Writing because of books...

I've had writers block for ages now, ever since I stopped tearing through books. I've found that I can't write if I don't read. I need to read in order to be able to write. Strange, right?

Anyway, I was looking over some old stories and found a clip of one I really, really like. I made a post with it a while back because I was actually proud of it. I know it's not amazing writing but it hits home with me, that's for sure. So, I felt like sharing it again.

From one of my many, many stories, The Twisted Tale of Ella Bententon:

I sometimes, in vain hope, believe that I have been given this special gift, and/or, that I am being, destined to do something amazing, great, powerful. I'll lay in bed, grinning, as I replay scenes from my future adventures in my head, preparing myself for every possible scenario I might face. Producing witty comments, emotional scenes and action fit for a movie. But nagging me in the back of my mind is that simple thing that I refuse, that I hate, that I wish was never here at times; Reality.

Reality tells me, that deep down, I know that I have let the stories from books entrance me and drag me into the world they create, tugging at my incredible imagination to let loose and run wild. It reminds me that, even if this were to happen, that I am not brilliant, that I am nether strong or wise but that I am a dreamer. A girl with her head stuck in the clouds, forever.

It's bitter tasting, reality, it is. It stunts my elaborate dreams with a painful blow to the very head of the dream. It drives me to the brink of insanity knowing and not knowing. My dreams tell me there is a solid chance that I am like those in the books I read but reality tells me that I am just a girl, another earthly girl. Just another fantasizer.

Oh, but what would it be like, just to taste, glimpse, feel the pleasure of—superhuman, unnatural happenings! Of course, as I know very well, if I were to taste such delight I'd turn back to curse myself but it would be only part of the pleasure, if only the pleasure were mine.

But I know, in some strange, outlandish way I will get my wish, even if I do not see at first. I will get my wish. I hope and pray I do. But I do that a lot as a dreamer, hope and pray, because it's what us dreamers do best.

I believe though, that through the Grace of God, I will do my part in some way. For I am a dreamer, fantasizer, a girl with wild imagination. I can put those skills to work and do all I can for now to rest my aching soul; tell the stories. I will tell the stories I long to become so that I may live them, in a strange way, as much as if they were happing right in front of me, in real life.

I hope, and pray, of course, that those who are like me will feel the calling and reply with as much vigor as me. We were born to dream, born to wish, born to hope and born, yes born, to tell the Stories.

-Ella Bantenton-

You like?

Oh, and I am also changing my blog name soon. It's new name will be: My Thoughts in One or just Thoughts in One.
:]

Lia

 

Following the tale...

I figured, since I liked the last entry I shared with you guys from Ella's journal, I'd do a few more, just for y'all. [No laughing, crying or complaing.] Here is the enrty that follows the one I showed you in the pervious post. [Dreamer to dreamer. ]

"I never see myself as normal, not at all. But as I examine myself in the mirror sometimes I began to see the traces of a normal, teenage girl, with curly hair, brown eyes and a golden complexion. Just your average girl, still.

I don't know why, but it's true, I see myself as different from the rest of the world. I don't see myself as a regular teenager girl obsessing with looks, but deep down I know I am. As I watch my actions I realize the girl, who I once thought was unique and different, is actually the same as those around her. She's human. Plain old human.

As you can tell, my tedious quest to grasp something new and exciting has yet to come to a end, but I haven't given up hope that I will find what my heart aches for.

As I lay reading last night I stumbled upon something; my writing.

I've always been aware of my writing, since I spend most of my time typing away, coming up with new ideas, one after another. But never have I realize the effect my writing could have on me, a longing soul. As I began to read a story I had weaved, not too long ago, and I wasn't even three pages in when a new thought, bold and bright, socked me in the stomach. I thought to giggle but then, thinking better of it, kept my mouth shut. No use drawing attention to my self.

This idea, this amazing, mind-blowing idea was as simple as can be. It doesn't make sense, what I just said, but the truth is I don't care; you'll understand me in some way, some day.

Anyway, this thought, this one amazing thought was this; my stories can be the answers to my dreams. Through my stories I can live the life I've always wanted. I know I've said this before, in some fashion, but this time I mean that my desire to have a extraordinary life can be fulfilled in my stories!

How lovely it is to know that I, Ella, can weave stories and great tales and live them myself! Every tale the comes from with in me has been lived by me already! My my longing be put to rest!

I have, finally, found my escape. No more sorrow of wishful thinking, yet triumph in the stories I weave" 

-Ella Bententon-

Love to you all,
Lia.