Pandora’s box


Originally, this post was meant to be about my new-found discover of the app Pandora, but that’s a long and boring story. Fortunately the title worked itself out perfectly for what I actually want to write about. If anyone isn’t familiar with the story of Pandora’s box, I’ll give you a brief summary: Pandora’s not allowed to open a box, she opens the box, everything falls out except for one thing. Hope.

There’s  a lot more to the story, but my point is that the last fragment of what was held in that box was hope.

Rewind to three years ago and you’ll find me, quiet literally being a couch potato. There was no motivation, no passion, there was nothing. As I’ve said before, someone told me I would be a writer around this time. Oddly enough, I hadn’t thought about writing for a while. This tiny piece of information got me thinking and brainstorming. I began to try writing again and in doing so I found my spark of hope.

Some authors know how they developed the ideas of their stories. I can tell you where I was the moment I started writing, but I can’t explain how I managed to plot out my story. How the ideas just wiggled there way into my brain. When I think about it, there was never really a big ‘moment’ for me. It’s like one minute I was nothing and suddenly someone threw a bomb in my hand. I could have either let it explode in my face or run with it.

Who knows, maybe this whole process will explode in my face one day when I stop running.

Occasionally I wonder if I’m only writing because someone told me to. I don’t think so. I think because someone reminded me of it, it brought the spark back. there were hundreds of times, and I mean hundreds, where I would just start writing in class. History class especially. My first year of high school was me, literally in the last seat in the farthest corner (by my choice) writing. I remember there was a time when it had just snowed and the field hadn’t been touched by anyone. It was like looking at a sheet of crystals. For some reason I started writing about it, I have no idea what I wrote, but I did.

I honestly don’t think I ever paid attention in school. There just wasn’t anything there for me. It was working hard at stuff that I fell flat to connect with.

Now that you’ve read my ramblings, you’re probably wondering why the fuck I wrote it. Today my thoughts went to the place they go sometimes about if my writing is just a passion or a career. I could argue both, but I won’t.

What I tend to ask myself about, is the people around me. There are people who pick a career and have this incredible passion for something completely different from their career. It makes me wonder, why? It also makes me wonder who choose the more difficult path, me or them.


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