Writing and Writers

And after waiting for a long time and deliberating on whether or not I needed code names and other stupid things, I've decided to post a ridiculously long run-on sentence! No, I'm just kidding. Well, here we are. Just you and me. The writer and the writ....ed? No no, the reader.

After a couple minutes of writing stupid things that I though were clever....

So yes, on to the topic at hand, which is surprisingly not a rant, which means it has been a good day. Recently, I've been suffering from the infamous "writer's block" *Cue Beethoven's 5th*. That has nothing to do with me neglecting writing the blog and showing it to people, et cetera, et cetera. It means I have not written a decent story in AGES. My mind has been completely whittled into nothingness, like a boyscout who doesn't know what the hell he's doing and is probably a scout because his mother told him it would get him into college. That kind of whittled. That's pretty bad. But yesterday, my mind returned to me in a flash of brilliance that I will not explain here. I was able to pull out a piece of paper and jot down a good page and a half of notes on a random story line I made up. I'll let you in a little secret. The motif is white chocolate. I was hungry, what can I say. Gotta fulfill those needs.

I can't justify calling myself a writer considering what I write is 1500 words maximum. That's just pitiful in the world of writing unless, of course, you are a poet, in which case go right ahead buddy, that's damn good headway for a poet. I could be a poet. Much less work and you make people scratch their heads more than they need to. That's usually the sign of a good poet or a really good philosopher.

I've always been frightened by the writing process. Let's see. You have an idea. You show someone your ideas. You get shot down. You try again. On the off chance that an idea is liked, you're encouraged to write something, anything. Your draft either gets shot down or rewrote so much that you can't even tell it's yours. Of course, who am I to know how that works, I'm a high schooler, not some Stephen King. Not a writing god who has lived through each step and lived to become a kick-ass author. Not to mention filthy stinking rich. That's the way to live. Crank out a book every 3-4 years, have them be adored by fans and then make thousands. I expect that doesn't work too well.

Who wants to see a poem of mine? Yes, all of you do! Voila!

A Story A Bird Once Told Me

By Zach HeWhoShallNotBeNamed

A man of humble birth and little wealth comes into the world wanting.

He passes his life working hard, though his labor is trivial.

It is not because of his skin color, his long scraggly beard, or his wizened eyes.

It is not because his mind is closed or his raising being inconsequential.

It is only because those around him feel that he is undeserving, that he is less than they.

Because he was born poor, other men and women around him persuade themselves they are better.

A woman of famed birth and unfathomable wealth comes into the world wanting.

She passes her life without working, though she is emotionally ravaged and without a true friend.

It is not because of her skin color nor is it because of her religion or any other identifier.

It is because those around her feel that she is deserving of their praise and love.

Because she was born famous, other men and women persuade themselves that this woman is better than they.

A human of unknown birth and wealth comes into the world loving.

It passes its life working like many others, though it does not see the stereotypes.

It helps the poor and befriends the rich and famous because it does not see what society wants to make it see. It only sees other human beings, ones that deserve its love and kindness.