One thought has struck me incessantly as I further explore the world of literature: what of my unfinished works? From the make-shift books of my childhood to the typed manuscripts of my adolescence, I wonder if some day I will ever finish the many I have started.
It seems that I lost interest in most of these unfinished works, although I have picked up and continued briefly on a few lost gems before eventually losing interest. Sometimes it scares me, knowing that I have never completed any work of literature, save for a series of short stories written for the Middle School's newspaper The Mirror. It seems that no matter what my mindset is when I sit down and begin to write my stories, I will lose interest or forget about them eventually. I wonder if any other author has had this problem.
For me, I feel it is a serious problem and quite an ironic one. I am able to complete written assignments without any hassle, but writing on my own requires even stricter discipline than school assignments, and even then I still fail. Perhaps I should only start with short stories and work my way up; but for now, I shall tell my literature through an easier flowing medium: art.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
My Earliest Memories...
When I was little, my mother would read books to me before I went to bed. She read various books to me, such as This is the House Where Jack Lives, Green Eggs and Ham, Fox in Socks, and books from The Bernstein Bears series. I was fascinated by the words and pictures in those books, and these fascinations inspired me to pick up a book and start reading myself, in addition to drawing.
I do not remember the first book I read by myself, but I do remember reading constantly. After a couple of years of reading whatever I could find, I began creating my own stories. I used my father’s computer to write hundreds of stories, mostly short and somewhat unfinished, and printed them out where they are still stored to this day in a couple of plastic organizing containers. Reading and writing in school also helped me delve deeper into the world of literature. In kindergarten and elementary school, not only did we read books daily, we had composition journals for us to draw in. I wrote many stories in those journals, accompanied by my illustrations.
In addition to myself, my siblings were also influenced by literature. My mother read to them too, especially my little brother. My siblings also began to read at a young age, and wrote their own stories accompanied with illustrations.
My childhood, in my opinion, was dominated by books. I still read consistently today, and sometimes I reflect back onto my stories written in the past. I even continued unfinished stories until other desires and assignments consumed my attention. However, if it were not for my mother reading those books to me, I most likely would not have discovered this wonderful world of literature until many years later.
I do not remember the first book I read by myself, but I do remember reading constantly. After a couple of years of reading whatever I could find, I began creating my own stories. I used my father’s computer to write hundreds of stories, mostly short and somewhat unfinished, and printed them out where they are still stored to this day in a couple of plastic organizing containers. Reading and writing in school also helped me delve deeper into the world of literature. In kindergarten and elementary school, not only did we read books daily, we had composition journals for us to draw in. I wrote many stories in those journals, accompanied by my illustrations.
In addition to myself, my siblings were also influenced by literature. My mother read to them too, especially my little brother. My siblings also began to read at a young age, and wrote their own stories accompanied with illustrations.
My childhood, in my opinion, was dominated by books. I still read consistently today, and sometimes I reflect back onto my stories written in the past. I even continued unfinished stories until other desires and assignments consumed my attention. However, if it were not for my mother reading those books to me, I most likely would not have discovered this wonderful world of literature until many years later.
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