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Do you write?

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metro.:
I'd imagine quite a few of the people here do, considering the types of people that Anime attract. So, anyone wanna be ballsy enough to share some of their writing? Be it an essay, fan-fiction (biggest cop out ever) or original work, let's see some samples! I used to write all the time in high school because I was filled with angst and no one understood me gosh!, so it was my creative outlet of whatever. They told me I should have one.

Anyways, my writing has dropped off and I'm considering starting again, because it's a good way express your thoughts, or so group therapy decided to inform me. I'm looking for inspiration/motivation, but here's a sample from when I was in grade 10, I started writing a story which changed direction 30 times in the first 10 pages. I only ever got to around 50 or so, but I lost most of it.


--- Quote from: This is terrible, no? ---When Ryder go back to his room, which he had started calling home lately, he laid down on his bed, trying to think about what just happened, and if what he had does really was as easy of a choice as he had said it was. As much as he had father issues, as the psychologist had quite coldly informed him during his psych evaluation, he was still family and lying to him meant separating his real life from the life had before entirely which meant more lies then he could even think of.  Then the thought of lying to Hanna hit him, he wasn't sure he could do it, well he could do it, he just doubted that she would believe his lies for long. She knew him better then anyone in the world and for once that maybe was not a good thing. As his thoughts drifted around, he tried to think the last time he had actually seen his sister, it must be at least a year, maybe even two at this point. A good six months since they'd talked, the longest they'd ever gone. As the gap in his heart started widen he decided now would be a good time go to shooting range, it always seemed to calm him down.
--- End quote ---

Good god, I was even more angst filled then I remember.

Nikkoru:
There once was a man named Metro.

He was a short man, by most standards.

By others, he would be about the same height as Yoshihiro Asai.

He was an okay guy, imperfect, but he tried.

Then one day, he didn't want to try anymore.

He said it makes no sense, this Internet thing. How can we exist through computers, whose idea was it to hook them together and make people talk through them? It's a terrible idea, it dehumanizes everyone, it makes the government shoot fish in a barrel by knowing what goes on, even moreso than before. But Metro can't say that, because then people will be all like Metro "you should go ahead and live in a wood cabin in a secluded forest with no contact to the outside world" because hyperbole is always funny and your questioning of the Internet also means you must not like phones, electric ovens, or Japanese cartoons where you can see the chick's panties when she gets off the bicycle. But phones are different, aren't they? Is it wrong to feel a certain a way about something, but a totally different way about something similar? You can say that on the Internet, but no one cares. That's what make the Internet so great, right? There are so many opinions on everything, you can go your whole time online without dirtying yourself with an opinion you don't agree with. Why should you listen to someone else's view? Why should you watch a video tape when all you can do is go forward and backwards?! That's what they want you to do! That's why they made interstates and highways to only go back and forth, so you have to stay on their roads otherwise you'll be disobeying them! We want to cut our own trail, we want director's commentary and outtakes! We want. We want. WE WANT. This is our world, we're the species that wears pants and dresses, we're the ones who make the rules, this is our world, and we're sick and tired of having to see people face to face and we will hold dominion over all with our square machine boxes and if Metro says otherwise, he's a clueless dork who also must not like canned soup or other convenient things because hyperbole repeated is the best thing since Internet. People say lighten up, mellow out, shut up we don't care about your opinion. Don't get so frustrated you twitchy prick, who cares if they have infomercials on TV for scrapbooking tips and accessories, maybe people don't want to cut out their own shapes or just put things in a photo album! Is it always about you Metro? About how you don't like the world, about how you are deeply concerned about the states of food products when children nine and ten years old are starting puberty? Or how you are concerned? Stop being concerned, coast with the rest of us, enjoy a life of mental atrophy, tune in, turn on, drop out, and stop trying to be different or have an opinion we don't want to read and don't really care about. You can't change the world or make it better for those after you, live now! LIVE. NOW.

There once was a man named Metro.

And he created the best thread ever.

SirSkyRider:
I do write, but mostly in my maternal language, german.

