Never fails.

There has never been a slump, a deep dark hole where I put myself into that the thought of books, of writing, of him can't get me out of it.

Tonight he wasn't much a part of it but my WIP was and I dove right into it and I forgot all about me, my stupid feelings, forgot who I was, forgot what my heart was breaking about, and my words, my plots, my characters just yelled for attention. Said get out of whatever stupid funk you're in, I need you. My book needs me, because there is no one else who can write it.

"And I don't mind waiting, if it takes a real long long time. And I don't mind wasting the best years of our lives."

Hiccup.

Hope hope hope hope hope HOPE H O P E hope hope hope HOPE HOPE HOPE hope hope hope H o P e hope hope hope hope hope hOpE hope hope hope faith. HOPE hope hope hope hope. Love.

Just the price I pay.

Love. I find it everywhere in my novels. Not one of my books has been outlined without it. And except for my work in progress, every book of mine has a happy ending planned. Hell, the WIP has a well off ending, but not a happy ending.

I keep thinking I will end up like Lautrec as he was portrayed in Moulin Rouge, saying that he only knows because he strives for it with his entire being. I keep seeing myself alone. I hate it that right now I'm not okay with that. Most of the time I am and look forward to a life lived selfishly. But other times I hate it, and I didn't realized how much I liked him till today. I walked away, and the hardest part is knowing that he isn't going to notice that I did, that I'm gone. I'm gone baby, and no one notices. I broke down for all of a minute, heaving, crying, wanting someone who just wants to hold me more than a minute, and for that entire minute my heart broke because I know who that someone could be and it looks so perfect and it will never be because he's not for me.

I'm afraid that the person who I delusion myself to be with is just a dream and I gave him my life without him knowing it and never will. Just blah blah blech.

I need to get rid of these feelings so I can be happy again. Is it bad that I still dream of the dreaded eX? I hate waking up with him on my mind because I know he can't be mind and i can't be his and just no. never ever again.

So many songs that just play over and over and over in my mind. the soundtracks of my life, lyrics just echoing the truth back at me. Who knew, cellophane boy, Mr. brightside, please play another love song, capturing moods, portions for foxes, why can't I.

I need sweet sweet alcohol. A cigarette. A self destructive outlet. Just something I can take so I can black out till my mood is better.

I need to write.

Falling...yes falling <3 di di di di.

I had an inspiration for a new idea for a book. & now I am falling in love with my own books again. I've been working on this outline since late last night. It's 6 pages long now and I'm working out the middle part of it. <3 Falling yes I am falling, and I keep dreaming about my books. Not that they will get publish, but about writing them. editing them. Just thinking about my characters. Choosing the right names, the right backgrounds, the right genres. I am passionate. I love my writing and ideas, and there is nothing more selfish than that. But there is nothing that gives me a sense of dreaming than this does.
I just want to write my character's names over and over, and I want all the world to see how I just am falling. Adding up, I have so much to do
1. Start Editing 1st book after finishing editing 2nd book.
2. Keep writing 3rd book, edit that too.
3. write 2nd installment to 1st book's trilogy.
4. developed outline for 4th book and edit second installment once it is written.
5. developed outline for 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th book.
6. O_O I should stop there before everything gets entangle. 8! whoa. I didn't realized I had that many books within me. O_O

Back to writing O_O.

Prophecy of the Sisters Contest!

Swag Bag! Book N' More Goodies! Woohoo!

Enter it here!

http://michellezinkbooks.wordpress.com/2009/11/14/happy-holiday-swag

:)

Can't believe I did that.

I saw a Matt Damon/Ethan Hawke lookalike Blond at school.

He was sitting not too far away from me in the student union.

I was writing and when he left. I did too. But not before writing a note. With my number in it.

Yes. I did it. I gave it to him. At first I wasn't going to do it and wrote it just to prove to myself that I can do it. I was going to toss my note. So to make this more coherent for whoever really reads this, which is probably no one, seeing as the end of the semester tends to make us a bit crazy with all the homework and upcoming holidays.

But I'll give you the story straight now, just so I can come down off my rush.

I walked into the union. I need a place to sit and to put down my stuff. I go to the 2nd floor bathroom first and scout out the first floor for the best spot to sit at. (meaning where I would get most noticed...Yes I admit that because today I feel wonderfully confident. Beautiful even, and I want everyone to see me. & If I don't enjoy these days, then when I get old. I will regret not being like this.

