A Random Post

September 19th, 2010

Afternoon-ish.

On a Sunday

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So.

Nothing new has happened, quite obviously, seeing as it hasn't even been eleven hours since I last posted and I spent almost all of that time sleeping. Sleeping is the only task on the schedule schedule that I have actually gotten done. The sad thing is, even though I've spent nearly twenty-four hours sleeping this weekend, I'm still tired. And after waking up at twelve-thirty yesterday, I went back to sleep at just past one and very easily dozed off. Back to the point, however. And the point this time is: I have no point. This is just going to be one of those posts where I worry a lot.

And sadly, there's a lot to worry about.

About a week ago I found out that my dog, whom I've had for years, is sick. Turns out he managed to get himself a skin rash and an ear infection, although the rash seemed to be the worst part. A rash he got, possibly, because after I gave him a bath, I didn't take his collar off, and so it may have irritated him and caused him to scratch at his neck, where he got the rash, in the first place. Thankfully he's getting better now and the spot on his neck they had to shave is healing quite nicely, and his fur is already starting to grow back.

School started less than two weeks ago. And already I am swamped, although most of my problems come back to nightly math and science, which I can't do anything about, and this project I have to do. See, the one friend I thought I had no classes with turned out to be in my lunch and this sort of class we have to take that's kind of like home economics. The whole point of the class is the big project you do in groups. But you didn't get to pick the group you were in, because . . . well, I don't really know why. We just weren't allowed to. All we got to do was pick partners, and then she put groups of partners together.

So, my friend and I were partners, obviously. And we got paired with another group of partners who are among the better people we could have gotten stuck with, only neither of them wants to do any work outside of class. I've had this happen to me before when working in groups, and so I knew that at least these two would do something in class, even if they wouldn't do any outside school, and so catching up on things at home would come down to me and my friend. It could have been worse; they could have done nothing or I could have been stuck without my friend in the first place.

Only, we have to catch up on this part of the project, and my friend is busy all weekend. So who does it fall to? Me. Of course. And I don't have the time for this.

Of course, no one at my school considers writing to be any sort of extracurricular activity unless it's done in one of their writing clubs, which are a) the school newspaper, which is a joke and no one ever reads, or b) their thing where you stay after school and basically write and receive instruction from one of the English teachers, who has published two books. The only thing is? I don't mean to sound mean, but if he had truly been successful, he would not be teaching English to kids in my not-so-fantastic town. And so . . . well, I don't want to make it sound like I scorn this, because it's an accomplishment to be published at all and even if he wasn't published he still knows a lot about writing. But . . . I don't know. I don't know anyone who's actually in this club thing, and so I don't know if they aspire to actually be honest to goodness published writers when they grow up and think this is going to help them. And so maybe being in that club would help me, but the truth is I would rather keep my writing mine, and anonymous.

And so everyone thinks I am one of those people who does nothing with her life, when in truth I do a ton of stuff. It just all comes back to writing. I don't know anyone in real life who wants to be an author one day. I know those people who say, "Oh, I'm going to write a story!" and then their story is a half page long and after getting out their new notebook to write it in and carrying it around with them for a few days, they forget about it. Weeks, months, years later, they'll find it, and read it, and laugh at it. But never continue it. They all think writing is so easy, something simple. But it's not, and they never appreciate exactly how much work goes into forcing out those words and making them good and making sure that this scene doesn't bore the living crap out of people, and that this scene has enough action, and that this fact is plausible and this isn't pointless entirely, but just pointless enough to make it enjoyable. And plot holes.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that my mind believes that no one I know can write, really. I know that, most likely, this isn't true. They probably can write. Someone among them. And someone among them is probably also infinitely better than me. This I know. But in the end, it comes down to me being obsessed with being the best, and being better than all of them at writing because I started young and never really truly gave up. But most of all, being successful in my writing, being published, is really something that I want so much simply to prove that I haven't wasted my time writing. Because if I didn't write, I would have a life. I would do things. So I have simply devoted my entire life as a minor to writing in hopes that it'll lead to something.

I know Mia (that's right, I called her Mia for once, you may all now be amazed) always talks about her plans for the future, plans she says most likely won't happen. I, too, have a convoluted plan for the future that, while it may be a lot of wishful thinking, also has a chance.

This plan has undergone massive changes over the past few weeks, after the original plan was shot straight to hell. And so now it entails the following: going to *insert college name here*, double majoring in history and English. Then, in my second year of college, I shall study abroad in England/Scotland so that I have primary sources for the book I want to write on Mary and Elizabeth Tudor and the other book I want to write on Mary Queen of Scots. Although this makes more sense if I study in England after I publish a book so that people take me seriously, and so this may fail . . . Either way. Then I eventually go back to the other college and finish studying there, and graduate. And then find a random job doing something with history, preferably the European kind, in New York or Toronto, since they're the two publishing capitals of North America. Or maybe D.C., simply because it'd be more likely for me to find a job having to do with history there. And then I live happily ever after and get published and get a dog named Laika and become the next J.K. Rowling.

Yup. That's my plan fail, all of which stemmed off of me explaining the stupid project I procrastinated working on by writing this post. Mhm . . .

--Ave, who really should work on her stupid project

P.S.--I also have a new obsession. Heard about the movie The Social Network, that comes out on October first? I am obsessed with it. This is stupid, since I don't even have a Facebook. I just really really really like the story. A lot. And so, I shall drag my cousin and her friend to see it with me a few weeks after it comes out. *nods some* *skips off to finish project*