Just Another Life

Hey, I'm a teenager, checking this site out. I know what you're thinking, who is this guy and why is he trying to rant on about himself. Well think of it like this: I'm new here and am just trying to describe a little bit about myself. Then again, you learn new things everyday, and here, you can learn much more about a stranger you're reading about on this one site. A teen, stranger. A stranger named James, James Pratt.

Now I don't want to go through my whole life's story with all of you, even though it may be longer or shorter than many of you, so I'll just skip to the highlights of my life. I've lived to the age of 15, and have brought my senses to believe that, and as insensitive and meaningless it seems, I like to write. I guess you can kind of tell, by the way I'm typing. I've had no experience, except when I'm either in school, reading someone elses work, or writing on my own. Now what type of a writer am I? Well it would be pretty hard to tell you. Most people say I have a whole life ahead of me, and that I should think on what and who I want to be when I grow up. But honestly, what I've gotten myself into so far in writing, is stories, poetry, and maybe even a little pinch of song-making.

Okay, so I'm not that swell of a song writer, my poetry doesn't really rhyme, and my stories are a tad too descriptive to make into a novel. But who knows, I'll find my place, one way or the other. Thing is, I don't know how good I am at writing. I mean, if I compare myself to my trustworthy friends, I may be a bit better than them, but in a longshot, where I'm up against adults, famous authors, you, even, I may just have to look up, and wish my way through my career. My writing is simple yet complicate, like a teenagers life, slowly unfolding every corner he turns, every bridge he burns, every memory he gains -- or loses. Yes, I'm a teenager, and I like to think a lot. But doesn't everybody? I can't make myself feel special because I think too much, right?

Anyways, my story begins to unfold just 2 years ago, when I'm talking with my sister. She's blah blah blahing to me, and I'm listening intently to her words, because that's just what I tend to do. We come onto the conversation of reading books. Oh neat, books. Not only did I hate the looks and even the smells, -- new or old, but I hated reading, no matter what book I'm forced to read. She began to talk about this neat author called 'Ted Dekker'. Not interested, I ignore her, and go back to playing Sonic.

Next week, the summer rolls around, and my other sister asks us if we would want to go on vacation; a road trip. How exiting it sounded! When we were in the car, driving from Kansas to Colorado, my sister, (the one who mentioned to me that author) pulls out her book. My other sister asks if she could read it aloud, so that we won't get too bored in the scorching hot car. Agreeing, she opens the book, which happened to be called, 'House', and began to read it aloud. By the time the third chapter came around, I was leaning forward, nibbling at my nails, not bothering to ask questions or interrupt. I was really into the book, even though it was just the beginning. My other sister called off the reading, because she thought the book was a tad bit too scary for herself. Bummed, I sat back, and thought about what had happened in the intense book. I came back and asked my sister if she had any other books that I could read myself. She said no.

By the time we were finished with our vacation, my sister had finished the book on her own. I asked her if I could borrow it, so that I can read the rest of it. Nodding, she handed me the book, and I quickly rushed up to my room, and began intently reading, for hours. My parents were worried about me, wondering what I was doing in my room for so long. They checked, and I remembered saying, "Can't you see I'm reading a book?" Confused, they left me to my reading.

Months passed, and I had read every single book that author, Ted Dekker had written. I wanted more, but he had no more, well, except for his 'romance' books, that I wanted to be no part of. I began really getting into his type of genre; Tragedy / Suspence / Horror / Romance. Or, it was something like that. Every time he came out with a new book, I was reading it nonstop, until it was finished, and I was again, sitting there bored. I really got into reading and such, and began going to my middle school's library, to look for some good books. My english teach told me I had much talent in my poetry and writing skills, and I took that in heavily. I began to wonder how authors made their stories. Was it off of pure inspiration? And did they write their novels all at once? I began to experiment.

Everyday when I got home from school, I took out this one writing notebook, and began to write down what had happened that day. It first started out grimly descriptive, but then I started to get into details on what had happened. After a couple more months had passed, I looked at what I had done, in the past. I began to see how much I improved in my writing, grammar, spelling, everything. My writing got so descriptive, it began to take up more than a page -- front and back. I bought a 'college ruled' notebook, and began to write on that.

Once in the 8th grade, I began to write my own little stories, and my own poetry. I didn't know how to rhyme back then, and I still kind of don't know much, but nonetheless, I wrote. It became a passion, as I began to learn more and more and more. When I watched movies, I learned about the plots and the antagonists and protagonists, and the build up, and the resolution, and everything. I began noticing stories in all my friends lives, and especially, mine. My english teacher swore she was going to get into either an IB school for high school, or at least get me into an honours class in english. And it came true, I got into an honours class.

