...maybe.
The other day I posted about not being able to write anymore. I'm blocked. I don't know how to fix it, but I was going through my computer files last night, deleting useless junk. I came across some papers from school. My creative writing class in college.
I've always been hesitant about my writing. I think my writing is good, but nothing great or spectacular. Earlier in the semester, I had talked to the instructor, and expressed my fears of not being good enough. When it came time to write a short story or the beginning of a novel for an assignment, I wrote the following:
Night Hunter
He’s graceful as he hunts and the personification of quiet. He glides into the bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed. There she is, a sleeping beauty. It’s dark, but he doesn’t need any light. His eyes adjust to the light and he can see her just as well. Her auburn hair is slightly curled and fans around her head. He can imagine the color of her eyes, a warm chocolate brown.
The black bedspread and black curtains off set the deep, blood red of the sheets and the blinds. This was what he called his killing room, a place where the hunt ends. His trance of the hunt made him focus solely on the woman lying on the bed. Life ceases to exist in this room, and any other time, he conveniently forgets its existence.
He stares down at her for a moment before slowly leaning towards her. His movements are slow and practiced as he reaches his goal. It’s sudden and clean when it happens. His fangs sink into the vein throbbing at her neck, almost reaching for his teeth. He doesn’t seem to notice anything except for this moment.
Her heartbeat slowed down to nothing as her body dies. He gently lets her go from his death grip. There’s nothing left behind, no evidence of his evil deed. Grief stricken, he leaves the room almost as it was. Except, there was no longer a breath of life from within.
Vincent Del Francesi gripped the wrought iron railing so hard he almost broke it. His knuckles were white from the force. His mind was reeling and he could barely see through the red haze. He whirled around and went into the house to get his painting materials. It was the only thing that calmed him down. His hands were steady as his set up the easeal and put a fresh canvas upon it. He painted the sea, as he did so many times. It was so angry tonight; waves crashing onto the rocks below with roaring ferocity.
He always felt this way after he hunted. He hated what he did, what he was. He’d have to throw her body in the sea before morning, but he couldn’t bring himself to face what he’d done just yet. He had to paint it out first, with almost frenzied strokes upon the canvas. When he finished, he stepped back to look at his work. What he saw unnerved him to the core of his very being. His eye moved to that spot in the sea before he’d taken the painting in as a whole. There, in the middle of the sea, was her face. It was the face of the woman he’d just murdered. Every time he stole someone’s life, every time he painted. And every time he painted, he unknowingly painted the face of the woman who’s life he’d stolen.
It had been so long ago that he’d been a boy in the streets of Rome, trying to earn food for pay by painting protraits. He had been skilled, but not many in those times could afford to spare anything for their portrait. And then one day came Francesca Frencisi. It was dusk, the sun just setting. Vincent had been packing up his paints when she glided up to him like an angel from heaven. She was so beautiful, all he could do was stare. She asked him to paint her in her home. If he’d only known then what she was. He would have ran in the opposite direction. But he was innocent to her plans, and agreed to go to her home.
The word vampire tasted like acid on his tongue, an acrid burning that never went away. He gathered his paints and put them away. He glanced at the painting once more before he took it away and put it in the room with all the others. He never looked in this room either. It was storage for his other life, the one he neglects to mention at dinner parties and social galas. It was this life that he kept a secret, a dark and dangerous secret that could never get out. He locked the door and didn’t look back.
I was nervous when I sent it in. I didn't know what she would think of my writing skills. When it was graded and sent back to me, this is what she wrote at the end:
Actually, Crystal, I think this is a really good start! There are a couple weird tense usages (have ran should be have run), but I like this. I think you have a very good sense of how to write fiction, and I am very envious; I can pretty much only do CNF and Poetry. I feel like I am “forcing” stuff out when I try fiction. I would love to see this in its completed form/as it evolves, and I think you would benefit greatly by taking classes at the Loft, or at a 4-year college in writing! So, to answer you question that you asked a long time ago: Can I write? YES! You can! You seem to have a natural talent for it!
I didn't remember what she said until I found it on my computer. Her words gave me hope last night that I can do this. I think I might need to take a break from xanga and focus. I haven't been around much lately, but I haven't been writing. I think I need to start again. No matter how much I sit and stare at a blinking cursor, that's what I need to be doing. A novel doesn't write itself. And someday always seems to be "never." "I'll write a novel... someday."
I think someday needs to be now. No matter how much I love my friends, Xanga distracts me... too much it seems. I should be focusing on my writing.
