Writing About Writing

The title kind of says it all. But, if you want to know, it's my rant slash ramble about writing a short story for a book (hence, Writing About Writing.)

Also, there is an over-usage of brackets. And possible slang, as well.

A couple weeks back, my mother came into my sister's room (where I was, at that current moment in time) and started talking about this Short Story Email that she had sent us. And, yeah, I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. (Go figure.)

Apparently, she had sent us three sisters this email which Oxford University Press had sent out all around the country. It was supposedly about this short story competition.

I checked it out a couple of days after, and I won't copy it of word-to-word ('cause it's boring and laborious and tedious), but basically, there is a Short Story Competition, which introduces four topics:

The Meaning of Me
Paved and Unpaved Ways
Because, This is What Matters and
The Bravest Place in the World

We have to send it in by the thirty-first of June. And it has a word-limit of 2000 words. And if they like your story, they publish it in a book.

Yeah, I'm sorry, but these topics are really not working for me.

What sort of weird-bum topics are these? How on Earth do you phrase an entire short story around these essay-like topics, when short stories are absolutely nothing like essays except for the fact that they both use words? I mean, jeesh. I may be a writer but I can't do this.

(Which actually really really sucks, because my sisters seem to find no troubles in writing their short stories, and they don't write as a hobby. Well. I think they don't. They don't know I do, so... You never know.)

I'm just very lost/tired/annoyed here.

(Although, no offence to darling Kylie, my younger sister, but her short story sounded more like the girl-to-woman chick lit novellas which I don't read anymore because they're not very good. Usually. They're pretty cliche, if you ask me.)

I'm pondering 'Because, This is What Matters' and 'The Bravest Place in the World' because they seem to be better story lines than 'The Meaning of Me'. (What sort of stupid topic is that?!) 

But all I can come up with for 'What Matters' is depressing, life-is-too-short terminal-cancer-days stories (John Green, you have corrupted me), which, although are awesome if you are in fact John Green (or Nicholas Sparks), they don't usually work otherwise. Plus, I'd rather not give my mother, who is under the impression that the last time I wrote a poem was a couple years ago (yeah, right, probably a couple days ago is more likely), a heart attack at my dark and twisted mind set.

And 'Bravest Place' is also turning out to be more depressing, life-is-too-short terminal-days stories. (Although I've got a wicked story line for that - "The bravest place in the world... is the place where your fears live." Yeah?)

(Has anyone else noticed that when you italiscize 'a' and 'g' on Protagonize, they change form? Wicked.)

'Paved and Unpaved Ways' sounds like one of those dod dern cliche stories which have the old wise monk say things like, "You must pave your own path, young warrior" and the hero/ine rises to start the climax of the story. Which, I don't exactly want to do. (Even though I do actually write those stories sometimes. What? Cliches occasionally suck, but they're inevitable.)

It's 1:10 a.m. I kind of want a snack, but I'm pretty stuffed from dinner. Massive pizza. And chips. Wow, such great diet food, I know.

Asdfghjkl. (Jeez, even my writing's gone into the new tech age. I must be really boggled.)

Thing is, I really want to get published. It would be amazing. And by Oxford University Press - I mean, it's pretty cool.

(Which is why I should not be wasting time watching Vlogbrother videos which are absolutely hilarious and start writing. Which. I will. Soon. Maybe.)

Since my parents want to save electricity and the planet, etcetera, us three sisters are bunking in one room, and Amelia (one of my sisters; a pseudonym) wanted the lights off, I am currently sitting in a dark room, lit only by a light coming from the dressing room, my laptop... and Kylie's laptop as well.

Yup - I am currently about 15 feet from her and on Protagonize, which I am trying to keep private from her and Amelia, who is 10 feet from me, trying to sleep on her mattress.

Yes, I know I am a little bit weird and possibly mentally unstable.

(And now I really wanna read Catch Me by Cat_Monty again, because awwww. Cute gay boys. She has officially struck my heart. But alas, I cannot - I gotta write.)

(Why didn't anyone tell me that writing came with the price of late-night sleeping?)

And I really want some Nestle mango juice right now. (Did you know that OJ stands for Orange Juice? 'Cause I didn't until a couple of weeks ago. A dummy, that's what I am.)

Should I risk it?

Yup. Imma go get some juice! (More slang. Yeesh. I warned you in the summary, did I not.)


Errrr, yeah, Plan Fail.

What Happened: I got up and fumbled to the door (in the dark) and said softly to Kylie, "I'm gonna get some mango juice from downstairs."

And I couldn't actually take note of her facial expression, but it would've been something alone the lines of Are-You-Nuts? because she said, "At 1:30 in the morning?"

Which. Is a fair point, I must admit myself.

This late-night staying up has scrambled my ability of rational thought. Grrrrrrr.

And I actually want to start writing now, but I have no idea what to write and I'll just have the stupid cursor blink-blink-blinking at me, laughing it's silly metaphorical bottom off at my silence of mind. (And no way am I going to let a cursor on my own laptop screen mock me. That's just demeaning, even to me.)



Maybe I should start yoga.

The End

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