Ok, so I’ve been obsessed with vampires for the better part of my life now. I have no idea why. It just is. It first began with the movie The Little Vampire. I don’t know. It just caught on. I loved the mythology and the mystery and the imagination it inspired in me. I fell in love. Granted… I was like six. So I fell in love as much as a six-year-old can. And I’m not the type of person someone would expect would fall in love with the damned. Good little Christian girl from Kentucky like me? And yet, I was so intrigued by the demons of the night. As I’ve matured through the years, gotten older, endured the pop-culture Vampire phase everyone seems to be going through… It has only grown into a full-fledged obsession with all that is supernatural. Vampires. Werewolves. Witches. Demons. Angels. You name it. They’re all different sides of the same coin.
Pretty interesting looking coin, I must say.
Most of the books I own are related in some way to the supernatural and/or mythology. There is something enchanting about it for me. I can’t explain it. Even though explaining is supposed to be my forte as a writer… Enchantment is just one of those things that can’t be justified through words.
That seems pretty heavy considering I’m talking about these terrible mythological creatures that feed off of innocents with no remorse whatsoever. But, I think it’s what made me fall in love with writing. Everyone has something that never fails to inspire them. The literature of any type of mythology does that for me. It stirs something up inside me. It makes me feel like I’m somewhere else. Like what I think is reality, is just a distant nightmare, and this dream… this thought of mythological stories… this is real.
What if the natural world is just a lie?
The world we can’t see is actually what’s real. Humans? What if we’re just pawns; foot soldiers for something bigger?
I think even as a small tot, I felt the need of something more than just this. And, oddly enough… vampires helped inspire me to believe in a greater purpose. Weird… I know. I am.
And most people think I’m absolutely mad.
But all the legendary writers are… right?
For some reason, my parents don’t want me to make my own mistakes. They think their mistakes are good enough. They tell me that if I don’t learn from their mistakes, then I must be plain stupid. But the last time I checked, I wasn’t responsible for their mistakes, or anyone else’s for that matter.
Yes, I understand that parents want the best for their children. I understand that some parents even think of their children as an extension of themselves. Well. I’m sorry, but we aren’t. I am my own person, responsible for my own mistakes, and capable of making my own choices. Each individual is unique in that a mistake for one, may not be a mistake for another.
Making mistakes is a necessity of life. Mistakes define a person. If I don’t make my own mistakes, then how will I truly learn?
Now, children, I’m not saying to disregard your parents and go crazy. They will advise you and guide you, as is their job. It is your job to take that advice into consideration, and weigh out all of the outcomes. Sometimes, I listen to my parents; Sometimes I don’t. But, I always take their advise and experiences into account, and I logically apply that to my life. If I truly believe that I will have a different outcome, then I will take my own path. Most of the time this works for me, and sometimes it doesn’t. But if I don’t take the risk of making a mistake, I would never find out who I am. I would never be prepared to handle the tough things. My parents wanted me to have an easier life than they did.
But life just isn’t easy.
The best thing to do is to make all the mistakes you can now, so that the wiser you’ll be later. Life on earth is short. Make decisions. Take risks. Make mistakes. It’s a learning process.
You’re only stupid, if you keep making the same mistakes.
I’ve always felt very passionate about dance. All kinds of dance. Hip hop, ballet, contemporary, jazz, etc. I used to dream about it. I couldn’t listen to music without daydreaming up a choreography to go with it.
But… I can’t actually dance. And I wish I could.
I will never forgive my mom for not sticking me in dance lessons when I was little. Of course, not everyone can afford such things. So, I can’t blame her really. We weren’t very privileged back then. I should have taught myself to dance. Now I feel like I’m too old to start. Nineteen is late. Normally people start when they’re three… or five.. or you get it. Young. Now I feel like my body is past due on trying to learn dance.
I used to do gymnastics. And that’s sort of a good foundation for dance. So, I know I have a potential. But it will most likely go unrecognized.
Maybe someday, when I’m old, I’ll take ballroom dance classes with my husband in an attempt to spice up the relationship. That’s most likely the closest I’ll get to ever fulfilling my dance potential.
Lately, I’ve found that I’m having trouble finding the words. I’m supposed to be a writer, and for some reason I just can’t. I’ve had writer’s block before, but that isn’t what this is. The ideas are there… the words just aren’t. I know what I want to say; I don’t know how to say it. The words are stuck somewhere. Caught up on other ideas long forgotten. Lost in some hidden crevice in my mind. I know I know that word. I know I do. Ugh what is that word?
I’ve forgotten. It was on the tip of my brain, and I lost it. Somewhere in the folds.
Words are supposed to be my skill. My gift. But they’re failing me now. My ideas will go unexpressed.
Until I find the words.