Though if you wanna read it, here you go:

(click to show/hide)Es schien geradezu bizarr. Aber was wollte er machen? Die Leitung des Kaufhauses hatte soeben verkündet, dass bald geschlossen werden würde. Aber wie sie das verkündet hatten! Nicht wie üblich auf Deutsch und Englisch, nein, auch in Russisch, Französisch, Arabisch und irgendeiner ostasiatischen Sprache, die er nicht identifizieren konnte. Vielleicht wäre er dazu in der Lage gewesen, wenn er sich nicht darauf konzentrieren müsste, das Schweinenackensteak mit Bratkartoffeln, gemischtem Gemüse und einem kleinen - seiner Meinung nach völlig überteuertem - Pils zu essen, ohne dabei allzu viel an Haltung zu verlieren.

Fertig. Sechseinhalb Minuten für ein 250 Gramm schweres Stück Schweinefleisch mit einem Haufen Beilagen. Brutal. Als der verglaste Bauhausdesignaufzug ihn nach unten transportierte, versuchte er, nachzudenken. Aber Nachdenken braucht Zeit. Und die hatte er jetzt nicht. Noch nicht. Knapp einer einsamen Nacht in einem sündhaft teuren Nobelkaufhaus entronnen, hechtete er in einen Bus. Keine zwanzig Minuten später hatte er sein Hotel erreicht und ließ Wasser in die Badewanne laufen. Halb untergetaucht in einer Mischung aus einem exotischen Badesalz und Wasser, reflektierte er sein Verhalten.

War es nicht seine Prämisse, zu genießen? So, wie er das Steak hinuntergeschlungen hatte, hätte er theoretisch auch einen Döner oder einen Hamburger nehmen können. Auf der anderen Seite hatte er sich geschworen, die einfachen Dinge des Lebens auszukosten. Das war auch der Grund, warum er statt eines modernen digitalen Musikwiedergabegerä tes einen tragbaren CD-Spieler mit sich rumschleppte und die CDs nach Bedarf wechselte anstatt die Musik auf ein kleines, kompaktes Gerät zu quetschen und dort zu hören. Er war der Meinung, dass die, die diese iPods und Cowons und wie sie sonst noch hießen mögen, dafür sorgten, dass niemand Musik genoss. Fastfood für die Ohren sozusagen. Genauso Fernsehen. Nur ein Kick, eine Spitze, die die nächste jagt. Und diese Werbung, diese unsägliche Werbung. Kam mal ein interessanter Film im Fernsehen, dann liefen alle paar Minuten diese Werbeeinblendungen. Mittlerweile wurden im Film sogar Werbebanner und Programmhinweise gezeigt. Vermissen würde er es nicht, als er das Kabel seiner Antenne ausriss, fühlte er sogar ein wenig Erleichterung. Für Filme ging er ohnehin lieber ins Kino und Serien brauchte er nicht, sie waren ja nur eine Kickjagd. Wie Junkies, die sich ständig Stoff spritzen müssen.

Auf der anderen Seite war diese Lebenseinstellung stets ein Problem gewesen. Seine Kollegen gingen mittags zur Sandwichbar, während er zurückblieb und seine von zu Hause mitgebrachten Brote aß. Bei der Kaffeepause sprachen sie über die neuesten Entwicklungen von TV-Serien, deren aktuelle Folge am gestrigen Tag ausgestrahlt wurde. Und sie hatten diese Smartphones. Diese Dinger, die einfach alles konnten. Auf dem Weg zur Arbeit hörten sie darauf Musik, während sie E-Mails abriefen und schrieben. Er hatte lediglich ein kleines Handy, das er eigentlich nur mitnahm, wenn er unterwegs erreichbar sein musste - oder wollte. Einmal hatte er sogar gehört, er habe den Anschluss an die Zeit verloren. Aber was war „die Zeit“? Ein Haufen Medienjunkies, die Pseudo-Religionen wie dem Fitnessclubbesuchen oder veganen Kochabenden angehörten und dabei von einem Punkt zum anderen, von einem Bett ins nächste rannten. So wollte er nicht sein. Er wollte ein Fels in der Brandung sein, ein Fisch, der gegen den Strom schwimmt.

Als er aus der Badewanne stieg, kreisten seine Gedanken um die Abendgestaltung. Er beschloss, eine CD zu hören und dann langsam in Morpheus Reich zu entschwinden. Als er zum CD-Player griff, bemerkte er, dass das Gerät nicht ansprang. Er öffnete die Batterieklappe und wechselte die Akkus aus, die in dem Ladegerät steckten, welches er stets mitnahm. Keine Reaktion. Ihn fröstelte. Das Gerät, welches ihn nun fast zehn Jahre begleitet hatte, sprang nicht mehr an. Resignierend setzte er sich auf die Bettkante und starrte den Fernseher an. Der leere Flachbildschirm schien zu ihm zu sprechen, als würde er sagen, dass er eingeschaltet werden wolle, um ihn, den letzten Fels in der Brandung der modernen Zeit zu erodieren und wegzuspülen. Sollte er den Schritt wagen? Oder sollte er wie die letzten Jahre seit seinem Abitur, die er zunächst als Student und dann als Mitarbeiter in der Marketingabteilung eines Konzerns verbrachte, standhaft bleiben. Er blickte zurück.

