I've always been a bit of an awkward fish when it comes to writing. Not in a literal sense of the phrase, of course. That would be ridiculous. You see, I can never quite grasp all of the ideas in my head and connect them on the page, having them lined up with words. I find that I'm often much too scatterbrained for that. I suppose I should now get on to the origin of this origin story.
I have, since the earliest threads of memory floating in my peculiar little head, been enchanted by the written word. Ever since, I've read endlessly, and developed my personal idols along the way, who I've often sought(unsuccessfully, I might add) to emulate in my works. I simply adore Poe, and Kerouac astounded me from the moment I picked up On the Road. More recently, I've stumbled onto variations of writing styles that I've been experimenting with. Beats poetry, in particular, caught my attention with Ginsberg's Howl haunting and enchanting me all at once.
Almost as long as I've been reading, I've wrote. Poetry, short stories, and even essays were penned, a large portion of these never being read by anyone other than their author. My poetry, as I've been told, overflows with the sort of passion one would not expect from an adolescent or young adult, containing strong imagery and "magnificent prose", as one of my readers once described it. My short stories and essays, however, do not share the same grace.
My essays, on occasion, have inspired a few readers, mostly those already passionate on the subject of my focus. I've been told they contain traces of my imaginative and artful poetic style, though any sort of research document(I'm procrastinating one such English assignment at the current moment) my hand has penned suffers greatly from lack of originality. In the short fiction category, and I dare not write nonfiction( lest I say something I should not), I cannot connect my ideas into an enjoyable tale. I manage strong imagery in some points, but largely I fail to commit the proper detail to the main body of work, and I often wrote thinly veiled portrayals of my personal fantasies.
At the risk of sounding crude, I will even bring to memory the singular and horrid work of erotica I've written. I used unnecessary points of focus, awkward descriptions of action and gave one of my close friends an incredible discomfort on the subject of her eyelashes. Since, I haven't attempted to capture any adult or obscene imagery in writing, though I am often called upon at the dramatic readings of one of my friends' and fellow writers' pornographic short fictions.
One of the earlier mentioned author-friends recommended I write speeches, and perform them as well. I have since attempted this, and with little success. My speaking sounded as if I were a first-time actor, reading from a script. Improvised speeches, fared somewhat better, though my scattered thoughts made it much more difficult to keep on track with the arguments I was making.
I suppose this will have to be my conclusion, as I never much cared for endings, and thus never gave enough thought as to where I should properly end things. Good night, dear readers, and lovely dreams to all of you.