Writer's Words: Into the Mind of An Artist

~sneaks into library to snatch cookie and slink away~

Augh! You caught me!

~guiltily crams cookie down piehole~

Yeah, I'm really sorry guys. I had two different camps, my sister got pretty badly injured, life stuff, a sleepover, and the Fourth in my way of posting. But I did have time to do this before.

And I'm sorry.

Well, sorry or not, I have things to post and words to say, so if your too busy angrily huffing about me not posting early enough, too bad.

If you read the title, you'll know that this here post is going to be about writing. It's going to be about MY writing and my path through Writerhood.

It all started around three to four years ago. I was fed up with my art skills. The only thing I wanted in the world up to that point was to make amazing, breathtaking art. It didn't even need to be that good. I wanted something that would be emotionally stupefying. Something that would change someone's life for the better. I wanted to make it my gift to humanity.

But as you know, humanity is stupid and downright horrible.

I tried my hardest to make my art beautiful. To make it emotional and brilliant. But all I got was 'That's ok I guess'. I came to the heart-stopping realization that art just wasn't my calling. I had wanted it to be ever since I was little. My eldest sister was good at it. My cousin was good at it. My other older sister was amazing at it. Along with many other relatives and friends... MANY other...

But it wasn't the thing that made me tick.

At the same moment, I had a heart-starting realization. I could write. Though I have horrible spelling and terrible handwriting, I could use the computer. I immediately sat down and pulled up Google Docs. I created a Doc and got to writing. My first story wasn't that good. AT. ALL.

I stole my classmate's name, because I thought it was cool, and made the second main character literally me. With a differently spelled name. My sisters were the same, except I made my oldest sister a boy for some reason, and changed the names slightly. It was... Utterly pathetic.

But at the time, I was really proud of it.

At the time, that was the best I could do. And I loved it. I loved the process, the thrill of making whole worlds in my mind. Over years of taking many MANY literature classes, and reading nonstop on my own time, I grew a huge vocabulary. I was, and still am, the fastest reader I know, and I'm always the top of my class in literature and grammar. I hated my old classes, but they helped me.

I needed them desperatly.

I don't read as much now, but that's alright. My writing skill's don't exactly get worse with the years, like my art does.

I made Doc after Doc, Pouring out my love for writing into my words, infusing the very pages with emotion. I even made myself cry. I got so much good feedback from almost anyone I had shown it to, and I LOVED my work for once. Though things don't run smooth for long.

I became slightly depressed about my work. I didn't think it was good enough. It could be better, I thought. I seared it into my mind that I had to get better. This was my calling, I can't waste it.

But, instead of burning myself out, I quite. I stopped writing for awhile, and came back. And it helped so much. By this time, I had created many worlds filled with Vampires, aliens, enchanted knives and slaughtering queens. Ancient Sphinxes and even ancienter legends. Relationships that would last a lifetime, and characters that made an impression. I was a fully fledged writer.

That's me now.

I love writing, and I love my works. I always complained about how hard art was and is, and how I could never be good enough. I could never convey enough emotion, and I hated all my works. I wanted to tell stories in  pictures, and now I tell stories in books. It's not too much different, to be honest.

Chapter two of The Rockwood Project is coming soon, I promise.

For now,

Signing off.

~CatClack, the girl who never gave up.