’t thought it through, and the sequel suffered.
And then I stopped.
And I had nothing again.
There are so many stories within me that I want to show people, but I can’t. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to show all of them.
Sometimes I get lost in my own fantasies. In my ideas. Like I can become someone, that I can escape my life. Someone other than me.
Then I get pulled back to reality and I realise how much I am drifting through each day. They don’t seem to mean anything anymore. Nothing seems to give me the same drive as they once had.
My life is a fantasy. Around the time that I started writing stories for games, I fell in love. I fell in love with someone I could never be with. For a while, I thought there was no harm in my feelings, that this was like one of my stories, that everything would work out in the end, that there would be a happy ending.
But there isn’t one. Not for me. But maybe for them. They’re moving on with their life, while I’m just left behind. With memories of what we had and what I thought were special. They were special to me, but not for them.
I still love them. No matter how much I try to bottle it up and deny my emotions, I do. I love them. And I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to move on from that and find someone who was made for me.
I started writing stories again. Short stories with no interlinked plot between them. I got feedback and praise. I found that people that I know liked them too. I had a connection. I wanted to show what I had made to everyone that would understand. And they liked it. They really liked it.
But the feedback that I get seems to all be the same now. And it’s dying down too. Getting feedback… It made me feel special. That I had finally find something that I could keep writing, that was easy to do, that I wouldn’t give up on. People still liked my stories. They still liked me.
I need someone to tell me that my stories are good. Otherwise… I won’t believe they are.
If someone tells me my stories are good, that I’m good at what I do… Does that mean it’s true? Are they really worth people’s time and effort? Do they mean what they say? Is it what they really think? Are they afraid to hurt my feelings? Do my stories mean something to anyone other than me?
I don’t know what to believe anymore.
I’ve been trying to get back into writing stories again. Stories that are big, with an overarching plot and interesting characters. But I can’t. I can’t bring myself to do it, and I don’t know if I ever will write what I’ve been planning for so long.
One idea. One story.
I just don’t know how to tell it. There are so many ways to turn, so many possibilities, and I have to choose just one. Does this sound familiar? It should. It’s where I am in my life right now, not just with my writing.
I want to write this story. I want to show it to people, I want them to know that I can still do things like that. But would it be worthwhile in long run? Would people still like it? Would they understand why I haven’t been doing it for so long?
I don’t need you to understand. I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I just want to know if you read all of this, that you know how I feel and what I’m going through right now. Because sometimes I don’t.
I wanted this to be a story. I wanted this to not involve me, to portray some of my feelings, but to have it be someone that wasn’t me. To project my feelings onto. But it’s not like that anymore. Instead it’s a story about me.
I’m at a cross road. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know where writing will take me. I don’t know if it will take me anywhere. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to move forward.
I just want to know if I’ll be okay.