SO anyhow, I scouted out the first floor, got out of the bathroom, went downstairs, walk, sat down from the cutie. I took out my writing and wrote while I glanced over occasionally to see him. Creepy, stalkerish much? yes, but it's only because I was so shy of myself, so self conscious in high school that to talk to a boy who I liked was impossible, among other things impossible were wearing anything that was below my collarbone,and I hid behind my books, baggy clothes, and more books.

So I am making up by missing all those years of never going out. Never having anyone to talk with. never having friends. I am determine to take over the world now and make it mine. One cutie at a time.

So He left and I packed up my stuff and I lost him. I didn't know where he went. So I continue walking around went outside, saw the night rolling on by. Then realized it was too early for me to leave still so I made a U-turn back to the union. I was walking in the walkway when I see him. Coming at me, going the opposite direction. It was now or never. Now or forget about it. Now or spend the whole semester to keeping an eye for him and going HE's CUTE! to Mikko and just whining about how no guys ever notice me and bitching about how I miss making out.

Not tonight. I said hey, he gave me a random look, and I gave him the note, and he reached out to take it. yahoo face. I smiled and said bye.
I left, walking walkign walking, ducking into the nearest building and that was that. And then I truly smiled at myself. I caught a reflection of myself on the doors, saw how I look, and thought, how far have I come, I have developed as a person. And I know that in a few years I will look back at myself now and think that I have developed myself more as person too.

No regrets. Not anymore.

I don't expect him to call. or text. It's okay. it's up to him. it's his call now, really it is, and whether he does or not won't affect me. because I know who I am now, and I have the confidence to be that person that I always wanted to be when I was a teen. I have the courage to be myself now, and I won't let myself lose that again.

If I see him around, I'll wink at him.

;)

Reptition

Again: I state, my writing is (academic) failing me.

Capturing Moods.

And I don’t mind waiting if it takes a long, long time.

And I don’t mind wasting the best years of our lives.

Movies

Movies I've been watching online.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-2818582001271029300&ei=JQD2SrrsI4-SqAPWt-meBg&q=lilja+#

Lilja 4ever.


http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=1225842003597524246&ei=rv_1StKTFaaIqQOmrNzHDg&q=battle+royale#

Battle Royale.

I'm going to keep these links here for storage/use. Adding more as I go along. I hope I find Goodbye Lenin!

My twitfacespacebloggertube:

My twitfacespacebloggertube.
Current mood: happy
Category: Life


I'm done. I don't watch TV because I don't want to spend hours of watching sitcoms, news, cartoons. But then I realized that while I'm not doing that, instead what I am doing is being on the computer. I'm doing the exact same thing, but only with a keyboard in front of me instead of a remote. My facebook has become my sitcom. Myspace my news. My twitter, my cartoons on TV. My yahoo messenger has become the white noise that has become my life.
I was sitting here, thinking about Nanowrimo, because it is November, the month for words. Nanowrimo being the challenge to self to write 50000 words in one month. I was wondering at myself, how did I write a 379 page novel back in high school in a few months out of my junior year, when now I don't even have the time to type out my work in progress which is mostly handwritten. It wasn't that I had more time back then, I still had responsibilities. It was because I didn't have networks. I only had me, my novel, and whatever I was reading at the time.
I see the irony in blogging about this but that's okay. I'm done, at least for now. I don't know how long this period of shunning the need to be available 24/7 will last. The need to network, and to expand the connections, it's there, and I choose not to be. I've seen drama, have been a victim of pettiness on social pages, and even the majority of the time everyone plays nice. Mostly everyone posts funny quirks about their day, links, cute pictures, hilarious videos, and I laugh too, but have the bonds of friendships and connecting really tie into the fact that we got the same result on that user generated quiz? Or is the flow of the status and mood updates? What about texting? Is it necessary to text every location, every activity? Whatever happen to the value of privacy? To be a mimetic (imitation, mimcry) of Palahniuk: 'I am not my social network page. I am not my internet. I am not my cell phone.'
My schoolwork needs me. There are novels I need to read and find out what they are about. They are movies that I need to watch with my family and friends. Jewelry to be modified and shower caps to be crochet. There is life waiting for me outside this chair. If you want to reach me still, my cell phone is that. I can't delete that so easily.
But give your fingers a break and surprise me by calling me. Say hello, it's me. Got a minute to talk? Call your people instead of just texting. I'm sure most would be delighted to hear a voice, and the tone, the emotions behind that, and find not just another emotioncon on their phone. So call me. Leave me a voice mail if I don't answer because I do turn off my phone sometimes, (during class for example, have some respect people! It annoys me to see you facebooking via phone during class!). And maybe you should too.
If you need my phone number; message me, I'll get back to you, just because I'll be gone doesn't mean I won't check if someone reaches out. I know I will be eating my words because I always come back to my webs eventually due to one update or another. Which is why despite the urge to just delete all traces of myself online, I don't.
But for now: My book needs me. I'm gone. Bye.

