A message in a bottle

I’m quite new to all this new malarky… And I can’t help but feel disconnected from my own generation. It took me too long to figure out how to even get all of this up and running. Now I am trying to see what the millions of other bloggers have to say, I know they are out there, I know they exist, but I can’t see them, and they can’t see me. This if anything feels like an online diary, no one is reading, understanding or bothering. It is the written thought left to die alone in the vast junk world of the internet. The fact that no one can find me here at the moment feels like quite nice, probably because I know one day at least one person would find themselves reading it all or skimming a line. But word would have gotten out. I just don’t want to be dead when they do.

Hold on, one second… you come off youtube for one minute and it has changed from Fleetwood Mac to some Bill Withers. Ps sorry that I don’t know who Bill Withers is, but I cannot even find a blogger that isn’t posting academic articles cuz my blog certainly isn’t academic unless you’re clueing yourself on how stupid boys are. But hopefully you already know that.

Where was I? Re-reading, re-reading… Oh yeah, basically I don’t think I truly understand WordPress yet, the only bloggers I can find and read are those that are recommended and I think come as apart of WordPress. And I understand like all social media outlets following works by who you follow i.e. you get followings by following. You show your existence, your presence, your online footprint as they’re calling it now right? Or have I got that wrong too. Consider this a message in a bottle, if this gets to you at all direct me, help me, show me the way. Follow me, so I can follow you, so I can strive to be better, so there’s an audience, some listener somewhere. Apparently my creative writer mentor that tutored me with my final writing project in uni claims I use repetition too much. Do I? And apparently too many questions. Usually it is questions to myself, because it is an internal monologue, it is an outpour of my thoughts as they come. It is uncensored and true. I am one of those people that do not think before I speak, and I suppose it is the same with my writing. Because in my writing, I am always writing to someone, I am speaking to you now. Books are conversations with the reader, you are telling a story. Right now, we are sat around a campfire, nice and warm but certainly not comfortable. But there is fire, and peace. Around you there is nothing but peace and the sky is littered with leaves, we are nature and nature is us. We don’t know each other, but we know each other. I’ve got a story to tell you, and I think it is a story worth telling. The story ends in the present moment because in real life no one knows what happens next, so how am I supposed to know that with my story. In my first year, I’ll always remember my amazing professor tells us that writers, no matter what they write about whether it be a sunny holiday or the actual death of their mother they are writing because of what makes them write. And in this case the writer writes from the death of his mother, his heart, his true reason for him, and that will always be in their fiction. I agree, I think as writers we give gifts to our stories, it is like we give them a part of our hearts because there is always some truth of it in there. There is always some bit of you. And that is what is amazing about books! The writer is not only taking us on an amazing journey, with the power of prose but gives us a piece of them, whatever that is. It is hidden there somewhere, and I think that is as beautiful as a sunset.

So if you get this message, I am here, and I know you are somewhere… give me something.

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