Just seen a guy in my classes status on Facebook. He can't either. That makes me feel a tiny bit better.
This week has been such a waste. I sit in my bedroom, all these ideas whirling around in my head. Give me a pen and paper or a keyboard and a blank document and it comes out like trash. Maybe I'm trying to hard. Thinking too much. Being far too self concious. The words usually flow out of me. Now I'm confused by tenses, first person or third person, trying to make things sound profound, terrified of tripping on cliches. I'm trying too hard to impress people that don't need impressing. I know deep down who's important and who isn't, yet I'm stuck with those non-important ones, dictating what I ought to do with my words. That's just it. They're my words, my ideas, my characters. I care too much.
I'm sorry that I don't call London St Pancras, 'St Pancras'. That I write in a Sheffield accent. That you don't know where my story's set. That you don't understand what's happening. For using the odd cliche. For wording things in ways you couldn't ever understand. For having crazy ideas. For not changing character names. I'm not splitting Meredith and Jeremy up. I'm sorry my murderers aren't sinister enough. I'm sorry I don't reckon much to Raymond Carver. That the situations are complex. That the characters have more about them. That I write about things I haven't experienced first hand. That I'm jumping out of my comfort zone. That I don't really care all that much for poetry. That I write about more than my mundane nineteen year old life. I'm so fucking sorry that you're so small minded, you don't want to even try and understand.
