Last night, my sister’s boyfriend said something that really took the Duck off guard. Before this, the Duck hadn’t considered the possibility of her being wrong – much like her style in any number of math classes that you’ll never see her in. He said, “What’s the point of writing or filming, or doing anything creative if you can’t have the opportunity to enter it or show it to somebody?”

In general, the Duck makes it a point to post her writings here, more disclosed to a bunch of strangers online than she’d ever show to a real friend in person. If you don’t like it, then nobody’s the wiser to keep away from the closed closet door. It just works out that way. Until as of recent, the occasion for her to show off any type of skills had been in class, and even then the creative juices never flow into the perfect formation of structures and essays, resulting in a rather depleted English mark. Her ego goes down alongside it also. You can imagine her magnificence trying to put on a tough face and fattening up those wings, while really putting her heart on the overdrive and expending any more of a lesser foundation of energy she’d have otherwise to take another dash at writing. Just so long as the words continue to appear in little letters and not ominous signs of plagarism.

Do they even make sense half the time?

But what this post really about, is when this Ducklet, on a spasm of cold adrenaline, showed her sister and her sister’s boyfriend a short story she had actually posted up here not so long ago. Something about a writer’s mind.

If you’re familiar with me, you’d know that most, if not practically all of my stories have no concise meaning – another large failure in the attempt to please literary professeurs – though I’d just as like to ask them what their ultimate purpose in life is. Every story is the same idea. That’s my defense anyway.

My sister and him recieved it fairly, and in my rushed anxious state, it was ultimately not enough, so I quickly proclaimed the vague impression I had for what was really going on behind the scenes. It didn’t start out like this, but now, with the addition of last’s night contemplating, the three of us decided to bring up a new character, and prolong the story with the writer, the character, and the lover. Expanding upon some warped sense of tentative human state.

At quite a shock myself, I was really taken with this idea and remained up late last night writing, and dearly regretting, yet grateful this morning for having been able to get the words out. They were good. The urge continued on, and I largely ignored my teacher for whatever she had said in class too. That was quite good too.

Finally, it is coming to be a story in which I am not thinking about which specific word to choose – whether they had gasped, or exclaimed or pursed their lips characteristicallyThey said does just as well for most people, I think. Alas, it is a story where, though I don’t quite know where to go with it, and I definitely have not resorted to the old fashion way of brain storming on a page, simply jotting down any simple evidence of this character’s life, which seems to sequently appear in my mind, I am just writing for the sake of getting out words. I only have to look carefully in the scene and fill in some cracks along the way. I don’t doubt that this is what had happened. I don’t doubt their existence.

All of this madness, takes refuge in the fact that, if successful, my goal being quite large and complicated for someone like me, the three of us plans to make a short film of this, as my sister’s boyfriend took film and photography in school, while my sister took arts and fashions. I am, on the other hand, very surprisingly, the supposed brains of this production. I know, shocking.

Evidently, this is going to be quite a long project, even more so since I’m so consumed with it, I’ll probably have to use bits and pieces of it as class work to send for a passable mark. Simply can’t wait to read my teacher’s reaction to my work. Attempting to pull a skipping through time frames, migrating through omnipotent views, and hopefully, tying it all together in parts and the end does not do well in the frame of keeping it simple and straight forward.

Well. I’ve always been a rule breaker.

So the Duck says. Let her have this.