Organic Chemistry II
Microbiology
President’s Leadership Class
Creative Writing…
Guess which one I’m excited about…
Monday, July 23, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Original Thought
Is there any such thing as original thought!?
Inspiration is the root of all creative works, correct? Then how can originality really exist!? Is creativity nothing but a masterful blending of hundreds of unrelated sources - an illusion of ingenuity?
When you think about it for long enough (as I undoubtedly have), all of life is a blending of resources - whether they be mixed in a way that is "masterful" or dreadful. Either way, I am definitely not a masterful blender. Ha. Will I ever utter that sentence again?
If you continue along that line of thought, everything becomes an illusion of ingenuity, then an illusion of happiness, an illusion of life and suddenly I'm cast on the Matrix.
The only original things that exist come from actual events that happen to us all, from day to day. The things we experience have been experienced many times before, by others, but never through our eyes. And that, I believe, is how writers are born. They have a unique perception and awareness of the energies and occurrences around them. Reading books, watching movies, listening to music...all thought to be sources of inspiration... can only polish and awaken these perceptions, right?
Puh, nothing is for certain and before you know it, I'm wandering in a logical circle, never to emerge to civilization again!
In short, I've arrived upon a very, very dry spell in my writings. There you go! I just used "very" as a description! Wow, I really am in deep. The only thing that I seem to write with a shred of certainty is letters (thing is the subject, singular, so I use "is" and not "are"). In the last few months, I have written unsent letters to: my father (in prison, never to emerge and never to give a flying fart that he has a daughter floating around in the universe somewhere), my second-grade teacher, my sister (for her birthday, which I did "send"), and my mother (I thought it too cheesy, at the last moment, and didn't give it to her).
I've been reading, but those ideas belong to others! Bronte needs to keep her surly characters far from my mind, before I begin writing about bitter Englishmen with dark hair and bushy brows that cover dark, inconsiderate eyes. Plech. I don't want to fall into the Edward Cullen trap.
Still, inspiration evades me and I begin to wonder if I've ever really been inspired. Am I simply realizing, at long last, that not a single creative bone resides in my body? That I am simply (again with the "simply") a chatterbox who loves to read and has an unfortunate adoration of the idea of writing?
Yeah, probably, but still...someone famous (Alexander Pope? Eh, I dunno) said that a true writer must write - he/she is compelled. Whether a good writer or a bad writer, I am definitely compelled to write. *sigh* a perfect torture, like the woman in myth who was cursed with the gift of prophesy that no one would ever believe.
I would rather give away this desire to read/write fiction and become a cold, calculating scientist. That would make me happier, I think. :P
Inspiration is the root of all creative works, correct? Then how can originality really exist!? Is creativity nothing but a masterful blending of hundreds of unrelated sources - an illusion of ingenuity?
When you think about it for long enough (as I undoubtedly have), all of life is a blending of resources - whether they be mixed in a way that is "masterful" or dreadful. Either way, I am definitely not a masterful blender. Ha. Will I ever utter that sentence again?
If you continue along that line of thought, everything becomes an illusion of ingenuity, then an illusion of happiness, an illusion of life and suddenly I'm cast on the Matrix.
The only original things that exist come from actual events that happen to us all, from day to day. The things we experience have been experienced many times before, by others, but never through our eyes. And that, I believe, is how writers are born. They have a unique perception and awareness of the energies and occurrences around them. Reading books, watching movies, listening to music...all thought to be sources of inspiration... can only polish and awaken these perceptions, right?
Puh, nothing is for certain and before you know it, I'm wandering in a logical circle, never to emerge to civilization again!
In short, I've arrived upon a very, very dry spell in my writings. There you go! I just used "very" as a description! Wow, I really am in deep. The only thing that I seem to write with a shred of certainty is letters (thing is the subject, singular, so I use "is" and not "are"). In the last few months, I have written unsent letters to: my father (in prison, never to emerge and never to give a flying fart that he has a daughter floating around in the universe somewhere), my second-grade teacher, my sister (for her birthday, which I did "send"), and my mother (I thought it too cheesy, at the last moment, and didn't give it to her).
I've been reading, but those ideas belong to others! Bronte needs to keep her surly characters far from my mind, before I begin writing about bitter Englishmen with dark hair and bushy brows that cover dark, inconsiderate eyes. Plech. I don't want to fall into the Edward Cullen trap.
Still, inspiration evades me and I begin to wonder if I've ever really been inspired. Am I simply realizing, at long last, that not a single creative bone resides in my body? That I am simply (again with the "simply") a chatterbox who loves to read and has an unfortunate adoration of the idea of writing?
Yeah, probably, but still...someone famous (Alexander Pope? Eh, I dunno) said that a true writer must write - he/she is compelled. Whether a good writer or a bad writer, I am definitely compelled to write. *sigh* a perfect torture, like the woman in myth who was cursed with the gift of prophesy that no one would ever believe.
I would rather give away this desire to read/write fiction and become a cold, calculating scientist. That would make me happier, I think. :P
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Cruel Moon
Lost in the artic forest of my thoughts, I return to the place where I so commonly find myself. Beneath the silvery glint of the moon, the frozen pond reflects the towering white trees, and the moon’s grinning face. Jagged white fangs, an evil glint, an unforgiving stare… the cruel moon in its mount in the sky watches the frozen world suffer. It watches me suffer from the banks of my never-moving waters. And laughs in delight.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Cold Before Dawn
Cold before dawn,
Off in the misty night,
Under the gibbous moon,
The peacocks cry to each other,
As if in pain
-Kenneth Rexroth
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