Writers are an odd lot.
Yes, I know, statement of the century. But seriously. We wander around graveyards with the express purpose of stealing dead people’s names, space out of conversations to contemplate which innocent character we’re going to murder next, and hurt ourselves on purpose so we can “know what it feels like”.
(At least, that’s what we claim was happening after doing something really stupid.)
(Don’t ask me what an electric fence feels like.)
And apart from all the other little eccentricities of our kind, we writers carry notebooks.
Most of us.
Shameful as it is, I only started mine seven months ago. There’s also an 80% chance that I’m doing it wrong, because a couple days ago, when I made the mistake of sifting through it in search of some random thought I’d jotted down at 1 AM, the result was laughing hysterically at my random and generally incoherent thoughts, most of which were written at some late stage of the night. At this point of my blogging life, you should know what my late night brain is capable of—everything from The 60 Page Theory to The Chronicles of Plerp. Basically, sheer randomness in its purest form.
Yoda: “Issues, you have.”
I wrote that. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. But the fact remains: That right there is in my notebook.
Bonus points if you heard his voice in your mind while reading it.
After laughing myself silly, and then reading some out loud to my sister so she could laugh herself silly, I thought it would be fun to dump some of the best bits here, for your general entertainment.
What does Liriel know about [insert random character here]?
That’s… a good thing to know about someone, yeah.
Owen’s alternate world of Friss—or Fris… Frys? Frisians? Frysanites? Frisers? FRIES!!! (That’s stupid.)
It goes on like this for a while. I feel like I’m reading The Silmarillion.
Apparently, I sometimes write poetry…? It wasn’t intentional, I can assure you.
Dear Cousin Hugh,
That’s it. That’s all there is.
I don’t have a cousin Hugh.
This is a real conversation I had with my sister. As far as I can glean, the moral of the story is this:
Belt = No Capes
(Bonus points if you read that in Edna Mode’s voice.)
When we fall asleep, it feels like only seconds have gone by until we wake up. So what if we HAVEN’T actually slept for hours? What if, when we fall asleep, we’re really just instantly transferred to the moment in the future that we wake up? WHAT IF MY LIFE HAS BEEN A LIE???
Thanks, dad, for putting thoughts in my head that I will never be able to erase.
How does Biddle find the Understudy?
I’ll let you figure out the context of this.
This is a special classification of poetry known as “sad, disturbing metaphors that don’t rhyme.”
Writers have mental problems.
CLEAN STICKY NOTES OFF COMPUTER. NOW.
For one thing, why was I shouting at myself in my notebook? And secondly, why was I shouting at myself to do it NOW instead of just going and actually… doing it?
For the record, it’s still not done.
Do not rejoice over me, my enemy; When I fall, I will arise; When I sit in darkness, The Lord will be a light to me. ~Micah 7:8
Never discredit seemingly “minor” books of the Bible, guys. There are some real gems in them.
Ah yes, my debut novel—How Emolas Earned a Place on Yet Another Assassination List, soon to be released in bookstores near you.
One word to describe Indril: Weak
This, my friends, is actually the christening statement of the entire notebook. The very first thing I wrote in there.
Naturally, I decided to save it until the middle of the post.
She walked with stars in her wake, and where she went, the world followed.
I have no idea who this is talking about, but I like the sound of her.
What is the Watchpost?
I find it dreadfully ironic that I created something before knowing either what it—or it’s purpose—was.
I have since discovered both, just so we’re clear.
I really hate myself for this. I was so gung-ho for all anti-poetry movements, especially the un-rhyming kind. Whaddya know, but now I’m writing the stuff.
I feel like such a disappointment to my past self.
- Draw a portrait every week
Well that didn’t happen.
- Piano every day
- Finish book by April
HAHA DEFINITELY NOPE.
Exhibit A of why I don’t make New Year’s goals.
“Am I right, Atha?”
“I’m almost positive you’re not, but to be honest, I wasn’t listening.”
I’m… just gonna leave this one here.
These are the nights when the moon is alive.
If I ever decide that writing isn’t the job for me, it’s good to know that my late night brain is already taking great strides to turn me into an inspirational speaker.
Good job, me.
So yeah, there it is. The incredible strangeness of the things I jot down. As you can see, the only common factor in my notebook is that nothing has a common factor. But you know, I rather like that. Life is a terribly structured affair; we all need a little spontaneity in our lives—even if some of us are perfectionist control-freak INTJs who outline things within an inch of their life and have to develop a method for everything, even something as insignificant as washing dishes.
To the people who think I’m too much of a control freak, I have but one thing to say to you:
Issues, you have.
Anyway, happy Thursday, my ducklings, and I’ll see you next week. What are some of the warped and slightly terrifying things you have written in your notebooks?