I found my old writer's notebook today! All the way back from ninth grade. Reading through it, I was surprised to find that I haven't changed. Not one bit. I mean, compared to now I had the same sorts of ideas, the same sorts of insecurities. Boys haven't changed much, and neither has time. In fact, I wonder if I was a better writer back then than I am now.
For example, I wrote this:
"Slowly, carefully, they unlocked the door. She peered inside--just glancing at first, but then eagerly searching for him in the darkness. Searching, until finally he emerged. Dirt covered his body--head to toe. He was too thin. The effects of years of mistreatment showed. His lips had curved themselves down into a scowl, abd Elle took a step forward, wondering if he could possibly be the same man. He certainly didn't look like it. She immediately recoiled. He isn't the one.
She began to turn away, but she caught one single glimpse of those unchanged eyes. Blue--deeper than oceans. They were the same. He was the same! She ran to him."
Also, my ideas are the same. Lately I've been thinking about writing something about this phenomenon, or at least I
was until I found this:
"Sometimes when I read my past writing, or look at an old drawing or photo--I remember. I remember
exactly where I was at the time, how I was feeling, and what was going on. As if a piece of time was captured and placed carefully between the pages of my notebook.
I was sitting crosslegged on the couch--wrapped up in a blanket and trying to absorb all the heat from the fireplace. I was writing, and I reread it and it took me back. I was sitting at my counter--drawing the mirror while everything around me went on. It's so weird--I'm taken aback even now, as I recall the time when... it just goes on and on."
And finally, my insecurities were obviously similar to what they are now. Is that because I haven't yet conquered them? Or is it more a matter of conquering one step at a time?
"It's weird--how come being a '4.0', 'top of the... what ever I am' is harder than just being normal? Everyone says I'm so lucky. I supposedly don't have to work too hard for anything. It all comes naturally. But if anyone was actually put in my shoes, they'd crumble from all the pressure. Of not being able to live up to the expectations I'm supposed to.
I'm not perfect--no one is. But why does everyone expect me to be so amazing
all of the time?
This is why I never raise my hand in English--I'm not always so brilliant.
This is why I refuse to inprovise for jazz band--what if my solo isn't absolutely amazing?
This is why I'm a little afraid of additional praise in anything--half the time I feel undeserving. Why can't I just be like everybody else?
I wish, for once in my life, I'd really have to work for something. I wish that when I walk into a classroom, I don't suddenly become the teacher's favorite or most 'special' student. I wish that people would stop comparing themselves to me, to their version of the 'perfect' student. Sometimes I wish I had none of these things... these 'talents.' But I guess they're a part of me, and I'd just be losing myself. It feels like I already have, though. Because of the pressure."
Back then, I suppose pressure was a big deal to me. It isn't so much now, and I think it's a little late to be saying I'm scared of soloing or being an academic. So maybe I have changed. Maybe I have matured a little. My handwriting's different--that says something. :)
I think way back then, my brain wasn't exploding so much. I wasn't so scattered and spread thin across all sorts of personalities and ideals of who I should and shouldn't be. I kinda miss those days. Things were uncomplicated, and though I don't wish I could go back, I0 do remenisce. We can thank my notebook for that. :)
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