you know, college has made me hate writing (to the extent that any external force can "make" one feel a certain way).
writing was my passion since i was able to hold a pencil. however, when something that was once voluntary, spontaneous, and fun became a chore, and i was asked to write pretentious drivel for a grade, writing picked up unpleasant associations for me.
now, though, i'm starting to read other people's fiction (yes, fanfiction, but bear with me), and regaining a bit of inspiration. i read things that someone has written because he or she loved the characters, because there was a story that just had to be put down on paper, without being graded or forced to write in a style that wasn't theirs. and i start to remember what it felt like to overflow with ideas, to see words as allies rather than enemies. i read the author's note to a fanfic where she sheepishly admits that the chapter was supposed to be only a few pages and ended up to be twenty, and i flash back to the time when i was that passionate about writing.

when i came to her to explain my story ideas, my mother always told me to write them down first, because if i told her, the story would have already been told, and there would be no urgency in the writing after that. maybe i've been talking too much (though i'm by no means locquacious). i have someone with whom i share everything, and i'm happy that i do. yet, maybe the stories have been lost in the telling, and i need to commit them to paper when i first feel that need to tell someone.

soon, perhaps, i'll start again. it seems pretty pathetic to be posting my work from two years ago, and even high school. i can't have said all i have to say already.