Americanized

Just because something is Americanized, doesn't mean it loses it's value? Isn't it supposed to add to that worth?

Why does my professor look down upon the "Americanized" story of an Indian family? He was born here. He lived other places, he more than anyone should know that the Indian family are not Americanized, but are Americans. Their parents weren't born here, but their children were. Much as I am to my family, to my culture. Hispanics see me as Americanized. I am not Americanized. I am American with a Hispanic background. Americans are defined by the fact that they have Blue eyes, and that blond hair. But they forget, everyone forgets when it comes to the caucausians, that Americans aren't that. Americans are undefinable. Because I am American, anyone born here or raise here, are Americans. No matter what the cultural background is.

She writes the way you only wish you could.

My writing is failing me.

My professors tell me I need to meet with them.

Why? Because I don't know how to write. My writing fails me.

& guess what Month it is? It's November. November where Nanowriting comes into play. That crazy idea of writing that everyone should try to write a novel in a month.

I'm trying again this year. I know I'm going to fail. But that's okay. It's just a motivator.

I'm just trying to be a librarian. A writer. I'm afraid that I won't get to do either one because I'm going to keep failing both. Failing at achieving my degree because I can't do enough of good quality academic writing in order to pass. Hell I don't care if I get "C's in every single class. I don't care, as long as I get that degree and it's enough to get me into grad school.

As for my writing, I don't care if I get a small agent, who gets me a small publishing deal, with a limited print run. I just want to be in print. To hold it in my hands. I don't care anymore about being famous. About being bestselling. Those are pipe dreams. Sometimes I don't care about even getting published. Why, because before anything, before anyone. My writing is for me.

When in those moments of solitude that I have during the day, washing the dishes, walking from class, watering the plants, I don't think of my future. I don't dream of a husband, or a boyfriend. I don't think of getting married. What I think about are my characters, and their thoughts. How their life is treating them, and where should the book go, and why do they act the way they act, and who broke their hearts to turn them into the people they are in my novels. The people they are for the decisions they make and don't make.

This is what I dream, and this is where I fail. And I fail, just my characters do because of where I come from. I wasn't meant to get this far. According to statistics, the highest education I was supposed to get due to the fact of me being a first generation to Immigrant born parents both drop outs, one from high school, one from seventh grade, I'm supposed to have 2 years past high school education, and then work for the rest of my life, and that's it.

What's not so funny is that the majority of my cousins who come from the same immigrant born background as I do, did get that. High school graduation, some college, and a job. No degree, no career, no chance to move up much more in the class system beyond their parents.

What no one counted on were my words, my ambitions, my bibliophile aspects, my ability. So I made it past that dreaded stastistic mark, good for me, woohoo, now welcome to the world of failure. Gone are the praises that I had a unique voice in which I wrote the way that only other people wish they could. In this new world, this new education which is supposed to be good for me is a barrier that I can't get through.

Other kids grew up with advantages I never knew. Parents who had time to enrolled them in extracurricular activities, nourishment of piano, violin, art, technology, motors, and what did I have? I had parents who work too much for money that was never enough, and I was an only child.

After everything, after my childhood came to an end, all I had were an ineffectual school system, a friend who moved away and I missed so much, more than she could know. (Don't worry, there's a happy ending, she came back to me, and she's still with me today. Funny, how those who are truly you're best friends have a way of returning to you, no matter how many years of absence in between.) After that, all I had were books, and a librarian who took an interest in the girl who came early to school and hid out at the library to get away from the chilliness of the morning. That's when I started reading. She's still one of the few who I owe most to where I am today, and I never thank her, I can't remember saying goodbye.

So now that I'm failing. That my writings are failing me, that I'm failing my parents, my professors, my sisters, that I'm failing the life and responsibilities I made for myself in order to achieved my goals, all I have to comfort me are my books, and I will hold them as I meet with my professors who tell me that what I do, what I write is incorrect. That my writing is not up to par. I will hold my books, and I will remember that I, at least had the blessing of doing something that my elders could never and will never do, that I at least stepped into a university's professor office as a student, that I made it in one way or another to place where many others couldn't, even if I am failing as the writer I am.

But I fail as a writer, and really it was only a matter of time before I reach the point where I could only go so far. Even a failing writer is still a writer.