Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Word Count Wednesday #9

My goal is for me to spend at least an hour on my poetry and/or revisit a story I have been wanting to work on for a while but haven't pushed myself to do. I really think this exercise will help me get back into writing.

What am I working on? :

Nothing! I'm finished with the year!


How do I feel about the process? :
Creative Writing was a fun experience. I loved talking to everyone in my class; they all are very inspirational and creative in so many ways. I have learned more about myself and my writing technique than anything else in this class. Before, writing was just a hobby I had picked up to write little stories to my sisters, but now I feel much more confident sharing my work with friends. Also, I got to write a lot of poetry, which even though I'm not the best at, I still love immensely. It allowed me to clear my head throughout one of my most stressful years, and I think it also helped me identify what kind of poet I am.

What am I reading now? :

I am reading a biography on Malcolm X and "A Fine Balance" again.


Word Count: 300

Saturday, April 29, 2017

Poem Experiment: Villanelle

When your eyes had died

I saw the colors that held your eyes that way
And the way that the dyes died within your chest
When it dried up and left your heart to decay
And you lied and simply said you are okay
But when the hues are long gone you won’t rest
Because you see the colors hold your eyes that way
And through the stained glass windows you will pray
For the blacks and grays inflamed will just confess
The charcoal you blame for leading you astray
You beg those maimed cruel shades not to stay
That flail and cause you so much distress
I saw the colors that held your eyes that way
You pushed all the old photographs far away
That contorted your veins and let themselves manifest
You soaked the rest with the soft tunes of someday
And then your wounds were outside in display
But at least you were red and purply dressed
And least you now had some hues to portray
I see the colors that hold your eyes that way

Narrative 2: The Enneagram

She had thought she needed the ocean
To pull her away from that tied
Knot inside of her heart


She stands at the corner, her hair strung around her neck from the dampness of the rain. Her eyelashes are beaded with small droplets; they shudder at the sight of the empty streets. The only sense of time she has is the drops of rain that patter on the sidewalk beneath her feet, a carpet of stone she can’t sweep her secrets under. The concrete is a vulnerable place for her to stand, yet she forces herself to stay bounded to that corner. Here she cannot hide from the silence, or the emptiness in her head.
If time was written in front of her, she would see the exact moment the tide rushed in and tumbled the rocks in her chest. She would be able to see that exact moment, when the horizon hit the earth and shattered the small goods of all the goods in her world. She could see what right turn made a wrong, and what path coaxed her with beaten sand she knew she wouldn’t be able to cross. But she had taken that path anyway, she knew now, standing at that corner.
Her fingers fumble with her name tag, etched with a name that represents so many things she missed. “Rebecca” is reads, but that name does not own her anymore. She misses that, out of most things..
She works at the coffee shop, wiping away stains off marble counters and dirting white mugs she knows she’ll have to clean later. Rebecca smiles at the thought; the coffee house is one place she has anchored herself to. Different faces with different stories keep her imagination wild as she pours them more coffee or grabs them another scone. Watching them read the paper and chat with their friends. . . she wonders which one is more stained with newspaper ink: their brains or their fingers. For Rebecca, it is her thumbs. She carries the news with everything she touches, leaving little smudges here and there.
But after leaving so much of herself everywhere, she realizes it isn’t rock bottom she has hit. No, that she had tumbled down a while ago. She had looked up, from the pit, squinted in the sun, climbed to the top. Bottom had a place to go. But when she reached the top, pulled herself from the rubble that weighed her down deep in her gut, she had seen a flat plain. She was surrounded by a desert. Before, at least she had the choice to fall down the wrong path; now there weren’t any paths to fall down in.
A desert with no tears to soften the sand. Not like here, where it rains so often from the places that call out for help, like they’re drowning.
If time was written in front of her, she would think over all the years she had spent in that desert, all those years without a river running through her veins to flood the hollowness in her chest. At least it would be full of something.
The vultures surrounding her spin in a circle, mesmerizing to her eyes, like airplanes whirling out of control. Or maybe they are airplanes above her head, but she can’t tell the difference between the trees and the skyscrapers anymore. She’ll stumble along the slippery sand, her eyes closed tight from the blistering wind. Her eyes closed, closed tight.
“Rebecca,” a hand touches her shoulder, “Rebecca Holden.”
It’s her coworker, a smile with firecracker eyes that gets her weekly boyfriends into trouble.
“You’re going to get sick if you stand in this weather. Break’s over, come inside,” she pulls at her shoulder, pulling away the sand and leaving Rebecca standing in the middle of a puddle, in the middle of that vulnerable sidewalk. Those are airplanes, those are buildings . How long had she been gone?
Her coworker speaks vacant words, strung together with a string of silence. She’s laughing, smiling, her hands gesture images Rebecca cannot conjure. She does all of this, but she cannot be heard. Rebecca squints her eyes, hoping somehow this will open her ears and the words will flow in like that river her throat is starving for. Yearning, for that sound, or any sound. She’s all dried out of that now.
“You’re soaked!” her coworker hands her a towel. “My god, Rebecca Holden, you are one crazy entrepreneur.”
“I didn’t realize I was out there for so long.” she replies, her lips pulling into a small smile. Her coworker’s eyes flash a look beaded with worry, or maybe Rebecca imagines it. But for a flash she is frightened the young woman sees the pain in her teeth. Maybe the way she bites down is wrong, maybe the way she smiles is colorless, flavorless, invisible.

Soapy suds cover up her hands, elbow-deep in lukewarm water and yet she still has a dry mouth. Rebecca washes each cup individually, scrubbing off the grime until they are pearly white again. It’s comforting to know she can fix something here, even the small little things. Something that brushed against the mouths of the laughing, the smiling, yet tainted by this jubilation. She washes it all off, until they are unsullied and shaded with the shadows of her hands.

