The voice

The voice in my head is much, much louder than usual, and it proves to be troublesome to live with it for the moment.

I can barely be in a conversation with anyone, because the voice in my head outspeaks everyone I'm actually trying to talk with and I can't control the voice, it's so damn LOUD

I do my best to fake that I'm listening to people, while the damn voice keeps talking to me about possible scenarios for characters, and I hear lines over and over again in my head. Some days it's not as talkative and let me live in reality, but yesterday it didn't leave me alone for one second and it was annoying but interesting at the same time

because

I like what the voice talks about, but being unable to control your thoughts is less ideal.

And to clarify, it's my own voice, me, myself, and not a "outside" voice in my head. It's not an illness. I think.

But the uncontrollable part of my mind, the deepest parts of my mind are strong at the moment.

Almost stronger than the active part-

I zone out a lot. I stare into nothingness. I forget things easily. I forget to eat. I would live off coffee if I could. I isolate myself away from my fiancé, because in loneliness the voice is bearable, I can have conversations with myself in my brain if I'm alone.

I dream away to far away universes, I push deadlines and make homework an hour before they have to be done. I have a hard time gripping reality because of the voice. The only thing the voice does not interfere with is my horse. I never forget my horse.

Hopefully I'll be able to live in this reality quite soon. It's exhausting to live in two worlds at the same time.

Who I am

I had a wonderful play-writing session yesterday (bless the team I'm surrounded by!!!) and I once again realized that I'm a bit slow when it comes to comedy.


Always known I don't like comedy that much, and always known I don't really like writing/performing comedy.


But it seems everyone else love comedy. We had a really good brainstorming session where the team and I figured together out a thrilling story with different premisses:

A homosexual couple, Jakob and Fritz, defies society 1939, and when the Jakob has to leave for war Fritz dresses up as a woman (to avoid army) and work in a corset shop. The Fritz dies before the man returns from war.

A friend couple, Jakob and Fritz, where Jakob is gay but Fritz is not. Fritz is a jew and has to hide at Jakob's and they live as husband and wife (Fritz dresses as a woman to hide his identity). When Jakob returns from war Fritz leaves him.

Neither Jakob nor Fritz are homosexual as they know in the beginning, but gradually finds feelings for one another, but in the end Fritz still leaves Jakob.

And so on, and so on, and these are all tragic stories about heartbreak, but then the other ones started to talk about "what a comedic effect" this has, and I was flabbergasted because I simpy couldn't find one single "funny" thing about our premisses.

Is a man dressed as a woman funny by default? Not in my world. Not at all.

Is homosexuality something funny, worth comedy? Not at all. It's legit. It's real.

I just didn't get what on earth bore the comedic value in there.


Later on, I presented a scene from ny new play, the play about soldiers, that I briefly wrote about earlier on here. I plan on having one of the main characters die by the end, by suicide or other.

Still one of them suggested a more comedic turn on the play, something that in my opinion would ruin the whole thing, because I don't write comedy and I almost got angry at her for suggesting that. Not that I showed anything, I just laughed it away. I don't do comedy.

Am I weird? Am I doing this wrong?

I just.... want to keep killing things. Characters. It soothes me. It makes me feel stuff. It gives me kicks to write, and read and be pain and death and cries.

I told my new theatre buddies that I love when characters die on stage. Get the cat out of the bag right off the beginning. They stared at me like they've seen a ghost. I don't care. I want them to know who I am.

Death scares me. But writing about death feels good. Writing death is good.

I am me.

Publishing on the internet

For the first time since I was 13, I've posted fiction on the internet.

When I was 13 (or 14), I posted a couple fanfictions, written in horrible English, but with a thrilling premisse. People actually read it, and commented on the piece, even if the English was barely holding up.

But I wrote myself into a grave and had to abandon the story because I couldn't figure out a way to end it, and even if the fanfic is still out there, I won't revisit whatever abomination 13-y o me wrote. Since I've since then become embarrassed by that I've not published anything fictional on the internet.

A) because origianl fiction may be stolen and that's not fun
B) you don't want to give away your precious ideas


But now, since I've read so many wonderful fanfics over this summer I had to give in and write my own. I just finished it on Saturday, and published the first chapter yesterday. I was very nervous, because even if I polished the English and checked everything and wrote as good as I possibly can, I though people wouldn't like it. But I wanted to challenge myself.

During the night, I got two comments! Wow, two! I though I'd get none. And 10 people liked it. Amazing. And the best thing was that the comments were incredibly supportive, and one of them complimented my writing (and English). I got so happy. You may think two comments and 10 people liking it is a small number, but this is the first time I've published anything in ten years on the internet, and in a language that's not my first, so I'm actually proud.

