2. I loved reading the scary stories, even though I'm no good at them. I can't create the suspense, the twist. A scary story doesn't rely on good imagery or word choice, it's bare-bones; plot based, which isn't my specialty. I loved Collin's scary story, though, it was pretty superb. I like Taylor's Dirty Dishes Poem, and everyone's 101 facts. I loved learning about people, piece by piece like that. I read The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood which influenced some of my journal writing, and A Collection of Beauties at the Height of Their Popularity by Jeanne Houston; an unusual book that combines art, poetry, and prose. Definitely worth reading.
3. I generally hate computers. I don't consider myself particularly good with them, and I was pretty intimidated by the idea of starting a blog in this class. I did learn a bit, but the idea of writing on a blog just really intimidates me and I'm not sure if I will continue it outside of this class. I will continue to write, of course, but I much prefer pencil-on-paper.
4. I love journaling. I've always kept journals, places to keep stray thoughts, drawings, notes, lists, favorite quotes from my friends; little scraps of life. You can always tell my journals by their coffee stains, smeared ink, and scribbles. They always start out neat, perfectly formed words on clean paper; a resolution to order. My intentions are always good. But, by the end, the handwriting is illegible, the drawings leave their spaces to encroach on the words, and tears and smears are abundant. It's alright though, I like them better that way. I am not neat, made from clean, straight lines. I am messy, and my journals always reflect this, by the end. I write my journals for myself, but I like that others can look at them and see the way my brain works, it's interesting. I love looking back at what I've written and seeing who I am. I will continue to keep journals, and paste in my scraps of life.
5. My journal is very erratic and I write scraps in the margins, but here is a piece of it for you:
(minimalist drawing of an elephant, next to it a nose)
love, love, love libellule
a chant, a litany, primal and old, old, old. Love, love, love ulalume
we are middle schoolers chanting Bloody Mary in front of the bathroom annabellelee
mirror in the dark, dark, dark and black like velvet and heavy. Love, love, love. kingdom by the sea
Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary. Stay away, evils of the world. bluebeard’s wife
We have love to protect us. We have love. Or at least a thousand thousand ulalume
songs about it, books, movies, poems about it. We have to believe in it, because cellardoor
what do we have if we don't? So we clutch to it, object-fixation, thing-madness, cellardoor
monogurui, rocking back and forth on the ground, holding it tight. cellardoor
Love, love, love, love. Love, love, love, love.
basalm. spruce. cherry. mahogany. elm. poplar. sturdy oak.
tumeric. ginger. cardamom. cinnamon. cassia. star anise.
organza. taffeta. chiffon. damask. velvet. poplin. brocade.
A girl, a boy, a study in black and red and white.
You remind me of home, he tells her as he watches her lips move
white teeth flash
these two, curiously mismatched socks
a red plaid scarf, black eyes, red velvet lips, hands together, but the heights are just quite wrong;a jilt in every step. What a pretty picture we must make
Truth runs like a black, dark current beneath conversations, and we balance on runners suspended above it. At any given time, they could break, plunging us into the cold depths. Our conversations, the petty small talk, these are what build the delicate infrastructures that we stand upon. Small talk, small, is necessary, to keep us from drowning in truth. It's always there, though, half-hiding in jokes, in casual sideways remarks.
Why do I like coffee so much?
It's warm. On a cold day it's hot chocolate's businesslike cousin.
6. I was super proud of my children's story.
In a little toy store
There was a shelf way at the top
Full of music boxes.
There were boxes of fine cherry wood
of mahogany and elm,
carved with intricate designs
gentle curving lines,
and a little dancer in each one;
each more lovely than the sun,
with a fluffy tutu and a tight high bun.
All but one.
And her name was Elisa
And she was a hippopotamus.
When her lid was opened, she was met with surprise:
“Why, I can’t believe my eyes!
A pirouetting hippo, how funny!
But it certainly isn’t worth my money.”
And they’d put Elisa back on the high, high shelf.
One day, a little girl came in
and her little-girl gaze was drawn to Elisa and her kin.
She picked up each box, weighing them somberly
like little girls do,
looking inside of a few.
She glanced gravely at Elisa’s sisters,
On her face a frown.
She looked at their identical faces,
and put them back down.
Finally, she opened Elisa’s box.
“Now’s my chance,” Elisa thought,
“I must show her my dance!”
And the box cracked open,
and the music played.
Elisa wasn’t afraid.
She twirled and spun,
the perfect run.
The little girl laughed, smiled, and,
with a wide grin,
put Elisa back down again.
“What was that for?” Elisa cried, as the girl
ran out of the store.
“Could I have done more?”
But before Elisa had time to mope,
she heard the door;
a sound of hope
as the girl ran in,
clutching the hand of a woman, tall and thin.
“The hippo one, Mommy!” she yelled
With a point right at Elisa’s box.
And so, our unusual dancer found a home.
And from her story, we can see
That special is okay to be.
7. Writing has always been there. Sometimes I have no idea what I'm thinking until I put it down on paper. When I write, I know myself. I've always been fascinated with words, in one form or another, and it has bled into everything I do. I've always written. I don't plan on stopping.
There isn't really any other type of writing for me other than creative writing. Even when I have to write academic papers, I think much more about the word choice than the actual research... which is definitely not appreciated by my other teachers.
8. For the love of god, please please please don't procrastinate. This has been my biggest struggle, in literally every single aspect of my life. I have one piece of advice for any student of this class: don't be me. Don't sit in class during the time you're allotted to work, staring at the computer screen, terrified to write, afraid that what you're writing won't be as good as what you've written before, or as good as what other people are writing. Even if you make no sense, even if everything is crazy, just sit down and write. Don't write like you have a week to finish: write like you're out of time, like you're forced to get rid of your inhibitions because you just don't have the time to be weighed down by them. Be weightless. Fly, my pretties.
7. Writing has always been there. Sometimes I have no idea what I'm thinking until I put it down on paper. When I write, I know myself. I've always been fascinated with words, in one form or another, and it has bled into everything I do. I've always written. I don't plan on stopping.
There isn't really any other type of writing for me other than creative writing. Even when I have to write academic papers, I think much more about the word choice than the actual research... which is definitely not appreciated by my other teachers.
8. For the love of god, please please please don't procrastinate. This has been my biggest struggle, in literally every single aspect of my life. I have one piece of advice for any student of this class: don't be me. Don't sit in class during the time you're allotted to work, staring at the computer screen, terrified to write, afraid that what you're writing won't be as good as what you've written before, or as good as what other people are writing. Even if you make no sense, even if everything is crazy, just sit down and write. Don't write like you have a week to finish: write like you're out of time, like you're forced to get rid of your inhibitions because you just don't have the time to be weighed down by them. Be weightless. Fly, my pretties.
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