Friday was Veteran's Day here in the U.S., so I didn't have school. No punishment. Not that I don't have any already...
God, I need to write. And not anything that pertains to school assignments or college essays or anything part of BEDSY (although having this blog helps sometimes) but something that's in one of my journals or in the dusty archives of my hard drive that I haven't touched since the beginning of the school year. My creative juices have crusted over and it's becoming hard (at times) to get them flowing again. But I can still feel them welling up inside me. And I need to let them out. There are a few stories that I've been working on for almost two years, and I haven't touched them in weeks. I feel almost lonely without them. After I write this, I'm determined to pop in a movie and write. And write. And write.
It's nice to come here, though, and not have a word limit or page requirement. To just be able to let thoughts flow freely, no matter how much or how little there is.
I also miss reading. For fun, that is. I've done reading for school (which hasn't been nearly as much as usual, which saddens me), but I haven't read any of the books that are stacked up on my bookshelves. There are about a dozen books that I've collected over the past six months, and I haven't been able to read ANY of them. Which makes me sad. There is one book I'm reading--Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs--that I've had and been reading since the middle of summer. It's not a particularly difficult book, nor is is terribly long, and I enjoy reading it. (Plus there are pictures, or rather, photographs of strange, strange people and phenomena). But I'm still less than 75 pages into it. I just haven't had the time to read for pleasure. Which I think is a true crime. People shouldn't be punished or prevented from reading.
I was talking to one of my friends the other day (another sad occurrence is that having a conversation with any of my friends often consists of complaining about how much homework we all have) and she said she didn't start her homework until almost 10 o'clock the night before. I asked her why, thinking she had basketball practice and whatnot...She said she was reading. For fun.
This is the point at which I realized that I needed to get out of my AP English class (in addition to that all-nighter I pulled Wednesday night). When English starts interfering with my ability to read (oh, the irony), that's when I deem we have a problem with the system. Plus my English teacher says that we learn nothing from "happy" books, that they are boring and unnecessary, that everything we learn we learn from sad, depressing books. B------t. I understand that a pessimistic book makes both the subjects and the reader appreciative of the goodness in life, and some of my favorite books are sad (The Things They Carried, The Great Gatsby, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, The Grapes of Wrath)...But seriously. Disbelieving in the merit of "happy" literature is nonsense. I've read sad books with happy endings, and I've learned more from them than I did from Heart of Darkness. No wonder my entire English class is suffering from depression.
On the bright side, only seven more days in this class.
Days 'til Hawaii: 20 (When did that number get so small?!)
Days 'til Christmas: 42
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