So I watched a couple episodes of Elementary the other day and I officially have Sherlock Holms syndrome now. What is that you ask? It’s when you decide that you are now a brilliant genius and the random things that you are just noticing now have great meaning. Such as when you get an eerie feeling and think someone’s coming, and low and behold they are coming, it was because you were able to pick up on clues that were so minuet even you don’t know what they were, not pure luck like you would have previously thought. Also when you can’t find your phone and you’ve searched everywhere for it, only for it to have been in an obvious place, it wasn’t you missing the obvious, someone had to have moved it and you are now observant enough to have noticed it’s misplacement.
It’s amazing how significantly stories and shows impact our mental state. We absorb everything like sponges, and assume that we can be as extravagant as our idols, but in reality we are normal. I can’t remember how many times I have heard someone talk about medicine only to be questioned and admit they learned it off House…they are actually an IT specialist or whatnot and have no real medical training.
I want to do an experiment one day, I have always wanted to write a book about someone who can predict the future with reasonable accuracy, so I want to write it and do surveys after everyone reads the book to see how many people think they have some ungodly ability to predict the future that they didn’t realize until they had read my amazing book. I bet you at least half would suddenly become psychic.
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
I read so much Shakespeare when I was in high school, I was definitely in love with the idea of love, and his heroic love stories fed my fascinations. Romeo and Juliet was a tragic love story sure, but it was all about the most fantastic form of never-ending love right?
I have loved this particular sonnet since the first time I read it, saving it to memory with a fondness that rivals with few other things I have managed to remember over the years. It’s an intoxicating thought, for someone to be so deeply in love with someone who is far from beautiful, and yet the speaker is still enamored by everything about the person. A Few nights ago I was re-reading this and I realized I had Shakespeare wrong all along. He wrote not of beautiful love, or fantastical tragedy’s, but of the love that could never be. It’s commonly known that he is gay, so this only makes too much sense for him to have been so passionate about a subject few have managed to master since him. We don’t choose who we fall in love with, and unfortunately heartbreak is still a subject that we can understand after all this time. It’s a concept that transcends the generations and speaks to the soul, something I would be give anything to be able to do in my writing.
I have always loved J.K. Rowling’s writing and innate ability to take you on an adventure, but apparently she has recently published a book called ‘The Cuckoo’s Calling’ under a pseudonym in APRIL and was only just ousted as the true author. This book drew critical acclaim for it’s amazing story about a veteran who turns detective and investigates the murder of a model, before anyone even knew who she was! Can I blame Ms. Rowling? Surely not, if everyone expected me to write the same genre for the rest of my life because anything else wouldn’t live up to expectations, then I would say screw it and tell my story, just not tell them who I am, it makes perfect sense! She doesn’t have to write for money anymore, she can write for the pleasure of being able to spin a story that can move people, so dose it really matter what name she uses? No, because in the end, it’s the story that matters not the author. Apparently she had hoped to keep this on the down low for a bit longer, and I can’t help but shake my head and think, ah well you didn’t use Alan Rickman as your secret keeper this time did you!
I wish I knew a foreign language. After three years of French one, I still do not have the slightest handle on the French language, and can’t interpret more then Je ne se pas (I don’t know). And yet…I find myself reading posts in different languages as if I know what they mean, and even watching film festival movies and laughing along with them as if I could possibly know what they are talking about. My family of course gives me strange looks, but I blame it on being artistic. It’s not so much the words that matter to me, you can tell someone’s mood and meaning without any words at all, words simply make it easier. Apparently in Die Hard Hans Gruber’s German lines were often grammatically incorrect and he several times just made up stuff when he couldn’t remember how to pronounce things, so he obviously isn’t too great with languages either. I’ve always admired Alan Rickman’s artistic abilities, therefore I consider myself not weird and slightly insane, but simply a very artistic person. I might not know a foreign language, but I do an amazing job at pretending like I do!
Why do you write? For yourself? To see the joy in someone else as they read your masterpiece? Or maybe just to tell the story that you know needs to be told? Whatever your reason, there is a reason that you write, otherwise you wouldn’t write.
Well , I love to tell stories, always have and always will, but my ultimate goal is not to just tell my story, but to tell someone else’s. I am obsessive, which includes obsessing about random people that I’ve never met and probably wont ever meet, but I simply have to know every detail of their lives. It’s like my crack, the more I know, the more I obsess about them, and I have to know just one more detail about them. I wouldn’t say I’m a stalker because I have yet to meet anyone who I have obsessed about, but I’m probably the closest thing to a stalker that you can get. It’s not that I am enamored by their fame or fortune, but rather I am fascinated about what made them who they are, the little things that most people would never know about them but shaped the person that they became. I still remember the day I sat in a library and read a book about Michal Jackson and wished someone had wrote a story about his life, not the rise to fame that everyone knows, but rather the internal struggles that shaped who he was. He of course died, but that dream of telling the story of one of my many idols lives has always stayed with me. I love writing fiction and will never stop, but one day I dream to be so honored to be trusted with the story of one of the greatest people that have lived, and be allowed to breathe life into the story that would otherwise be lost to all who are as interested in the great as I am.
What is your dream, your ultimate wish for what you could do with your writing? Do you ever see yourself achieving this dream or do you just toss it aside as simply that, a dream?
What do you guys think? I was trying to convey a dark romance.