Hello reader,
My name is Blaze. Blaze the Cat. I live in a small one-bedroom apartment in New York City, about a ten-minute walk away from Manhattan. I cannot tell you why I'm chronicling my story; hopefully, you will find use in what I have to say, or learn from my mistakes. The world is a scary place these days; perhaps I can be a voice of comfort for you. That is my passion - to impact the lives of others through my writing.
Writing is something that I never believed I would enjoy. In fact, I hated it for quite a while, especially when it was required for school. For the longest time, actually, my mother had to force me to write essays. She would sit down with me, make me outline what I wanted to say in my paper, and check every little detail to make sure my writing made sense. That would go on for hours. She errs on the side of directness in her writing, so that is where my roots lie. My mother often speaks of her childhood dream to write a novel, and I wish she would. I owe much of my writing ability to her. I owe almost every good aspect of my life to her, actually.
I didn't start writing for leisure until I was fourteen, just as a coping mechanism. I won't throw all my baggage at your feet, reader, but I have been through several horrid bouts of depression in my life. Writing allowed me to translate all my thoughts into words, and all my words helped me identify my thoughts. Because of that, I still believe writing to be the purest mutualistic relationship between oneself and one's mind.
As time went on, I became more creative. Instead of just listing all the words associated with my thoughts, I began integrating them into stories. At first, these stories were cute tales of romance. That was what I thought I longed for so desperately back then. I never finished any of those stories - I always shifted attention to another before finishing one - but that is where my passion for writing grew. All the voices in my head became characters, my life became a plot that I could control, and I became a new person. My eyes were opened to new books, and I read constantly, taking mental notes here and there on how to improve my writing.
Improve I did, as I still do every day. Around a year later, I began posting my stories online for others to read. I was given much encouragement, more than I could have ever imagined. That was one of the few times in my childhood that I can remember being genuinely happy. Perhaps I am hoping that, in writing and sharing this, I can relive some of those memories.
The decision to share my stories has been the defining moment of my life so far. From there, I began considering a career in writing, and that is where I find myself now. I attended a writing school in New York City on scholarship, graduated, and now I work as a junior writer for the Times. Of course, my dream is to continue to write fiction, but for now I live paycheck-to-paycheck with little free time. Enough about me, though. This isn't all about Blaze.
One of the most important things I've learned about writing - something that has taken me many, many years to learn - is that it doesn't matter who reads your writing. It doesn't matter how many people read your writing. Writing is an individual endeavor for individual people. It's one-on-one. When someone out there is internalizing what you've written, even if it is just one person, you've done your job. When each description strikes a reader's senses - when each word serves as a thin bristle on the grand paintbrush crafting your masterpiece - you've done your job well. The only one who can determine the value of a story is its author. It doesn't matter how many people experience your writing, be it twenty or twenty thousand, because they all experience it differently. Each interpretation is special, even if there is only one. Again, it took me many years to realize it, but that is the beauty of writing.
In that way, writing is unlike a painting. In any given story, readers see different backdrops, different characters, different shades of different colors, different motives; they see themselves. The most important part, however, is that readers don't see the world around them. Allow me to help you escape your troubles, reader. After all, I write to escape my own.
Just after that thought crosses my mind, the bright, bouncing ring of my phone alarm sounds. I am already dressed, though. I haven't been able to sleep much lately. I turn my phone over, silence it, and grab my bag for work. Perhaps some breakfast is in order first, though.
As I creep into the living room, I find an albino hedgehog asleep on the couch. This is my roommate, Silver. He is a freelance artist, an interesting personality, and my best friend since childhood. I won't go into the details of our relationship at the moment - just know it is very hard to share a small space. He has boiled my blood a few times lately.
I quickly scramble some eggs over the stove, and place some bread in the toaster. Don't let this fool you; I can only make eggs. It seems with any other dish I try to make, I set the fire alarm off. After the eggs are done, I scrape most of them onto a plate for Silver, and scarf down the rest. I'll leave the pan for Silver to clean up - he could actually be of use for once. Forgive me; I shouldn't say those things, but he is quite sporadic about cleaning.
In fact, I see a few articles of Silver's clothing strewn across the living room. A few socks, boxers, paint-stained jeans, his t-shirt in the floor - who does this? See, reader, you must be patient with me. My mood was already sour.
"Hey, wake up Picasso," I growl as I toss some of the loose clothes at his face. This is the first time I've spoken to Silver all week. "Would you please stop leaving your clothes everywhere? I'm getting tired of cleaning up after you."
That came out a tad colder than I had expected. It is true, though; he has to start keeping his space clean. I don't know if another person in the world could stand to live with him. He stays cooped up in the side-room all day working on art, and he still manages to get the living room dirty. I would be scared to know just how much trash is on the floor in that art room.
Suddenly, Silver yawns and rubs his eyes. I feel a current of guilt run through my chest, and before he can fully wake up, I dart out of the door with my bag. Oh, how I wish things could be different between us.
a/n: hey guys! this is just something i did the other day for fun, but i figured i'd post it for any of my followers who remember All My Colors. this is basically the first chapter of that fic, just re-written from blaze's perspective. as i was writing it, it was really interesting to think about how differently blaze might see the world, and how her topics of discussion might differ from silv's. if i made this into a full-length story, i doubt she would even talk about the same things - and if she did, she would obviously have different opinions.
would people like to see more of this? i'm kinda searching for something to work on while royalty au continues in the background. so, i might consider making this story a full-on thing, or i might go back and re-start Saving Blaze (now that i've swallowed my pride). if y'all have any opinions on this - like if you wanna see this or Saving Blaze continued - let me know! thanks for reading!