Right now, I'm a little undecided. It would be a lot for me to stay away. For some of you, I have your phone numbers and we can text. Some of you are friends on FB. I just don't know what to do right now.
Edit:
The following is how I re-wrote the beginning some time ago:
When the lights turn down for the night and everything falls into quiet, the last person awake went about his nightly task of hunting his unsuspecting prey. The victorian mansion fell into a state of restlessness until the deed was done. Cold stone slipped into shadow and he found what he was looking for in one of the rooms. The best ears couldn’t have heard the door open and shut again as he entered the bedroom. Plush red carpet hid the sound of his gliding step.
Decorated in black and blood red, the room was one of his favorites. Black silk curtains looped around the four-poster bed; black silk drapes hung from the windows. He stared down at the sleeping beauty before him. The bright red bedspread made her lips seem pale in comparison, he thought. If he closed his eyes, he could picture the color of hers; green, with little blue flecks in them. A single black candle lit up little space in the room, but it didn’t matter; he didn’t need it. His eyes could see just as easily in the dark as in the light.
His trance of the hunt made him focus solely on the woman lying on the bed. Life ceased to exist in this room and any other time, he conveniently forgot its existence. The image before him would last in his mind, as all the others had. Her blond hair fanned out around her, the black lingerie made her skin pale and almost luminescent. He took one last look before he gracefully sat beside her. His movements were elegant, full of ease and practice. He bent down, and whispered soothing words in her ear. He told her that everything would be okay and she would feel no pain. He kept his promise as he bit into her jugular, and he felt her pulse speed up, then slowly fade away as he drank her warm blood. Sated, he gently laid her limp body onto the bed, just as he had found her. As an accomplished hunter, he left no mess; no blood spilled from her wounds or his own lips. He tenderly kissed her forehead, and stood up. He blew out the black candle much as he blew out the candle of her life, and as quietly as he came, he left.
A few minutes later, Vincent Del Francesi gripped the wrought iron railing so hard he almost broke it. His knuckles were white from the force. The water crashed almost directly below the balcony and the wind ripped the water around the rocks. His mind was reeling and he could barely see through the red haze. He whirled around in a fury and went into the house to get his paints. It was the only thing that calmed him down. His hands were steady as his set up the easel and put a fresh canvas upon it. He painted the sea, as he did so many times. It was so angry tonight; waves crashing onto the rocks below with roaring ferocity.
He always felt this way after he hunted. He hated what he did, what he was. He’d have to throw her body in the sea before morning, but he couldn’t bring himself to face what he’d done just yet. He had to paint it out first, with almost frenzied strokes on the canvas. When he finished, he stepped back to look at his work. What he saw unnerved him to the core of his very being. His eye moved to that spot in the sea before he took the painting in as a whole. There, in the middle of the sea, was her face. It wasn’t noticeable unless one was looking for it, but her face was there. It was barely outlined in the dark colors, but looked just like her. It was the face of the woman he’d just murdered. Every time he stole someone’s life, every time he painted. And every time he painted, he unknowingly painted the face of the woman who’s life he’d stolen. He only saw it when he was finished; he never intentionally painted their faces.
It had been so long ago that he’d been a young man, a boy really, in the streets of Rome, trying to earn food for pay by painting portraits. He had been skilled, but not many in those times could afford to spare anything for their portrait. Then one day came Francesca Frencisi. It had been just after dusk, the sun had just set. Vincent had been packing up his paints when she glided up to him like an angel from heaven. She was so beautiful, all he could do was stare. She asked him to paint her in her home. If he’d only known then what she was. He would have run in the opposite direction. But he was innocent to her plans, and stammered an agreement at her request.
The word vampire tasted like acid on his tongue, an acrid burning that never went away. He had spent several years as Francesca’s plaything, her entertainment. She would sometimes drink from him, but he was mostly an amusement until he looked old enough for her to turn when he was 22. The years of bitterness and resentment had him causing a ruckus and raising hell for a long time with her, until Francesca was finally killed by a beautiful vampire huntress. It was then that he really started hating what he had become.
Frustrated, he gathered his paints and put them away. He glanced at the painting once more, with disgust and regret mixing in the fresh blood in his body. He took it away and put it in the room with all the others. He never looked in this room either. It was storage for his other life, the one he neglects to mention at dinner parties and social galas. It was this life that he kept a secret, a dark and dangerous secret that could never get out. He locked the door and didn’t look back.
