The Writer

Yes, I'm a cheater. Bear with me, crazy week. This a post I wrote a few months back. Enjoy!

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It feels like a miracle- making it through the week. Once Thursday shines on the other side of my window, I know the weekend is coming and so are the homework and due papers. But soon enough, it will be Monday all over again.

I had enough time the other day to do some blogging. I came all excited to express my ideas but at the end of my entry, I hadn't said what I initially wanted to say. I wanted to cancel my entry and write it again but I was already three minutes late for class.

"Luck Story" (The almost canceled entry) stayed in my mind for the rest of the day. I could not understand why I hadn't been able to write what I initially wanted to, and instead ended up with an entry that seemed useless at the time.

Later on, in the quietness of an empty break room, as I was doing some reading, I realized that in order to write what I initially wanted to write, I first had to write "Luck Story" so I could actually make my point.

Am I The Writer Of My Writing?

The other day I ran into my friend's sister's blog. As I was reading entry after entry, I felt like I was getting to know the girl who wrote those entries. Ever read someone's blog and felt connected to them? Ever thought of what they were doing while writing the blog? (Eating, watching T.V. . .) Ever wondered what their writing place looked like? (An office, bedroom, library, park. . .) Well I usually do, but aside from those things I also wondered how much true there is fixed in our blogs.

When we talk, we have limited time to think about what we're saying. If I'm writing something, I can work on the same sentence over and over again. I can start a draft in the morning and come back to it later. I can even edit the whole thing after it's been posted!!! But all of this was just a thought and I really didn't know how to explore it further. And that's when "Luck Story" came along-

To summarize, my previous blog tells the story of the first time I was ever selected to receive something free. But there's also another story about how unlucky I was as a child. What could this blog possibly say to you? That I was remembering my childhood? That I saw a colored bird and it reminded me of a traumatized memory? That I was wondering why I love reading so much?

Truth be told, neither of the above things apply. I was just sitting here, waiting to go to class, wondering if what I say to you here nearly gives you an idea of who I am. Now maybe I'm over thinking this a little too much, or perhaps I just can't go on one day without coming up with a weird question, but

CAN YOU TELL WHAT SOMEONE IS LIKE FROM THEIR WRITING?

Luck Story

I really am getting used to writing daily but I am visiting my friend in Northern California and even being here right now writing this bit, I feel guilty for taking up some of her time to post something.

The friend I'm visiting is certainly a friend I wish I could see daily but thanks to a 400-something-miles distance, that is not quite possible- So I'll do a little bit of cheating and post something I previously wrote.

I will always attribute my love for reading to that one lady who randomly selected me to give me a book. As a kid, I rarely ever felt lucky. If anything, I used to think I had bad luck. And this wasn't a state of mind, it was a reality.

One day I went with my family to some sort of festival. In the crowded place, I found a booth advertised as "Colored Pets." I walked over to the man that seemed to be the one in charge of the booth and he showed me a cage filled with birds of all sorts of colors. "You can buy one for five dollars, or try to pick the blue ball," he said as he reached for a box with a circular opening on top of it, "out of this box for one dollar, for each time you try." I quickly searched through my pockets and found five dollars that I was given minutes earlier to wander around with. The way I saw it at my short age, was that if I'd play my odds well, maybe I could get three blue balls out of the five chances I'd have with the whole five dollars, instead of just buying one bird- "This way I won't have one lonely bird," I thought.

After my five tries, I was empty handed. No money but no bird either. Somehow I managed to pick the white ball every single time. Now I can't help but question if there was a blue ball at all, but that's off the subject. Because I didn't want to give up in taking a bird home, so I went over to my mom to ask her for money. When I told her what it was for, she simply answered: "It's not right to keep a bird captive. Your dad is the one that does that kind of things." (My parents are divorced and my dad DOES have birds 'til this day). So I never got the bird.

But that one day when my second grade class was receiving a visit from a new editorial company that wanted to do business with the school, my odds suddenly changed. The lady from the editorial walked in and was going to give away a copy of the book they were trying to sell the school. Everyone around me quickly raised their hands and yelled "me, me, pick me" in what it seemed like a chorus but I just put my head down, knowingly that there was no way in earth someone as unlucky as me would get the book.

Maybe it was the fact that I didn't ask for it that the lady decided to pick me and give me the book. But I chose to think that she somehow overheard my thoughts and how badly I wanted to be chosen that she decided to give it to me.

Once home with the book, I read it that same day. Then got another one, and another one. And another one. Perhaps it's some sort of celebration to my first glimpse of luck, or maybe books are just so damn good. Whatever it was this event marked the beginning.