My Life as a Disney Princess

I wish that my life played out like a movie. I watch chick flicks and romantic comedies and all I can think is, "Wow, that is such a great combination of humor, fun, sensitivity and feeling, wouldn't it be great if my life worked out so nicely?" I guess I've always been a little dramatic, and my parents insist that I should have been an actress, but honestly, how can I help but wish my life were a movie? When I saw "Beauty and the Beast" there was no turning back. That movie is the epitome of Disney classics and since the age of two I have considered myself to be Belle. If she were any more real to me my parents would have to be concerned for my mental health--which they very well could be anyways. She's strong, independent, adventurous, caring, forgiving, sacrificing and, of course, beautiful, with an amazing singing voice. Everything I'd like to be. Not to mention she makes friends with talking cookware and lives in an enchanted castle. Seriously, how can one be expected to live a normal life after such a spectacular experience? My two-year-old self didn't stand a chance. Once I saw that movie I was hooked, and I have been a proponent of a Disney-esque life ever since. So can I help it if I happen to find my life below-par in comparison to Belle's magical world? I think not. Whoever is to blame for my life-expectations--Disney, my parents, myself--it doesn't really matter. Because even if I am setting myself up for disappointment due to unrealistic expectations for my life, I am still convinced that the fantastic is possible. I CAN have my fairytale ending. And hopefully an enchanting adventure along the way. What can I say? I am, for better or for worse, a romantic at heart. 

(Which, by the way, seems a little redundant, I mean, where else would I be a romantic? I certainly cannot imagine a romantic at foot...for example). 

An Untitled Piece of My Thoughts

What can you say when there is no material in your life to write about? I've always wanted to write something but I can never think of anything that would be worth writing about. I suppose many an author would gaze patronizingly down their upturned noses--which are stuck in books they wrote themselves--that a true writer can write about anything. They WOULD make it about themselves. Sure, its not WHAT you write about, its about WHO writes it. I would, however, like to modify that statement and suggest that perhaps its not always WHO writes it, but HOW they write it.  This, in fact, is a concept I can appreciate, however much I fail to live up to such a standard. Because it is true, with a degree of talent a person can pen a masterpiece out of even the dullest and most seemingly insignificant parts of life--whether or not its their own life is besides the point. However, I also believe that great stories are inherently great, before the oh-so-mighty writer comes along and decides to put a title and an ownership on the specially-designed book cover. What is misleading is that, behind all the graphics, and the carefully chosen font on the brand new hardcover, is a story which existed before someone decided to put it into words that were violently pressed in permanent black ink onto the crisp pages of a still-unopened book.  And so, in lieu of that belief, I am consistently hesitant to begin writing anything--including this blog post. Because I honestly believe that there are millions of great stories out there, waiting to be found. Waiting to be heard. Waiting to be read. But first they must be written. However, with so much riding on the ability of the author himself, how can I expect to ever measure up to the story? When I sit down to write, I want to ensure that whatever is recorded on the paper, or in the computer, is the best it can possibly be, because I owe that to the story and to those who read it. With so much expectation and pressure (self-imposed or otherwise) it is a wonder I have written anything at all. Yet, here I find myself, crudely clunking down on the keypad, hoping that, somehow, my sorry excuse for an attempt at writing will be rewarded with some far semblance of a real, worthwhile piece of writing.  I know that this is not eloquent, nor fluid in its line of thought, but with my best regards to the reader, it is mine, and that will just have to be good enough for now.

I'm just saying...

I'm not really sure what to write here. Yet, somehow I find myself compelled to write something, anything, even if it doesn't make any sense. I guess that happens sometimes...you just get the urge to write. I wish I had something more interesting to say. Unfortunately it is late and I need sleep, so my brain isn't functioning on a level that is conducive to creating brilliant works of literature--or even just a half-decent blog post. Oh well. This blog is more for me than for anyone who happens to stumble on this site. And since I'm pretty sure that number is quite minimal, I feel I can share a secret with the void. I am going to try to write something this summer. I haven't really written anything fictional in years, except for a tidbit assignment for school here and there. I guess I've forgotten how much I enjoy storytelling. And when I try, I'm actually not too bad at it either. So, I've decided to attempt writing something. We'll try to start out small and see how it goes. I guess I was hoping this blog post would turn into something worth reading...obviously not, so we'll have to try again later. And I'll make a more serious attempt when I'm more coherent and have more time. I'm still working on the subject of my future "story" or work of writing, as I'm not entirely sure of the genre or type of writing I'm attempting either. Clearly I have a good start. Well, since this is a blatant waste of cyber-space I'm going to end this entry before I really embarrass myself. Until next time...whenever that will be since my pattern of entries is like New England weather--predictably unpredictable.