Creative Writing @ MindSay 
writing
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I don't know how the legendary mood I was in all day yesterday could have turned sour so fucking quickly.
I think I know ultimatley what the trigger to my depression was.
I was reading over my prospectus to Teesside University. This week in college is the Stepping Up week - thus, we're having endless talks about unversity, how to apply, how to write personal statements and all that shite.
The course I'm interested in is English Studies & Creative Writing.
To enrol on it, you need 220 UCAS points.
If I end up with three Cs for my three A2s - that will give me 260 points. But I'm still doubting I can even reach that... I don't want C grades - but that's the bare minimum I need. Although, like I said - I'm still doubting if I can even do that.
The other issue is of course -the course is Creative WRITING - the one thing I'm having great difficutly attempting.
I haven't got a clue how I managed to write the introduction to DATWBSVOH yesterday. What's weird is the fact I wrote it on paper... I usually struggle a lot to get things down on paper, as opposed to a word processor. If I do end up writing anything down on paper - it also tends to be of a shitty quality.
I'm still unsure if I like what I've written but...
My writing tends to have a few stages to it, and judging how I feel as I'm writing it and after I've finished, I can tell if I'm going to like it or not.
During the writing process:
1) I'll be writing rapidly, maybe even smiling as I do so.
2) I'll be writing at a moderate speed, getting a rare sentence or paragraph block.
3) I'll be writing slowly, getting frequent blocks.
4) I'll be writing incredibly slowly, struggling to conjure up basic words and phrases.
5) I won't get anything written at all. I may write one or two sentences, but promptly delete them.
After it's complete:
1) I'll shrug, not finding many or any faults with it, but unsure if I like it or not.
2) I may find one or two faults, but I won't feel any dislike for it yet.
3) I'll read it over and truly not have a clue how to judge it because it's equal either way.
4) I'll hate every word of it, refuse to read it again and get upset with myself.
5) I'll delete it before it's even fully finished becuase I hate it THAT much.
DATWBSVOH's introduction ranked #1 for during writing and #2 for after completion.
I'm wanting to know - was it a fluke, or will I be able to continue?
If it's not a fluke and I manage to write something else pretty soon, I'm going to see if I can continue with some old work. I'm thinking of maybe putting some fan fiction on hold, continuing ahead with my original fiction.
It isn't fair - the best thing I've ever written WAS fan fiction.
Goddammned TFATH.
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Either way - I started getting really depressed after thinking things over.
I haven't done what I did for a few months.
I'd even told Dianne that I thought I'd totally stopped.
It seems not.
Now I feel like I've let her down. :(
I'm also afraid of telling Shelly about it. I'd have told her this morning, but she had an exam to worry about - I didn't want to ruin her concentration and motivation streak by making her worry about me.
I washed my jacket last night, so I've had to wear my striped jumper to college.
It's so warm here in the LRC, but I can't even roll my sleeves up...
I tried out the new carving technique I used a while ago and really liked.
First, I'll carve out my word/phrase/intials - then I'll use a small piece of metal to run red food colouring or red ink through the cuts. This stains the skin underneath and makes them stay for longer.
I'll then cut over them again once the ink has dried.
I used food colouring - it works well, but it has a tendancy to stain any non-cut skin a weird orange colour.
Last night's carving was: "FAILURE" - something I've felt like cutting into myself for quite a while.
I have to stain them because I just don't seem to hurt myself as badly as I used to. My old cuts would stay for weeks, possibly months. My newer ones only seem to stay for about a fortnight.
It just doesn't give me the same release any more. I still bleed as much as I used to - but they're nowhere near as deep. I add to the blood effect (which is what I really like to see) with the ink...
I'm really worried about what Shelly's reaction is going to be though...
Ashleigh too - but by the time I see her, they may have healed over a bit... :(
The vast majority of these forms/stories won't have anything to do with the "Main" story.
List of Aomi Armster's forms: some forms have various forms like a werewolf would have a wolf form etc, a vampire a bat, mermaid= fish other sea life, i won't list all of those but in general thats what I mean.
