Estella Frank

Wow I have been away for a month! I have TWO stories I am currently working on. And they are kinda gruesome not gonna lie. 
          Hopefully they will be done soon-ish.

We are promised shit all in life.
          I suppose as a child I’m promised a breath.
          But once I have inhaled the sweet oxygen, the promise of life let’s go. We are not shielded from disaster, destruction or loss. Everything is unknown and cannot be predicted. 
          It is not as though we mindlessly wander on the trail of life and try our best to avoid struggles. 
          That wouldn’t be a very Christian view for me to have.
          No, God has a plan for us all so we do not not mindlessly wander on the trail, we are unknowingly guided by God. 
          But that is not security either.
          Unless you’re Moses or some other prophet. God will not tell you what will happen or as far as we know, prevent life destroying moments. 
          Everything I love, that I clutch to my chest with hope, could be snatched away at any moment.

I pushed him away and now he’s with someone else and I’m just like frickity frack am I on crack because he legit treated me like a queen.

Wowweee 
          
          I made a new cover for my story, Entity, and I’m actually so happy with it. Entity is the first horror I have ever written and I feel like the cover kinda portrays what the entity is within my story, well no, the entity looks a little different but the aftermath of its destruction is very similair. 

Writing is hard. On Wattpad, all my stories and updates feel like they are spoken to a brick wall (except for my loyal follower, moodymoosemouse). So to hear that my two stories that I worked so hard on for two months didn’t even get runner up in a local competition is very disheartening. These stories I moulded from moments and memories of my own life, I raised the characters and they became apart of me. I became addicted to how each word sounded as they rolled off my tongue. These precious works of mine not being praised or recognized by the judges felt like them disregarding me as a person, but even worse, as a writer.

Current status: 
          How can I be surrounded by so much love, so much giving, so much happiness.
          And still feel alone, isolated and ignored?
          I'm here, in the middle of this beautiful event, beautiful interaction of family. But only as a bystander, only as the watchful eye who observes simply to recognise what they lack in life.

It’s difficult being a writer when you are constantly second guessing if you are a writer or not..

Today’s diary entree:
          There are 50 pictures of me as a child hanging on the wall. If this was not my mothers doing I’d think it was some kind of stalkerish shrine.