I believe introductions are in order

I have no one reading these yet so it’s weird knowing that I’m essentially writing to myself but here goes:

My name is Lauren Kolozak. I’m twenty-ish (emphasis on the ish) and I’m currently in grad school studying something highly intellectual and startlingly difficult. I prefer Harry Potter to Hunger Games and can quote the movie Dune entirely from memory. I keep forgetting to exercise but I’ve never met a vegetable I didn’t like. And, on top of working full time to feed myself and wrapping up my master’s degree, I write.

(I also sing and act too, but that’s for another day.)

Mostly, I write and overuse commas and end up having to cut the fat from my prose. My personal philosophy is always write stories you want to read, and that’s what I do. These are the stories I always wanted and couldn’t find because they were buried like treasure inside of me.

So, this is my great experiment, a historical document as it were. I will chronicle my journey to best-selling author (and first American companion on Doctor Who) and hopefully (hopefully) someone will love these stories as much as I do.

The Beautiful Masochism

Writing is painful.

It’s like dragging yourself across hot coals or yanking at thorned vines interlaced in your skin. It’s flaying your soul open and poking at mottled bruises to remember what the ache feels like. It’s staring at a computer screen or blank sheet of notebook paper and seeing the story unfold in your mind but in a language that you don’t know how to speak. It’s a cup of cold coffee next to your elbow as you keep distracting yourself with Vine videos rather than keep staring into the abyss, knowing full well it’s staring back into you. It’s pre-written rejection letters and furiously deleting words you love so fiercely that you have to let them die. It’s going a whole day without writing and waking up in the middle of the night as if you left the oven on and the house is burning down around you. It’s forcing your fingers to press each individual key until somehow there’s a word and then a sentence and then a paragraph and then a page and three hours later you’ve forgotten to eat.

And yet, somehow, I wouldn’t want to do anything else.