Unlearning How To Be Thirteen

Hello world,

I haven’t done a post in so long, and I am deeply sorry.

I know I say it every time but I am so freaking busy. In the last two weeks I have even become busier than usual. I started to tutor kids again and help them with their homework. On Wednesday I have a Job interview and tonight I’ll officially and for the first time in my babysit a kid that isn’t my brother. It’s all for da money. I have to save some for trip to Namibia in spring. Also, I am planning on studying for my driver’s license right after I turn eighteen. Christmas is coming up fast which includes some super stressful weeks with a ton of tests, presentations, appointments, and more stuff. But for now I have one week of reprieve: Due to a concert which I am not participating in, I have Wednesday off, and, due to some teachers meeting and chatting, I have Thursday off, too. Wednesday I’ll probably just sleep and help kids and get a job. But Thursday I am planning on going on a photo trip with a friend who also has a blog. Keep tuned for that.

I finished one of my childhood’s slash youth’s most favorite book series yesterday. Maya and Domenico. It’s as cheesy as it sounds. Basically it’s about two people who fall in love and have to face many obstacles. Over the years the author (who happens to be Swiss) just kept bringing up more problems and books. I bought all eight of them, and so I had to buy the last one, too. I finished it within twenty-four hours. The author screwed up the ending (too many problems and too many “xx years later” pages). But now it’s over. Nine books. Seven years. I feel like a period of my childhood is over.

The book made me feel thirteen years old again, so today I sat at my desk and tried to write a story. I popped out story after story when I was thirteen years old. I would write at least an hour every day. Of course, they were all terribly cheesy, badly written, and predictable. Twice, I got second place at a writing competition, though. I was even in the newspaper once.
Today I wrote 200 words. Then I couldn’t think of any more to say.
It was a very sad moment. Especially because I even struggled with few words I wrote; I don’t feel comfortable writing in German anymore. It just doesn’t feel completely like me. But it’s the same with English.

It’s my brother’s birthday today. Eight years ago  I could still write. Or mabye I just had smaller expectations for myself. Seventeen years old Layla is good at writing essays, scientific protocolls, and summaries. But she can’t think up a character that isn’t stupid.
Instead I work my butt off to travel the world.
Maybe I’ll start writing again once I’ve seen enough to write again.
Hopefully. My stories might have not been that good when I was thirteen but I’ll never forget the satisfaction I felt when I finished on of them and read through the story I had written.


Thanks for reading.

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