Writing Stories: The Lessons I've Learnt

Oh, I feel immensely inclined to apologize for failing to post a small message regarding my recent absence from my beloved blog, but jotting down a wave of newborn ideas for my new story has all but been consuming my time and Danish biscuit-fuelled energy (a reason why I have to visit Denmark in the future!) because I cannot bring myself to put an abrupt stop to the ever-increasing flow of ideas which continuously keep occurring inside my fictional-based mind. Once you're on a roll, why bother to hold your horses on carrying on and reaching further heights?

Sadly, this may mean that a couple of lacklustre episodes of celebrity-themed reality programmes could potentially be missed in favour of sitting at my desk (which, at this rate, will be hotly becoming a business room for all things related to teenage angst tales) and racking my brains for new infos as to the rapidly blossoming personalities of the main characters and whether their L'Oréal-glossy manes of envy-maddening hair are either poker straight as my own or blessed with beach-style waves, a fantasy which I highly doubt is unlikely to transform itself into a reality any time soon. But I couldn't care less because producing a story - one which needn't get any inspiration from previous works because it is partly based on the lives surrounding a large proportion of those in modern day society - is far more meaningful than wasting sixty minutes on decorating a dreary-looking house and creating a Cola Coke-free buzz between certain characters on The Sims, which often leaves me wondering why I even bothered to think about playing an unreal game instead of performing a task superiorly essential to building my writing-related confidence.

For as long as I can remember (whilst spending hours in the relaxing comfort of my old black leather chair on an ancient Packard Bell computer), writing has flowed through my veins like a mansion-living football having an insatiable yearning to participate and score as many goals for their chosen team and I've grown used to my writing style as years have flown by in a Wordpad-fused daze, so now seems to be the most convenient time of experimenting with stories and handing over full creative control to my vivacious imagination - by the end of this destined-to-be-perfect year, I'm dreaming of completing a novel and potentially publishing it through Amazon's amazing Kindle Publishing service, which offers novice authors the irresistible opportunity to post their stories through their website and receive a sizeable chunk of the profits. And how could a teenager semi-permanently on the lookout for a wardrobe of clothes shake their heads vigorously when their stories may net them enough cash to spend a whole day at a shopping centre? Well, that is the plan, if my dream-like consciousness takes the reins of my imagination for fifteen minutes; what kind of ferocious obstacles could dare to stand in my way of reaching stardom - at the nearest H&M retailer, so I hope - and redeeming myself as a non-One Directioner teenage author?

Unless luck permanently resides by your bedside and the most dreadful event which has ever occurred in your life is getting a cold perhaps every five years, you seriously do not know what you're talking about if a spell of anxiety-increasing writer's block hasn't caught you like a bird trapped in a cage at the most possibly worst moment; for what seemed like ages, all attempts to write anything ceased from my tension-led mind and slowly, yet dangerously developed a fear within myself to so much as open a document and type at a hundred mph like I previously used to - and all that I had worked for and used to relish with such euphoric excitement was endangered by worry wrapping me around its finger and ever so nearly destroying my passion beyond any hope of repair. That fear is partly what stands for my near-daily yearning of jotting down my thoughts on this blog because I'm terrified that the longer that I go without typing or releasing any creative energy, I will gradually slip back into my difficultly destroyed ways and return to avoiding anything associated with taking part in writing activities.

Strange, doesn't it seem, that now I have such a burning desire - obviously without a reference to the catchy Lana Del Rey song - to write a story as it has never been done before and break the chain of passionless fear which, at one stage, threatened to engulf me fully, but I've emerged to another side and grown up, in quite a large sense, to stand on my two feet and wave au revoir to previous feelings of tension. So, part of myself loves the joys which comes with completing an entry on my blog and getting in the mood to become a character, but a large chunk within me also screams for the undying need to express myself in the manner which makes me feel a million times more confident - unlike interjecting my thoughts entirely into everyday speech, letting the words flow through paper or on a laptop enables me to fully explore various opinions and fish out the one which is best suited to myself, and it quietly creates a sense of security and self-esteem upon which you don't dwell because basically enough is said through your writing. That brings me the most heartfelt joy because I wouldn't necessarily grant myself the title of overly confident - as if I would ever dream of being renowned for highly frowned upon cockiness! - but writing unleashes a secret diva who may never see the light of day had I not branched out into getting my thoughts across within the cleverly spoken (without uttering a single word!) art of writing. And I'm hopeful that the same emotions will be stirred pleasantly in my newborn ambitions to receive the maximum pleasure from creating a novel and eventually completing it, feeling intense passion for my characters and losing track of time during my extensive stints at the laptop throughout the year.

Sure, a complaint regarding a lack of natural sunlight in my bedroom may distract me from finishing a character's heated sentence or a sudden brain freeze could put a hold to coming up with logical ideas which will still exist by the following day, but difficulties play a role within everything we choose to do, don't they? I'm not entirely bothered whether a career on a par with J.K. Rowling's is on the card, though the thought of it is rather nice; most importantly of all, I'm a teenager who simply wishes to have something to do on a miserably damp Sunday afternoon. Video games and television programmes only guarantee to hold my attention for so long, whilst being entirely engaged in creating a story consumes you from the moment you roll out of bed until struggling to stay awake during an airing of Eight out of Ten Cats leaves you with no choice other than to fall asleep on your pink Hello Kitty pillow; bring on the frustration, mascara-streaked tears and complexion-glowing satisfaction as the yearning for writing a novel becomes far stronger than my mum's cup of tea!