Saturday, 31 May 2014

How It All Started: Writing.

Here's my How It All Started Game! Instructions and those who are tagged down below!

It was a desire within a purely pretentious eight year old me that started it all. Having been eight in the year 2006, I was an avid cartoon watcher and Judy Blume reader. I would spend hour upon irreplaceable hour of my life watching Spongebob, the Fairly Odd Parents, and reading Tales of  a Fourth Grade Nothing and Are You There God, It's Me Margaret, still easily two of my favourite books. Around the same time I fell, like many tweens did, into the blackhole that was the Twilight Series obsession. But, I wasn't satisfied with how they ended. I wasn't satisfied with Spongebob just getting Gary back after he'd made a very informed snail decision to leave.
I wasn't satisfied with Bella marrying Edward. None of it tickled my fancy. This distaste of the endings to everything I enjoyed started as early as eight years old and continued as late as Breaking Dawn's release. Oops.

So, I rewrote them. Often trying to include a sensible and level headed Jamaican girl in the plot. She may have loosely been based on myself. Just...maybe.
Trying to insert a Jamaican rainbow fish into Spongebob didn't turn out as well as I'd imagined it would, though.

Patrick, mon. Why yuh suh fool?
Every likkle ting iz gunna be arright! 
Nah man spongebob, how yuh fi stay suh bad mind? Leff Squidward alone nuh man! 

Let's just say it's a good thing, I wasn't and still am not part of the Spongebob writing staff because I haven't completely let go of the Jamaican rainbow fish character.
Eventually, I got to rewriting entire sections of the television shows, or almost half of the book. I rewrote New Moon to include a new character who may or may not have been Jamaican and stood at 5'4" with a ridiculous crush on Jacob. She also may or may not have been loosely based on me.

It was a frustrating thought that despite my perceived brilliance of my work, I couldn't do much with these rewrites outside of showing my friends and family as it was all copyrighted material I was messing with. And then it dawned on me.
"Well good golly Leah, you've just about recreated an entirely unique story with already developed characters. Why don't you start using your own characters, so this stuff can actually be your own work?"

And there it started, I finally started writing original pieces and publishing them and discovering my love of writing, or more accurately stories.

But, enough about me. I've never really tried my hand at creating a tag, or some kind of internet game but after sharing this I'm very curious to know about your stories and how you got started doing whatever it is you love. So here's where I'd like to start the How it All Started: (Insert Field Here) Game. Whether you're into photography, DIY, writing, music, food, fashion or whatever it is. I want to know what your story was & how it all started. What inspired you to start, what moment, what occurrence or what purely pretentious desire. I just have a love stories, and I do believe ultimately they are the backbone of human nature.
Your story could very well be the beginning of someone else's.

The first few people I'd like to tag are:

Samantha Heather
Emma Bates
Charly Cox

And of course anyone who reads this, and would like to give it a go. Link me to your posts in the comments, or just write your entire story in the comment.

Can't wait to read them!


Wednesday, 7 May 2014

Blogging and Inspiration.

I lay in the middle of the a large field, a sky overcast full to bursting yelling down on me. I stared at it, waiting for it's mighty waters to fall upon me, and fell to my knees in a sea of dandelions. I looked desperately for the sun in the clouds, where it was nowhere to be found. With three deep breaths, I fell back onto the grass content.
To imagine blogging as an empty meadow where you're on your own, brings such bliss back to doing it. There's no one to please, no standard to tell yourself to meet, no one to create for but yourself. Doing out of love, creating out of love and not stress or angst. Just love.

An ever present and consistently baffling aspect of human nature is our endless concerns for other's perceptions of us. These could be of the ones we know, and care for or the snap judgements of a complete stranger to whom we've unconsciously worked tirelessly to please. How many things have we said and done, or more accurately avoided saying and doing over our everlasting concern of other people's misjudgements.

I don't know if what I've been experiencing the last few weeks is as much writer's block as a lack of passion for blogging. The fire in me was subdued for a period of time, and I think I've finally come to the conclusion why. I wasn't inspired anymore, because I wouldn't let myself be. They say comparison is the thief of joy, but it quickly turned into the thief of my fire. I had to very much reflect on myself, what I intend to do and what I want to do. I was, and still am, constantly comparing myself to others as if there is such a thing as "good" and "bad" and they aren't just fish in a sea of grey.
Proclaiming my self the most talented person I know would not only be arrogant, but a bold faced lie. I'm not, but I am the only me I know. I am the only person I know who thinks, and articulates that way I do. This isn't unique to me. Everything is expressed uniquely by that person, and unlike anyone else. Such is the beauty of uniqueness.
I worried about how other's perceived what I did. I worried about the judgements of friends and family who have found this space, and the complete strangers that stumble across it everyday. I worried about the snap judgements of the talented who may stumble across this space and collectively come together to laugh at my inadequate attempts at being a "writer".
I fell into a despair of worry. A lot of worry.

But I've come to realize doing what you love isn't a glorious path. It's a street riddled with pot holes, self doubt, traffic and obnoxious people. But because it's your love, it's worth the tears. Every single one.

Love is not a victory march. It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.