In which I wish I could write nonfiction

     I sat here for a couple of minutes before letting my fingers touch the keyboard.
     I can always tell when my writing is forced. I sit down, I’ve got what I need--music, water, The Vibe--and then I just sit. And then I realize I’ve been reading what I want to write, and the thoughts flowing through my head aren’t mine, they’re just restatements of what my busy brain has pulled out of the books I’ve been reading.
     I’m on vacation, and I finished The Wheel of Time, a fantastic series which has a very small fanbase. Perhaps too small. Any time I find someone who loves them, they always happen to be an adult. Where are all my young fantasy fans? All you read is this contemporary mess, the types of books I shelve nearly every day. Cheesy teen romance is just fluff. It’s predictable. Why would you want to spend your time on that? Girl meets guy, who happens to be girl’s best friend’s boyfriend, girl falls for best friend’s boyfriend, who falls for her as well, poor choices are made, people get mad, everyone lives happily ever after. Trash.
     Back to The Wheel of Time. After I got over the emotional damage caused by all the characters I love dying, I started A Slip of the Keyboard by Terry Pratchett. It’s just a collection of randomness; I imagine it as a book full of blog posts. It’s a good book, and now it’s the only thing running through my head as I’m writing this. I want to be a good writer. I want to sit down and write like he does, pumping out books like nobody’s business. Problem is, I just rewrite what I’ve read.
     Pratchett says that good writers take the tropes and cliches that exist and make them their own. He says that good books are like good cakes--the main ingredients are all the same, more or less, but a good cook will spice it up and add their own touches. And that’s what I want to do.
     I’ve grown out my nails. Also, my hands are really tan. Resulting is the beautiful illusion of long, healthy nails. Don’t let them fool you--there’s sand and sunscreen under there. Do you know how hard it is to type with long nails? I have to type practically flat-fingered.
     I think one of the great mysteries of writing is how to make your thoughts sound connected. See, that bit about my nails was on my mind, and so I added it in. But if I wanted to write like the masters, I would have integrated it into my writing flawlessly.
     There’s been a lot on my mind lately. It’s been a rough couple of days, or months, or maybe years. It goes back as far as I remember. I’m not sure how to write something beautiful out of it. There’s got to be a way, of course. There’s a way for everything. But how do I turn fact into fiction? How do I turn pain into beauty, the kind of beauty that makes you know that it’s all going to turn out okay?
     I fall in love with little things. Nothing can really compare to the feeling of being under a wave. It’s exhilarating. You see the whitecaps coming closer, or maybe it’s just about to break, and you know you’re not going to be able to go over this one. So you hold your nose and drop down--and there’s silence under. You can feel the cold water all around, and it’s smooth, but you can hear the wave rumble as it goes over. There’s a thrill as you feel it tousle your hair. Sometimes it grabs you by the hair and pulls you along with it, and you come up with a mouth full of salt water and sand.
     Is that all I want? To feel free, like I do in the ocean? Like I do when I run across grass in bare feet? Like I do when I roll the windows down and sing my heart out?
     I thought about writing this whole page on why I hate waterspots on the bathroom faucet and mirror. There’s something grounding about sitting down and writing something passionate on a very small thing like waterspots.
     Alas. There were other things on my mind.
     I’m going to go outside and read my Terry Pratchett book again.
         ~~Zoë Wingfeather

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