Queries

It's frustrating, reader, to realize that every agent you've sent a query to doesn't want to represent your book. I've sent in queries to at least three different agents, and heard back from none of them. Fortunately, the reason I haven't heard back from the most recent one is because I just sent it an hour or so ago. I really hope this will be the one. I've had this book for nearly a year, and nothing has come of it.

Wish me luck, readers!

- Aimee

It's just an idea,

It's just an idea,

Formless, nameless and vague.

It's just an idea,

A nameless idea,

An annoying, brilliant plague.

I'm sure any readers out there who have ever striven to create something from nothing know this feeling. I was just sitting at my piano, struggling to get an idea to flow from my brain, to my fingers, and then into the keys, but very little made it through. Instead, I found myself mimicking the same key and feel of the song I recently learned, A River Flows in you. Any artist out there, whether you be an author, a poet, a painter or a musician, must know how frustrating that is.

That's the whole idea of the little poem I felt like posting today. I actually just wrote it a few minutes ago. At least a few words made their way out of my head today. It's more than I can say for most of the week. I'm hoping I'll find my inspiration again somewhere, but until I do, I'm stuck doing history homework, and hoping I'll be able to write an essay in an hour and twenty minutes this Thursday. (History exam, yay!)

- Aimee

Once upon a time, a little girl proudly showed her mother a story she had written. The story the childish and morbidly brutal murder of a Thanksgiving turkey, and it was on that day that the little girl knew she wanted to be a writer.

Years later, that little girl, now grown up, sat on her laptop, mourning her lost inspiration. So many stories, started and never finished. So many poems, a deep chasm reaching into her soul. So many ideas, wasted, squandered, unwritten. The words echoed 'round and 'round in her skull, begging for release, tormenting her with their cries.

That little girl is me, reader. Yes, I once wrote a story about a Thanksgiving turkey being murdered and eaten. I've also written a story in which a hungry wolf fights, and then devours Barney the Dinosaur. My childhood stories were rife with violence, for reasons even I don't know. But now, I look back on those stories and wonder what happened. At least then I could get my ideas out. I could form the stories with my words, and feel the satisfaction of a world becoming more and more real with each word I wrote or typed. Now, all I feel is an endless swamp of words in my head, and my inspiration miring down in them...

I suppose every writer feels this way sometimes. I know I've felt this way many times before. I'll just have to wait until my inspiration returns.

- Aimee

Dreams

"There now, child. Doesn't revenge taste sweet?"

The little girl staggered, her crimson eyes fading. "No," She whispered into the darkness as it rose up to welcome her. "No, it takes like... blood."

I had a very strange dream last night. That little piece of random writing up above is the only part of the dream I can remember vividly. The rest is all little flashes that don't make much sense. I think the main gist of it was a little girl with red eyes who had been raised by a vampire. She made a friend, but the vampire decided to use the friend as a sacrifice or something. I don't remember that part too clearly. Either way, the vampire wanted to kill her friend, and get revenge or something like that. I'm not really sure what the dream was about at all. But, it was interesting, I'll give you that.

I'm tempted to write a story about it.

- Aimee

I don't know how many years it's been since I got snail mail that wasn't a birthday card, something from the bank, or a catalog from the clothing store my mom works at. And the catalogs aren't even for me.

But that is all an issue of the past! A friend of mine, who I used to only keep in contact with by stalking the home page of Facebook, and occasionally chatting with her over the same deplorable website, is now my pen pal! I just got another letter from her in the mail, and I can't describe how it brightened my day! My day went from a less than perfect school day that I spent coughing my lungs out, and fighting a head ache, into a very awesome day. Who knew bringing back a lost art was so much fun?

I think more people should use e-mail, facebook and IM's less, and go back to good old fashioned snail mail. It's more fun! Who doesn't enjoy getting a letter in the mail? I know I do!

- Aimee

I like to think I have a good imagination. People tell me that my writing is good, and descriptive, almost as though I know exactly how the characters are feeling because I've felt that way myself. Usually, I have never experienced the feelings I'm writing about. I don't know what it's like to lose someone I was very close to. I don't know what it's like, or what could drive someone to contemplate suicide. But there is a word for what I experience, and that word is Empathy.

Empathy - the power of understanding and imaginatively entering into another person's feelings.

I may be an empathetic person. But I will never be able to imagine what it must have been like to experience the events that took place on 9/11 nine years ago. I was little more than a child at the time, about nine years old, so I remember only bits and pieces of that day. But now that I've grown up a bit, my heart aches for the families who lost loved ones and friends that day.

I can't imagine what it must have been like, what it must still be like...

We ought to continue praying for them, as well as for our soldiers and their families as well. So many people have sacrificed so much in order to protect innocents like me, and you, Reader. Their sacrifices should never go unnoticed.

- Aimee

The world around me is silent, and still, as it is every time the clock strikes five in the morning. All the color has been drained away by the lack of light. Everything is gray, the only distinction between objects made by the different shades of gray they display in the barely distinguishable light. I sit silently in bed, my head resting back against the wall behind me. Outside, I can hear the mockingbird I have come to recognize singing his heart out. A thought springs to mind, and it makes my lips twitch upward in a smile.

Why does a mockingbird sing at such odd times of the day? Is it because he's stayed up too late and has gone slightly crazy? Or did he just wake up, ready to tell the world that he's starting a new day?

I'm inclined to think that it's the latter.

- Aimee