I've Started to Write a Book...

Yes. In all of my spare time.
It's happening.
...I have 3 pages done.
But it's happening.

It will be done in about 6 years.
KEEP YOUR FINGERS CROSSED.
I figure I can continue to work on it throughout this important transitional period of my life.
Growing up and moving into the "real world" is a difficult transition. And I find that I can put some of my thoughts, my feelings, into words through this "book."

So, I thought I would share with you some of the beginning.
Please be kind. It's very, very rough.

I have always wanted to write a book. Always. And I'm doing it. It will take forever, but I am doing it.
GO AFTER YOUR DREAMS, PEOPLE.

I am one of those readers where I open a book and read the first page. So, tell me, would you want to read this book after reading this page?

Blaze. That was the only word she could use to describe this moment. In this instant, she literally felt an entire fire exude throughout her whole body. She, however, was not sure if it was a negative inferno or a positive one that would somehow magically make everything okay. All she knew was that this “burn" was a feeling she had not seen coming. She stood, in the midst of a constant crowd of people. She was frozen; they continued moving. It was amazing how alone she felt as she stood amongst thousands of people. Couldn’t they see her body was protruding redness, a conflagration of its own?

She glanced down. She wasn’t on fire at all. This blaze she felt was only commiserating on the inside.

How could that be? She thought to herself. Laney Lexington was sure; no, she was completely confident that this blaze inside of her had to be exuding to the outer world. She hated feeling this way.

“Calm down!” Laney yelled at herself. She was not your typical twenty five year old woman. She did not portray your typical emotional-I-cry-over-every-sappy-chick-flick typical girl. Which is exactly why she hated her last name. It was too ostentatious, too feminine. Which was, by no coincidence at all, exactly why she hated her first name as well. Eleanor. Eleanor Lexington. Really?  What in the world was her mother thinking? It was as if from the day she was born her mother subconsciously knew what to do to piss her daughter off. 

“Let’s find a name that will make my daughter hate me even more. Brittany? No. Too popular. Tiffany? No. Too preppy. Eleanor? Yes. It will go perfectly with her long blonde curls and flowered sundresses,” Eleanor cynically imitates her mother as she starts walking down the exponentially busy sidewalks of the city. 

She wanted a stronger name, a name that yells: I am a confident woman and I do not want any rich, pretentious human beings tearing me down! Much to her mother’s dismay, Laney was born with brown hair. And not the beautiful brown like you see on Selma Hayek or Jessica Biel (yes, she knows all about the celebrities).  It was just a plain brown. Plain. That was a perfect word to describe it. Any other adjective would make it sound more interesting than it actually was. 

“Good thing I practiced on Barbies every single day as a seven year old,” she repeats out loud sarcastically.

 She then stops and looks around. She laughs to herself and continues on her arduous journey of fifteen blocks with black high heels back to her apartment. She has always had this issue. She was, what the books call a “daydreamer.” She would dream, think, and analyze in every aspect of her life. She would dream about ideas that seemed to good to be true. For example, earlier that day, she dreamed about teaching French to a bunch of ten year-old children in Paris. In her head, she miraculously came home from a perfect day at school with little French girls in their dainty dresses, while singing French songs and having a very French-y (?) rendezvous with them. Her apartment was filled with colors and happy flowers. The chairs were retro yellow; the couch a peach color. The walls were a light shade of blue that were accentuated with yellow and peach curtains (to match the furniture, of course). There was no television, only shelves of a mini library with books that included Tolstoy and Jane Austen. :  Her long, brown hair (oh look, long could be an adjective to describe it. But that’s about where it stops).

Yet, as she straggled open the keys to her apartment, she is instantly awakened by the lack of reality she is constantly living in. Her daydreaming schemes only lead her to wish for a different life, a different apartment. "Not this dumpy shack," she thinks out loud.

She held her cup of passion herbal tea to ease her pain from the hardness of that day. It was as if sipping the steaming tea would somehow disintegrate and smooth the awful roughness the rest of her body felt. Sometimes, she felt as though drinking this tea would wash away the lump that was in her throat; the ache that was in every single part of her body. 

To be continued...