BizzleWrites

Australia

I'm Issy.
I'm 14 and an aspiring artist and author.
She/her
Black Lives matter.
Likes:
Bi puns
Murder mystery TV shows
Art
Shakespeare poetry
Dislikes:
I can't even be bothered writing them all down
.
Goodbi
Have a nice day

Message from Writer

Remember to write even if you think you are bad at it, you're not

Check out my amazing WTW friend Ava Marie!

Please read The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzi Lee, it is seriously amazing. I also recommend The Candy Makers by Wendy Mass, and anything by Becky Albertalli.

If you wanna chat or do review for review comment on one of my pieces :)

You are all amazing and fanatstic have a nice day take care of yourself you are loved!! :)

The Story Of Me

December 3, 2020

Never before have I felt so motivated to write. 
I quarantine, I have mostly simply survived how I had to. I would eat chocolate, binge-watch Netflix, and draw and write the kind of things that were okay, but by no means ground-breaking. 
Now, after sitting staring at a blank screen for hours just this-morning, I finally have the idea which will hopefully change my teenage life. 
This strange ambition began a few days ago, at the museum, of all places. Ciara and Mum and I were sitting in the café in Melbourne museum, waiting for our orders to arrive. It was a weekend day, one that should be fun, but wasn't. 
I remember 3 things about that trip to the café: 
  1. ​There was a jet-black pigeon inside. It was so dark, that I thought it's eyes were pure white until it flew down from it's perch to rest on the ground near me and I could see it properly. To anyone more superstitious than me, this would have been some sort of sign. Or perhaps an omen of death. And it was, in a way, because this turned out to feel like the end of a chapter of my life.
  2. Ciara and Mum where looking at houses the whole time on Mum's phone. For reason's a person such as myself cannot quite grasp, my family had suddenly decided we were to move. We live in point-cook, as of now, but my family have their hearts set on living in Altona or the city of Melbourne. It's not that big of a move, but it feels like so much more. So then, I realized how much I miss living in New Zealand. 
  3. I ordered an egg, salad and mayonnaise sandwich. Which, as is not entirely normal for the pre-packaged kind, was actually quite good. 
So, this may not seem to explain why I wish so much to finish a novel. If you allow me, I will enlighten you. 
I miss New Zealand. Up until a few days ago, I didn't realize how much I did. I was always the one to say that I wanted to stay here, in Victoria, with my sister saying how she wanted to return to the city of Christchurch we were born. Christchurch is our home. 
But now, things are different. We're both teenagers now, with Ciara having big plans for university and the practicality of Melbourne for certain things outweighing our adoration of Christchurch.
I have never before been a terribly ambitious person. My subconscious thought --I guess-- that ambition can only lead to disappointment. But now, in just the last few days, I have such an ambition that it almost controls me.
I have a plan, to finish a book, to get it published, and to try to get actual money from this. I know it most likely won't happen any time soon, but I still want to try. I also know that a part of me --a very small, very deluded part-- has a dream of becoming as rich as other authors and buying a house in New Zealand, though I no this is not likely. 
It may not be likely, but if you never try something, you'll never succeed. And maybe part of me is just inspired by my mother's friend Rose Carlyle. 
So yes, every time my family goes for a walk, I dream about finishing the book I'm writing. And yes, maybe it's a silly thing to think. And yes, I've never before even had any sort of ambition, but if I put my mind to it, I'm going to finish this book.
And I think about what it was like for me as a child, to read a book. And I think about the people I'd make happy, with this book, an escape from the real world. 
As the sun sets over the trees and houses, and as I swing on the basket-swing --as high as I can go-- the ambition I have to succeed, to be noticed by the world, to make something of being a teenager, is overwhelming. And I think that maybe I can finish this novel. And then I remember that many teenagers have finished novels, and hardly any make much money. And then I think if I put my mind to this, I can do it. And then I remember that not everything always goes how we wish it would. And then I think No, I'm not letting this sought of thought control me. And I remind myself that I am a good writer, and that if I try I can write something as good as Jaqueline Harvey, my first real hero.
And maybe I've changed, but maybe I always used to be to afraid to hope for something like this. And maybe after quarantine, I've finally given up on hoping for something that might happen, because everything has changed so much in everyone's lives. 
Quarantine has changed. My ambitions and hopes have changed. And maybe, just maybe, if my book works, my life might change. 

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