In high school, I began watching movies over and over again, learning about irony, and character bondage, and connections between everything in it. My writing began to accel, and now that notebook I use to write in now turned into about 5-6 notebooks. I wrote about 2-3 pages in it, front and back, almost every day. My creative writing got me to the point of finishing a small, 100 page novel. I showed it to my parents, and they were really impressed. They asked if they could put it through the trouble of being edited and published, but I refused.

In the middle of my freshman high school year, I found this one site called fictionpress.com. It was where you can submit your poetry and made-up stories. I really wanted to submit my written story, but I didn't want to copy it all down on the keyboard, since I've already written it on paper. I submitted my poetry, and got some constructive, yet pleasing reviews on it. I learned how to make my poetry touching and ironic, in a good way. Then one day, one of my made friends introduced me to a site called 'Fanfiction.net'. He said that that's where you go to submit stories that you wish would have happened after a certian movie, or cartoon or such. Agreeing to check it out, I did. Finding an amazing source of creative writers, I made an accound, and began looking for stories that would come to my intrest, and I found one. Kung Fu Panda.

It felt stupid to put all the characters in that movie in action once again, but in time, I got used to it. The site began to turn into a secret from my parents, because if I showed them my 'Kung Fu Panda fictions', they'd probably think I'm just obsessed. What I think is that I'm just using the site and writing in improve my writing, for other purposes, when I make a major novel, based on my own story and mind. I submitted my first chapter on fanfiction.net. Quickly, the next day, I had a couple reviews, telling of how nice it was and begging me to add to it. I felt embarrassed that others were reading my nonsense chapters, but then again, I felt a sense of joy sweep over me. I realized that I loved writing. And even more, how people react to it.

A couple months pass, and I look around more, for future jobs that may want a good journalist of somesort. I found a job, but found it was in New Zealand. New Zealand? Yes, New Zealand. I didn't know anything about the country, until I ironically saw an ad about it, while watching TV. It showed things about hiking up and skiing down the vast mountains called The Southern Alps, riding around and seeing the beautiful nature, para-gliding, backpacking, swimming in the ocean with the dolphins, hot-air balooning, sky-diving, and overall enjoying the incredible view all around. Quickly inspired, I ran up to the computer, and looked up 'New Zealand', again.

I began to get so caught up with New Zealand's culture, how they talk, what their capital is, what they do for vacations, and even which side of the road they drive on. At this time, I was really writing. I soon found out that New Zealand inspires me. I mean, the beautiful views, the things you can do, the people you'll meet, everything about New Zealand made me want to jump into my laptop and start writing like crazy. And especially, 'updating' my stories on fanfiction.net. I made many friends on that site, and although I kept telling myself I would leave soon, so that my parents wouldn't find out my obsessive writing about some movie about a 'panda', I couldn't leave. I wanted my stories to be seen, and I loved the reviews they were giving me.

Once summer came around, everything began to slow down. My sister finally got a job, and now she works every day with my parents as well, leaving me home, by myself. Every once in a while I look at beautiful places like New Zealand and Alaska and even my own state; Colorado, but the inspiration just isn't the same anymore. Although I cry in happiness at the views I see when I go backpacking with my friends in The Rockies, I still can't get myself to get inspired.

And now here I am, looking for more sites to get myself inspired enough to write. I've lost many friends on fanfiction.net, because I barely talk to them, and for another readon; I never update my stories. I begin to get more bored with everything about writing, and I want to learn more and more, to get a private tutor, to get into a good writing or english class when I'm a sophomore next month, to do something to progress in my writing. But it has no matter, I can barely ask my parents for help, because they're always at work, and my sister, at work as well. Now all I can do is write that one more chapter... and put it onto that site, but to only get one, or even no reviews for it, because I'm out of contact with the people who had once reviewed my provious stories.

But anyways, nothing to get sad about, at least I didn't break up with a girl. On the other note, I'm building friendships with close friends that come over to my house everyday, asking if they could ride bikes with me to Keva Juice or something. Hey, it's a life of a teenager I'm living. People say that you don't want to grow up, and many teenagers would say no way to that, but right now, I wish I never grow up. At this state in life, I'm thinking the most, and in this state in life, I'm the most emotional about everything. I watch life pass by my very sight, and all I do is sit back and do nothing. I want to reach out there and grab that oppertunity, to learn something new and useful. I want to learn how to write better, and more descriptive. I want to be like that one guy, Christopher PaoliniChristopher Paolini, where he was only 15 when he wrote that New York Times Best Selling Book: Eragon. I want to be noticed thought my writing, and let people see through my own eyes for once. Who knows, maybe I'll lead a life of sucess, but then again, I may fall in desperate failure, and may stay falling. Everyone wants to be noticed; to be famous. I guess I'm just another teen writer with just another unfolding story. Just another meaningless wave tossed in the frenzied ocean. Just another face in the world.

Just Another Life.