To Be Honest

To be completely honest right now, I didn't know what to say when I first started blogging. I don't even know what to say right now. Writing used to come so easily to me, but now I find my mind so clouded by stupidity that I can't seem to get out a simple sentence. I had all these dreams of writing books that would change people's lives, like Fitzgerald, Dickens, Cervantes, and Alighieri did. Now it just feels like I'm a failure because I didn't make like S. E. Hinton and write my first best selling novel at age 15. You go about your day hearing about all these successful people doing all these amazing things. For most people, those stories are inspiring and motivational. For me, however, those stories show me that the 1% of people who are actually successful in the world have been already decided for my generation and I should just throw in the towel now.
What is it about creative blocks that makes people so crazy? I don't get to write, so that means I should go bat-shit crazy on everyone, including myself? It's one of the most disheartening things in the world not to be able to practice one's craft. 99% of the population understands that, though, don't they?
I have this very strange outlook on life that drives me to firmly believe that a very small percentage of the world anywhere accomplishes the things they set out to do when they were young. I feel like I am to have all these expectations for myself, only to have them dashed. Many of us would be completely unable to recover from something like that. Will I?
That's the ultimate question asked by me, this blog, every action I've taken, etc. Will I write the "Great American Novel"? Will I change the world the way I hope to? Will I...?

Writer's brain freeze

I keep trying to find some sort of sign or sudden burst of inspiration that will get me to finish one of these books. I start, and just a few chapters from the end...all I have to really do is tie everything together, i just freeze and I don't know what else I want to say.
It's not hard to imagine it in my head...or picture it happening, but it kind of sucks that I can't finish. I think I'm scared. The whole story could be a total bust, but if its amazing what then?
not that I think so highly of myself. s

The Great Gatsby: A Beacon of Hope

Some people may not feel this way, but movies affect me in an astounding way. The world is such an unexpected place, and one of the ways we come about understanding it, is through the films we watch. Although some films may not seem like they do, they bring us a certain self-realization. Whether we laugh or cry, understand or empathize with the characters in a film is completely up to us. This helps us face things about ourselves that we would have otherwise ignored.

My experiences with films have been many. If a story has really touched me, I seem to break into a fit of gut-wrenching sobs. It is as if the events have happened to me and not some obscure character. 

The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, happens to be one of my all time favorite books. At first I thought it was because of the whimsical nature of the characters. Daisy, with her almost sad air of loftiness, Jordan, with her cynical remarks and lavish lifestyle, Nick, with his blatant admiration for Gatsby and all that he stood for without knowing the details, or Gatsby, with his no-holds-barred fantastical love for Daisy, a woman he has not seen in years. I cannot choose which made me love the book most. You can see since I held this book so dear why I had my doubts about the movie version. No other movie version seemed to capture how I felt about this tragic love story. As I sat in the movie theater, I was in awe of just how much the movie made me feel. It wasn't about the love between Gatsby and Daisy, or Daisy's confusion, or Tom's general blehh. It was about how in a world where there was no true happiness, nothing deeper than a few drinks and music too loud to hear your thoughts, there was still the shining beacon of hope and faith that is Gatsby.