All your lives unled, reading in bed

There's a cold on the horizon. I'm hoping with enough willpower I can stave it off like last time. Let's all hope so since next week begins the oh crap get essay done time.

You know that restless way when you can't do anything else until you get something down on paper. It's a nightmare, one that wakes me up and consumes my thoughts and the worst part of it is that I am simply not good enough yet to realise all that I can imagine. I'm vain. Incredibly so, although I try not to show it and when I do I use sarcasm to protect myself from contradictions. Because, like all vain people, I'm a mass of insecurities. I wrote my first novel when I was fourteen, although it was not my first attempt. There was that one I started when I was nine about orphaned twins, very melodramatic and ridiculous. But this was my first completed novel. I typed it all up in chapters and let anybody who asked read it. That was the great thing about our high school, few people read let alone wrote their own stories so I was smothered in praise. Of course it was absolute rubbish. Then came the Elfwood period. Considering how picky I am when it comes to clichés my little page on that site is a veritable mess of overused plot holes. Again, it was the perfect place for quick and easy praise. It's why I've never bothered posting anywhere else, except for blogs of course but that's a different matter.

Nobody has ever told me I could write. Nobody ever really encouraged me to write either. I never entered competitions and so I never won anything. I just remember being in the front seat of my dad's car, driving to the BBC building and passing the university. He pointed the imposing building out to me and said that's where I might be when I grew up. I told him it would be pointless because I was going to be a writer.

I didn't quite imagine I'd be stuffy nosed and thumbing through my worn French dictionary to find out how to spell the sentences that play out in my head. I handed the first page to my mother who merely told me that clack would be a better onomatopoeia than tack for a typewriter and ignored all french like phrases. I fear it's become one of those pieces that nobody else will want to read. But one must persevere, if only because I'd fidget myself to a broken finger otherwise.

Julie provided a brief summary of what I've written so far and if it became a published work I'd love it to be the blurb:

I AM WALKING DOWN THE STREET
THERE A STRANGE MAN I DO MEET
I TOUCH HIM INAPPROPRIATELY
AND THEN I PRANCE AWAY WITH GLEE

Now have a picture of the best part of La Dolce Vita. Because it makes me happy.