Aomi can also disembody and create a non sentient object like.. money,swords/weaponry-- of course these items are enchanted, they are made from demon essence! ;0
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Aomi is a Shekintari, a shadow/shapeshifter demon (light is within)
default demon
human with many style outfits/peoples/cultures/time periods
half demon
FULL DEMON
vampire
elf
feral demon
werewolf
chimera
frog/amphibian
succubus
mermaid
dragon/dinosaur/reptile
angel
unicorn/pegasus
hind- gnu-faun (wildebeast/camel/cow/deer/goat)
centaur
robot/mecha/cyborg/transformer/machine-type stuff
scorpion
outerspace alien/spacey futuristic aomi
A Genius Loci (plural, Genii Locorum)-- a living/sentient location/planet/town/etc
phantom/ghost/undead/zombie
titan/colossus aomi
elemental aomi
gargoyle
military-ish aomi (various time eras/realms)
zodiac/horoscopish/signs
plants
orc/troll/ogre
The place where I bike frequently is surrounded by standing water because of the wet spring we have been having. I love riding by early in the morning and watching the dim light from the sky reflect of the surface of these miniature ponds. Yesterday when I went my usual route I saw three ducks. Their green wings were more beautiful than any emerald I have ever seen. If I could capture green like that into a stone I would have it for my wedding ring.
At any rate, all of this thought about color and water reminded me of a piece I wrote for my creative writing class and I decided to post it here. It is a practice in descriptive writing.
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The Sea
A constant pressure racked upon me, like being at the bottom of the ocean. The heaviness was not suffocating or crushing, rather just a strange constancy of my surroundings. A clinical feel was everywhere except for in the smell of this peculiar place, in the coolness of the air, the tidiness in every detail of the surroundings, and the smooth touch to every surface: nothing abrasive. Inhaling, I found the most clarifying scent such as that smell of clean air after a rain, but without the smell of precipitation. Looking out at the water, the sea of pale silvery black, I could see the reflection of the “ship” on its randomized mirror surface.
The entire structure was made of a wood colored a deep brown, almost black; I wondered at what kind of stain could produce such a color, but soon found out that wood itself excreted a sap that hardened into this luminescent glaze after the wood is cut and dried. There were no outlandish baubles or garnishes to the floating home. All of the detailing of the ship was done in simple wood carvings mimicking the shape of the waves. Leather covered soft poufs sat singularly and in groups and could be easily arranged to produce any seating arrangement one wished to have on the deck. Most of the time, however, three or four of us would curl up on the largest one set near the rear of the boat and watch the water we were racing away from rise and fall in its flow.
Though only a visitor to this sea and a passenger on this boat, I wore the same clothing as its inhabitants. The earthy-red pants and brown tunics were thick enough for those who lived there to feel comfortable in the cool environment, but I wrapped myself in sarong style with cloth of the same reddish tone. When I would fall asleep curled up in the cloth, I would awake to the scent of strange fibers, their natural and unprocessed smell. Even though the poufs were soft and luxurious, I still awoke with odd muscle cramps from sleeping rolled up in a ball. There were no beds to stretch out on, as the people who built the boat did not build it with the intent of sleeping: at most a nap of less than an hour. The hours of the day past half as fast as they do here, and yet these people would simply rest for a few moments if at all.
There were only two scheduled events a day: the meal and the song. Our meal consisted of a silver bowls with the same designs as the ships carvings full of the shimmering water of the sea. There was no need for further sustenance. Maybe it was the pressure of the air that kept the feeling of fullness all the time; but no matter what it was, there was never a physical hunger felt neither by the inhabitants of the ship nor by visitors of their sea. Fulfillment did not come in sandwich; it wasn’t scooped up with a spoon. Snuggling next to a warm friend, my fellow travelers, and just resting. That was the fulfillment one found on this boat, a resting, warm, oneness with the sea.
(c) M. E. Koenig
Dearest Parents,
Crush my Dreams
Strangle my Hope
Siphon my Imagination
Annihilate my Innocence
Mock my Love
Break my Will
Steal my Wishes
Pound me with your superstitious rhetoric; I don’t care.
I’m still here, for better or worse.
Dearest Peers,
Beat me,
Hurt me,
Kick me,
Laugh at me,
Mock Me,
Revile me,
Trample me,
Pound me with your mindless conformism; I don’t care.
I’m still here, asshole!
Dearest Girls,
Reject my Affections
Turn Away From my Compliments
Toy With my Emotions
Take Advantage Of my Kindness
Recoil From my Love
Capitalize On my Lust
Despise my Tenderness
Stab this heart I wear on this sleeve; I don’t care.
I’m still here, whenever you’re ready.
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