Nie war er auf Partys gegangen, Dates hatten nicht geklappt, weil er nicht erreichbar war. Er war eingeschlossen in einer Hülle aus Vergangenheit und Prinzipien. Warum eigentlich? Was hatte ihn zu diesem Menschen gemacht? War es Angst? Oder Verachtung? Aber wen sollte er verachten? Sich selbst? Seine Mitmenschen?

Die mondsichelförmige LED, die den Standbymodus des Fernsehers anzeigte, leuchtete rot. Rot. Fast wie Lippen eines verführerischen Vamps. So lächelte ihn das Lämpchen an. Er ließ sich verführen und schaltete das Gerät ein. Ein Sprecher verkündete den Anfang einer amerikanischen Krimiserie. Nach seiner Heimkehr würde er sich zumindest einen MP3-Player kaufen. Für mehr fühlte er sich noch nicht reif.
And no, I'm not going to translate this.

rostheferret:
Short answer? Yes. Far more than is probably healthy.

The longest running of these are my music and film review blogs which after a quick glance tells me i'm up to 416 and 324 respectively. What I advertise less is my, what's become a 'misc' blog here. It began when me and a friend both wrote up a themed music 'compilation' for download, he named his Apocalyptic Visions and I responded with my "Apocalyptic Nightmares," containing a very short story. After university I found myself out of work and in search of a new project, so decided to re-consider my short story and expand on it into a full novel. I started by making notes and giving out tidbits of information to friends to grill me on, ask me questions that forced me to find answers to in order to solidify my own understanding of the world inside my mind. It's probably described as a Dystopian Fantasy but it's set in early Earth and rooted in science - I have shamelessly stolen Scott Card's "Philotic Theory" for my own purposes, - injected with some personal views on benevolence (there is an "angelic" race), religion and war (Disclaimer: it should be emphasised not everything there matches my own view). I still have a lot of the story in my mind but couple finding full-time work with losing all 30-odd sides of detailed notes (HDD died AND my memory pen with my backup decided not to work), after writing 7 chapters I never returned to it. 3 years on since I started the project and now I think my writing sucks. I still love my mental concept but my execution leaves a lot to be desired. Warning to anyone who decides to read it, apparently some of the story from the perspective of the demons was hard to swallow (though it did have a purpose in the end).

Since then I've decided to use it to post rants, though I only got around to writing two, and then to document my travels. In particular I think "Three Kinds of Moisturiser but all Kinds of Mischief: The Ferret Does New York" and "Water Water Everywhere But Mostly Beer To Drink: The Ferret Does Estonia/Finland" turned out well, mostly because my travel partner is accidentally hilarious.

Ixarku:
I used to write.  I say used to, because it's one of those dreams that everyday life has mostly crushed.  I actually started writing stories almost as soon as I knew how to move a pencil on paper.  I wrote my first story in kindergarten -- it was called 'The UFO'.  (I grew up watching monster movies and B sci-fi / horror movies from the '50s & '60s.)  For many many years after, I was convinced that I wanted to be a writer when I got older.  I have a lot of opinions on how to write, how to approach developing a story (ie, the actual method of determining what to write & how to structure stories).
 
But sadly, my own lack of self-discipline and lack of focus means that I generally start a project, work on it for a few months, then abandon it in frustration.  To really be successful at it, I need to write generally 2-3 hours a day at least 5 days a week, and with working full-time, trying to keep up with a house, and wanting to relax at the end of each stress-filled day, it's just not going to happen.  I still occasionally come up with some interesting story ideas, but it's been several years now since I tried to seriously do anything with those ideas.
 
There are a great many books available on the subject of writing; if anyone is interested, I'll dig out some of the ones I have and I'll mention them here.
 
Edit - it should be obvious from the context, I'm talking about writing fiction.  I write at work every single day, mostly in the form of test specifications, defect reports, etc.

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