Semi-pathetic Charity who really isn’t pathetic came baaaaack. But this time there’s personal growth included.
It’s a funny word now, isn’t it? Hm. I think so. The thing that takes forever to earn but only a second to make it disappear forever. And I’ve been thinking on this word lately. Pondering why it generally doesn’t often make an appearance in my vocabulary.
Then I figure, “Eh, I’m too jaded’ to be paired with a thing so fickle. Been burned too many times for people to ever earn my trust. Well, what? It’s the truth. I may be young, but I don’t have time for that. I just want to make through life in one piece.
I mean… I have people that I love. Obviously. People that I’ll share secrets with. Maybe not all the deep, darks ones that plague my dreams at night, but the meaning comes across.
And definitely no one that I’ll ever share my writing with (Okay, maybe two). Oh, come on. I know that I blog. I share my ideas one at a time. But I talk books, tv shows, movies, and sometimes my personal life. But creating characters and places from scratch? That’s a whole new level of personal.
I read the couple of stories that I wrote in high school. I feel my lonely self who is afraid of change and desperate for friends seeping off of those pages.
High school me was hilarious dreaming up this fancy school that was kind of a prep school but not quite boarding. At the time, I was thinking that boarding school stories were so overdone and popularized (Read: the Private series). So were Prep schools (Read: Gossip Girl). I tried to make it a little more outlandish but yet still believable by taking a once five star classy hotel and turning it into a not so normal high school.
I glance through the one that I got the idea for from overloading on Make it or Break it (Thanks ABC Family turned Freeform) and the 2012 Olympics. Goodness, what was I thinking? Gymnasts who can’t take the pressure so they vandalize properties while traveling for competition? And there’s a Private Eye from halfway across the country that accidentally cracks the case because her daughter is a gymnast who runs in the same circuit.
Oh, my favorite.
The one where a high schooler spends her summers performing on Broadway because she’s cool like that. Actually she’s a prodigy that was discovered and she wanted to spend some time being normal. And falling for the “playboy” next door neighbor, even though the feelings weren’t exactly reciprocated. Then again, she learns that having his attention isn’t everything, even though she likes it.
Oh, and if you’re wondering (which I doubt): no, I don’t do drugs. Just that on occasion my brain gets a delightfully hair brained idea and um… runs with it. And at the times that these ideas were conceived, I thought they made excellent novel ideas. So… um…
And I’m also wondering why you’re reading this hopefully somewhat entertaining account of my lack of creative writing skills.
Well, the other night my sister and I had a friend over. She’s a good friend. She’s one of the few people who has managed to cracked my sealed shut wall of trust. She’s one of the few people that generally understands me when others don’t.
So the other night she was getting a kick out of the fact that I have a ridiculous amount of things checked out from the library. Because well… I work there and apparently have issues that aren’t exactly issues. Book related issues.
Then she asked me why I don’t write. My mom was standing there with me and we both just started laughing. For as much time as delightful friend spends at my family’s house, she’s never really seen my bedroom. One because it’s a disaster area and two because she’s more my sister’s friend. So, she doesn’t know that I have a crate on top of my dresser crammed full of notebooks with maybe started ideas coming to fruition or actually finished stories. There’s a couple of binders with story plotlines and one of them even has “songs” that I took the time to create for that Broadway story.
I showed her, and pulled out the finished ones. Then… Then she asked if she could read them. It took minutes of me standing there going, “These are terrible. I never meant to do anything with them. They were just my way of getting my emotions out.” And her countering with, “But I have a friend who once started a story and it was really good and she never finished it.”
I handed them over after a few agonizing minutes. I know that she won’t necessarily poke fun at them because she’s cooler than that, but I’m also afraid of sharing my work with someone. I tried to briefly explain what each of the stories was about. She just kind of looked at me, and I should tell you, she knows I don’t do drugs. Her face was more of an “Okay then. Charity is kind of scaring me.”
Trust is a scary word. Especially when it comes to handing private writing over. I don’t know how writers do it. I write and I feel myself going into the books. My personality inhabiting a small portion of whatever is being written. A piece of my soul, so to write.
I consider it more personal than almost anything, especially since I never deemed it important or good enough to share with anyone. Yet, here I was, handing them over to one of the last people I’d ever suspect I’d hand it over to. And it scares me. It was never meant to be anything but a story, chronicling where I was in life. How far I’ve come, looking at what I consider pathetic characters back then to the characters I create now.
Hm. Funny how everything came full circle this way. The last thing I thought I’d hand over to someone is exactly what I needed. It’s a new development for me. Maybe, possibly a freeing one. We’ll see how it goes, and my friend is free to tell me whatever she feels (or doesn’t feel) at the source of my cockamamie stories.
And if these stories sound at all like something you would enjoy reading? Keep it to yourself. I still can’t believe I wrote them, let alone thought that they were good ideas.