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Hnnnngh - okay, it took some mustering of courage to post this, but basically, the other night, I was stuck in a bit of a writers' block, and so decided to simply write what I was thinking, at that moment, and not stop until I felt I'd finished. And the result was, well, this. It's kinda a piece of writing, about, uh, writing, really. Okay I'm just going to shut up now and post it before I change my mind, heh. xD;

~

As you can see, I begin these pages not with a story.
Well, in actual fact, I do – the truth behind a story does not alter the fact that it is a story, in all senses of the word. Our lives are governed by stories, mapped by them, changed by them. They are what tie us together, and they are what we remember in our final flashing moments when we linger, almost in dust, above the grave.
For all I know, there may well be more stories after that, but I don’t like to make presumptions.
What I meant to say is, that here, I am ducking finally to the transcending power of words and writing not a fictional story, but a factual one. My life has not been entirely interesting so far, but perhaps if I learn to channel passion through myself, then I will learn to convey it accurately enough through the mouths, and pens, of my characters. Already I am switching from my own mindset, attempting to hoist myself into someone else’s being, but I refuse to.
What you will read here is my story, and my words, and that is that.

~

It feels odd writing that. For one thing, I’ve no idea where to begin. But it’s alright. We still have time, if only a little.
I’m already wondering what it is that gives power to words. I have tried so many times to pen them, and so many times, they have erupted into the world so dull, so emotionless. Everything I write seems to pack a very feeble punch, almost bad enough to cower behind. And it is for this reason that I wonder why I am such a poor writer.
Perhaps I’m too detached. I know the use of punctuation, grammar, good vocabulary, etc. In fact, all too often, I’m not detached enough; what I am writing now seems a suitable example. I carry notebooks on my person almost obsessively, just in case an idea springs into my head.
So what am I doing here? Why am I not penning any of these ideas? Why am I wasting time?
Why am I wasting words?

~

A story? Of course you want a story. Writers love them, don’t they? They say you’re not a writer without being a reader first, and I believe they’re right. You have to learn your craft before you can do it to a decent standard.
Or do you really? I know some writers who don’t write, and yet, in the true spirit of the word, they’re still writers. They are such in my opinion, anyway.
Young children begin as writers. I’ve never liked the word ‘writer’ very much. Surely a secretary is a writer, since that’s what she spends most of her time doing? I prefer ‘story-tellers’ and ‘those who know the power of imagination and words’, although maybe that’s a little long-winded.
So, here is the story. I played a lot of adventures as a child. Playing is the operative word here, for none of it was really real. They use the word ‘playing’ in a lot of different contexts, too. I was just playing at the time, but I was playing as if my imagination was an instrument, and each new idea that popped into my head was a rhythm, a melody. Things fitted as smoothly as the notes do when a conductor draws his first piece of music together. I had my beginning, when I first raced outside, my end, when I was forced reluctantly out of my little world, and my middle, which was awash with colours and sounds and pictures vivid enough to spring a whole new galaxy into light.
And then there was the telling. I could tell stories as soon as my mouth formed properly around the words. They were crude at first, collapsing from my mouth, smashing sharply together like loose bricks, without refinement. But I took a deep breath.
I carried on. I narrated and told and wondered, drawing the world around me into a place as interesting as I could imagine it. This was my heaven, and this was where I would lay forever, in this childhood dream made up of stories and pictures.
But even a writer has to grow up sometime.

~

And when I got older, reality struck like the plague. Cold and clinging, I could not dislodge it from my back. All of a sudden, things seemed so much more – so much more fleeting. So much weaker. I began to wonder if I could clutch onto the world in this way, when my own reality seemed so desperate to sweep me away.
There were times when I nearly let it.
Morbid curiousity, I discovered, is apparently uncommon in teenagers. Often I wondered to myself if this was the right time, if this was the moment where I should let this chapter end and listen for the sounds of a new light, a new life.
A new story.
But then I realised something. A good story is one that you don’t want to end. A good story has a protagonist that is strong and sweet-hearted, unperturbed by the hissings that her story is never good enough.
I am a story. We are all stories. We are all writers – and characters.
Let’s make our story a good one.
 
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