the one where the writer emo's
May. 22nd, 2009 09:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fatimaCome let me love you, let me give my life to you,
Let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms.
Like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean.
Come let me love you, come love me again.
—John Denver, You Fill Up My Senses
So, uh yeah, to me this screams Kirk->Spock, post mind meld with Spock Prime. (Never mind the laughter part, because if you read![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kagedtiger's newest work Out of Time you would know that the Vulcan mind-laughter is the clearest, most beautiful sound in the world. <3)
Reading other people's wonderful works inspire me, of course. I can't count how many times a story touched that secret spot in my heart and made me see new possibilities for the relationships. They made me believe two people could love each other that much, would love each other that much.
Love is a beautiful thing, in the end.
Yet sometimes I am enveloped by such a despair, because I constantly feel that there is a lack of emotional honesty in my own work. Maybe that's why I like to write childhood stories, because childrens don't lie about feelings. At least, they tend to lie not very well. Either that or I write about scenarios where one party is already dead and long gone—the relationship doesn't die with it, but it can be only perserved like a butterfly under the glass.
I write in fragments because I love and remember in fragments.
Ultimately, though, despite all my protestations and frustrations, (most of the time) I write because I have a story to tell, because it demands to be told. At least, the better ones I write tend to form as such. Writing is like singing for me in that way. I will never be a professional singer, and I have forgotten how to read music sheets, but I just...can't not sing. Even when I am silent, there is a fairly good chance that I am singing in my own head. It's not Broadway or Madison Square Garden, but it's mine and it makes me happy.
Let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms.
Like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean.
Come let me love you, come love me again.
—John Denver, You Fill Up My Senses
So, uh yeah, to me this screams Kirk->Spock, post mind meld with Spock Prime. (Never mind the laughter part, because if you read
kagedtiger's newest work Out of Time you would know that the Vulcan mind-laughter is the clearest, most beautiful sound in the world. <3)Reading other people's wonderful works inspire me, of course. I can't count how many times a story touched that secret spot in my heart and made me see new possibilities for the relationships. They made me believe two people could love each other that much, would love each other that much.
Love is a beautiful thing, in the end.
Yet sometimes I am enveloped by such a despair, because I constantly feel that there is a lack of emotional honesty in my own work. Maybe that's why I like to write childhood stories, because childrens don't lie about feelings. At least, they tend to lie not very well. Either that or I write about scenarios where one party is already dead and long gone—the relationship doesn't die with it, but it can be only perserved like a butterfly under the glass.
I write in fragments because I love and remember in fragments.
Ultimately, though, despite all my protestations and frustrations, (most of the time) I write because I have a story to tell, because it demands to be told. At least, the better ones I write tend to form as such. Writing is like singing for me in that way. I will never be a professional singer, and I have forgotten how to read music sheets, but I just...can't not sing. Even when I am silent, there is a fairly good chance that I am singing in my own head. It's not Broadway or Madison Square Garden, but it's mine and it makes me happy.
