Nothing Hitherto

Everyone needs an outlet and while writing serves as my choice outlet, it doesn't cover my personal feelings, only the feelings of my characters.

Realizing my true passion in life, I changed my major at the beginning of this semester to English. I figured why not pursue my only natural talent (however much of a talent it may be) and why not pursue being an author with the correct major - original major being Aerospace Engineering. Not a waste, but boring - helped my GPA though. Besides, having to study every second of every day just to get NASA to sign my paychecks wasn't helping my writing motivation. Now that I have done away with the aforementioned original major, my book has taken to the sky with massive wings.

Driving in my car to class the other week, listening to Disturbed's new Indestructible album, I had an epiphany. I know that some authors listen to music while writing because it gives them inspiration to write the most complicated of scenes (i.e. Meyer), but that doesn't work for me. On the contrary, I realized the story line of my aforementioned book closely follows Indestructible. Weird? No. Handy? Why, yes. Because of this grand epiphany I have been able to better develop my book, giving it a defined story line. No, my book does not coincide with Disturbed's personal picked track list, but to my own. Here is the new arrangement:

Perfect Insanity
Torn
Inside the Fire
Haunted
Facade
Deceiver
Indestructible
Divide
Night
Enough
Criminal
Curse

Now, I mentally cross my fingers that my finished book will be taken on for a possible publication and that Disturbed will like my renditions of their stupendous artistry.

Moving on.
I had a wicked awesome dream the other night. Driving to class the next morning, I found myself writing down the dream at stop lights or traffic jams. The scribbling continued through my entire first class - Literature of the Western World - and I missed most of the lecture on Medea. Although not a hard one to grasp from sparknotes if need be. The development I have made on the original dream has so far reached ten pages and I realize it could be another potential publication. I found myself considering the story line of Atwater-Rhodes' work Demon in My View. Could I possibly be a descendent of some mythical creature? I'll literally cross my fingers for that one. My reality is a drag, but the dream definitely wasn't. Here it is, if interested:

I could see her but I knew no one else could, even though no one else was around. She was walking down the middle of a deserted cobblestone rode lined on each side with Victorian houses that had steps leading up to each front door. She wore tight, dark copper jeans, a puffy red jacket with a hood that looked to be about three sizes too big, and she was barefoot. Her straight, brown hair hung to her shoulder blades. She was confused. She didn’t know where she was and she was trying to find someone who could see her. She kept scanning the houses on each side of her, looking for anyone that would or could help her. I was standing behind her. She hadn’t noticed me yet and I didn’t want her to, I just wanted to continue to look at her without her noticing. I took a step after her, my shoes scraping against the cobblestone, and she heard me. She looked backward in my direction, towards the sound, and I quickly swiveled my head around as if I was the one searching for something or someone, my body following the motion. She surveyed me with the question “Can he see me?” in her eyes, then decided I couldn’t and turned back around to continue walking up the road, searching. The entire time she was walking, me following, no one other than the two of us made themselves known. I didn’t know if anyone else was even around; the street was deserted and the houses were void of life. I continued walking slowly after her, careful not to drag my feet. I wondered why no one else was anywhere to be seen. I wondered why her jacket was so big and why she was barefoot. I wondered why I could see her. I couldn’t help but look at her and not just because I knew she was dead.

What would Freud think of that? Probably something sexual no doubt. Pervert.