Hopefully the support keeps coming when I publish the other chapters.

The story is a fanfic of the anime Naruto that I've been watching this past summer, so people not knowing the story of that anime won't sadly get what my own story is about. But I'm happy that the poeple who do like my fanfic so far.

Grumpy me @ plays I've seen

Okay let's do this.

I saw the past two weeks two plays, and they were.... for lack of better words: bad.

I mean, they had their own charm and I really enjoyed the backdrops and the props and the lights, and sound, but is it actually a good play if the audience enjoy the props more than the actual story? Haha, I forgot, it's because both of these plays LACKED STORY and this is one of my biggest pet peeves of theatre ever and I don't get it how critics AND the artsy farsty directors find that desirable.

Hell, for one of the plays I had to take up the pamflet and actually read what the hell was going on, in the middle of the play. If you need to write the storyline of the play down and share it to the audience to keep the audience on track, then you're doing hell of a poor job as director and playwright. I hate when directors focuse more on themes than an actual story.

None of the characters had names, and in the end, you didn't even care about them. If the audience doesn't care about your characters they don't care about the plot either so why should they care about the play?

I get so annoyed and arrogant because in the end I'm no professional, only someone who cares greatly about plays and theatre, but I have an opinion and my opinion is that plays like these are shit. Give the story more focus, instead of giving the audience a trip because light effects are cool.

Yes, light effects are cool. But not anymore after five minutes of flashing without a reason to do so, only to give a boner to the guy who designed the whole thing. Fucking hell.

I sound like an old grumpy lady. I know. But I become grumpy when characters are wasted in favour of themes or effects. Lost potential, basically.

If I one day become a playwright with actual influence (which is not going to happen, but one can dream) I'll never ever write a play with only a theme and characters without names.

Arrogance

I'm currently facing a new negative trait in myself that has grown much during these past weeks.

It's arrogance.

I've become so arrogant that I'm almost disgusted with myself and I'm so scared that this will drive me into ridiculous arguments with people. Yeah sure, on this blog I'm allowed to be arrogant, as this is my own little time out space, but with other people...... I don't want to be arrogant.

Ughhhh

Trying to bring myself energy to write a little longer post about two plays I saw this past week, but right now I'm focusing on writing fiction (so my short story will be finished as soon as possible, on Sunday at the very latest). However, I'll be able to scrape together willpower to write before Sunday!

Willpower is one of my better traits after all.

Robin Hood

One of my favourite stories of all time is the story of Robin Hood. There's so many adaptions out there that there's barely any idea in arguing which adaptation is the "real" one, but I've seen quite some of them and I usually enjoy them immensely.

The reason why I love the story of Robin Hood is nothing less that you'd expect from me, considering my preferences when it comes to stories.

I love execution scenes, and have since I was a child, and I happen to love hanging scenes, too. The climax in the basic Robin Hood story is when he is finally caught and brought to the gallows and the audience is to believe he'll die, but eventually he's saved.

The Disney version doesn't obviously (sadly) have the hanging scene in it, but there's a scene when guards capture him and tie him down, and that was the best part of the whole movie.

In 2010 a bigger theatre here in Finland put up Robin Hood and I was living it! Not only was Robin really defensless with the noose around his neck, he was almost naked too, and the bad guy carved into his belly with a knife and I was reveling in that scene. Fuck! I love torture on stage.

Anyways -

When I was 10-11 years old I had a story in my head that was basically inspired by the story of Robin Hood. I never wrote it down, but I daydreamed about that story quite a lot.

Contrary to the real Robin Hood, my own story circled aroung three siblings. The oldest one, the boy, was called Omega. He was the smart ass of the trio, and concocted the plans. The middle sibling, a girl, was called Robin, and she was basically the Robin Hood with the good morals. The youngest sibling, a girl, was called Lakrits (meaning liqourice) and she was the devil of the group and the one who did all the dirty work. She was also the only one to get caught and brought to the gallows.

The scene I daydreamed was about Lakrits being hanged, and Robin and Omega being in the audience, panically trying to find out how to save their little sister.

I never found out a way for them to save her. I never wrote down the story, never gave them backstories (that I remember), and these three characters live in a limbo, and they will forever remain as a childhood story.

I would love to act in the story of Robin Hood on stage. I would love to act as Robin Hood. But I could just as well act as the bad guy, but DAMN, a female Robin Hood sounds good, doesn't it?

A pattern of dreams

While it's technically impossible to re-dream the same dream you once had, you can dream according to a pattern, and I've got two patterns I dream many times a year according to, and the feeling after waking up is exactly the same after each dream of one pattern.

(Wow we're really going back, because a few years ago I ofter updated my dreams to this blog, which I've not done for a while)

The pattern I'll talk about is "running away from the enemy after I've sabotaged something".

That's the umbrella name for this time.

I often dream about having an enemy of some sort, and running away from them, while being chased. Sometimes I hide, but usually they get up to me really fast. Contrary to what most "run away"-dreams are described to be; these are fun! I'm never scared in them, I'm never out of breath and the feeling is over all kind of when Jack Sparrow runs away from guards in the Pirates of the Caribbean-movies.

These dreams are fun! Because even if I for the most times actually get caught in the end, I never give up. I know I'm not the true enemy.

A couple of night ago I dreamt I was two persons at once, myself, and a young man in the Finnish army. I kind of controlled both bodies. The Finnish man decided to go rampage and shoot his camerades and then he (I) run away.

The real me was launched into an investigation to find this man and I had a hard time keeping a straight face because I knew where the other me was hiding, because I was him too. So I ran in the opposite directions the real me told the police. It was exiting, and the real me thought to the other me why the fuck did you do that look what mess we're in right now do not keep walking south they're heading south to look for you get out!

I like those dreams alot.

A characters fate

I'm back where I love to be the most.

I've got acting in my life again. I've got play writing. And what is so crazy is that I don't even know which one I enjoy the most; writing plays or acting them out.

I've got an unlimited imagination I REVEL in it!

I know what my next play is going to feature. Soldiers. Girls of course. Girl soldiers. Man, I love writing girls. Agressive girls, normbreaking girls. Those are my favourites. Haha, autobiographic much? Damn it.

In my earliest plans I figured the one soldier was going to kill the other one because of treachery, but now I juggle with the idea of having the traitor kill herself instead, and this would be on stage.

Killing someone on stage, having someone COMMIT SUICIDE on stage is a very tricky thing. A sensitive thing, and I'm not sure if the audience would even enjoy it. I would enjoy it, of course, but not everyone is like me.

I want to kill off one of the soldiers, but maybe I must listen to the soft side and have her run away instead. Fuuuuuu -

When I have that thing sorted out, later in the writing process and autumn, I will be back with an update. Will she die or survive?

Hell, I don't know.

I saw her again

Yesterday I saw one old friend from the gymnasium. The upper secondary school times.

We crossed the street, we were walking to opposite directions and we said hello with a really happy tone to each others.

I meant my happy tone. Because out of all the selfish, hollow assholes that pretended to care about me she was the best one. I don't think she actually disliked me, not really, but she was being controlled by others and if the others didn't want me there she had to obey.

I felt really, truly empty when seeing her. Not angry. Just empty.

I've so many years dealt all by myself the "trauma" that final fucking year of upper secondary school gave me, all the negative emotions and anger and just pure fury I stored in myself that it's all empty now. Not even my fiancé knows. I've confined like two friends very, very briefly upon this, but never in detail.

I wonder what she thinks of me. Does she have bad conscience at all? Does she regret anything? Is she happy with her life at the moment?

Those are things I wonder. And things I'd never ever dare to ask.

I saw her last probably three years ago.

I think it'll be another three years before I spot her again.

I don't miss her. But god. I miss the life I could've had.

The third language

.... is English!

This summer I've been completely drenched in English. I've read so much in English this summer that it's almost ridiculous.

So many fanfictions, all in English (and I will fight you if you tell me it's not literature, because it is!)

The published book I currently read is also in English.

My internet world is mostly in English.

I write here in English.

I'm currently writing a short story (*cough cough fanfic cough cough*) in English, and as of now it's about 6000 words long and my goal is to make it 15000 words long.

So yeah, I'm an user of this language.

I remember as a child, when we learned English the first time at the age of 10, and we studied the "ing-form" (as in writing, drawing etc) and I'm staring at the chalkboard wondering where have I learned this before because I know this and that's from videogrames we played as kids and you were learning English before even realizing it.

I was one of the best English speakers in my classes, and that wasn't because my grammar and stuff was better than anyone else's, but because I spoke. I had the courage to speak this language, and because of me not being scared of performing in the class, I did quite funny presentations too. It boosted my selfconfidence and it was a free ticket to good scores.

In gymnasiet I found a friend who was better at English than I was, and after accepting that I couldn't be the best one, it was okay. I attended a course in England and learned to talk way better English and I got the British accent from that trip.

I'm just basically happy that I feel so secure using English, even if I make shitty mistakes every now and then.