Catch-Up on Word-Count Wednesday!!! Number 8

My goal is for me to spend at least an hour on my poetry and/or revisit a story I have been wanting to work on for a while but haven't pushed myself to do. I really think this exercise will help me get back into writing.

What am I working on? :

I am still working on my Narrative, but also on small poems. I like taking a break and writing a few poems because it refreshes my memory on old ideas and it sparks new ideas! Also, reading old poems helps me overlap ideas in my story.


How do I feel about the process? :

I would hate to be an author with a deadline, but at the same time it is really helpful for me. I have never ONCE completed a story, and my first Narrative was the first time I actually did. I think having this class with deadlines helps me motivate myself to get a story done, which makes me feel really good about myself when I actually finish something. 


What am I reading now? :

Nothing at the moment. I've basically just watched Netflix (does that count?)


Word Count: 400 per day

Catch-Up On Word-Count Wednesday!! Number 7

My goal is for me to spend at least an hour on my poetry and/or revisit a story I have been wanting to work on for a while but haven't pushed myself to do. I really think this exercise will help me get back into writing.

What am I working on? :

To be honest, I haven't really been working on that much. I should be working on my Narrative I am working on finishing my Narrative Project. It took wayy longer than I thought to type, and I wasn't able to finish the whole thing in time.


How do I feel about the process? :

It's a fun process to think of the story- line, but if I'm going to be honest it's extremely difficult to get done! The writing it very poetic and slow to type.


What am I reading now? :

Nothing at the time.


Word Count: 500 per day

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Word Count Wednesday 6

My goal is for me to spend at least an hour on my poetry and/or revisit a story I have been wanting to work on for a while but haven't pushed myself to do. I really think this exercise will help me get back into writing.

What am I working on? :

To be honest, I haven't really been working on that much. I should be working on my Narrative but I haven't found the time. Hopefully with the long weekend I will be able to get started on it.


How do I feel about the process? :

So far I have the story mapped out, I just need to write it down and flesh out the middle events. Not sure how I am going to go with the general tone of it...


What am I reading now? :

I am still (sorta) reading "Animal Farm", but I haven't actually sat down and read in a while.

Word Count: 100

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Scars and Stars

A Poem


April 2017


when I was younger I didn’t know
that freckles could be traced
into brilliant constellations




Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Word Count Wednesday 5

My goal is for me to spend at least an hour on my poetry and/or revisit a story I have been wanting to work on for a while but haven't pushed myself to do. I really think this exercise will help me get back into writing.

What am I working on? :

I am brainstorming a new idea for the next Narrative Project, and I'm really enjoying it so far! After I thought about my next short story, I decided I wanted to make a bigger book filled with short stories like my last one, "The Places They Go" and the next one, which I have yet to think of a title. All have that poetic meter and dreamy state, but each is it's own individual story.

Also, I am working on the next experiment, which I am also really excited about!! I am definitely modeling a poem after Dante Alighieri, whom I named Robert Dante after.

How do I feel about the process? :

I'm really excited to write this second one, probably more excited than I was for the first. "The Places They Go" was difficult because it wasn't really telling a story, it was more about describing a mood or feeling someone has. This next one has more of a plot and character development, and you get to know the character Rebecca much better than Robert Dante. I'm having a lot of fun with the plot twists in this one.

What am I reading now? :

Currently, I am reading "Animal Farm" by George Orwell. It's really interesting and full of symbols (which I love!).


Friday, March 17, 2017

Sweet

A Poem



Syrup sweet eyes
And honeysuckle lips
Stuck knee-deep
In your molasses soul

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Wednesday Word Count 4

My goal is for me to spend at least an hour on my poetry and/or revisit a story I have been wanting to work on for a while but haven't pushed myself to do. I really think this exercise will help me get back into writing.

What am I working on? :

I am currently done with my Narrative Project, and am now working on my other travel blog I have and some poems here and there. I'm pretty happy with how my story came out, though it needs a little revision after I had some people read over it and tell me their thoughts.

How do I feel about the process? :

I'm just going to sum up how I felt about finishing up my Narrative because I haven't done a Word Count Wednesday in a while and I need to catch up. I wrote Part I and Part II in a long period of time, but rushed the last two parts. One person mentioned that my first ending (which has been revised before submitting) was too rushed and separated from the rest of the pieces. This feedback allowed me to add a whole other dimension to my story which tied in some loose ends but also left some things a mystery, which I like doing in stories. This short story was difficult to write, but also really fun because I really enjoy challenging myself when it comes to writing.

What am I reading now? :

I am not reading anything at the time.


Books/Movies that inspired my Narrative Project The Place They Go :


I realized after writing this that there were so many stories that inspired me without my knowledge and I wanted to list them just in case anyone wants to look further into it:



  • Pedro P├íramo by Juan Rulfo: a Mexican short story I read last year that I REALLY enjoyed and helped me tie in an old idea with a unique writing style. The novel possesses a very unnatural, a little supernatural feeling about it and covers topics such as ghosts and purgatories.
  • Divine Comedy:Inferno by Dante Alighieri: I don't really remember this story, all I remember is there was a path between heaven and hell, and the main character had to be guided along the path. While I don't really remember a lot about its actual context, I do remember being so inspired that I named the main character of my own Dante after the author.
  • Spirited Away: a film I watched when I was little and again recently, that inspired me to write about a new a wondrous world someone sees while their dreaming. I noticed, when I watched it again recently, how nightmarish and confusing the setting is, yet somehow you can follow through and understand what is going on. I think this really helped influence the dream-like situation in my story.
  • La Jetee directed by Chris Marker: one of the best films I have ever seen! Told in pictures, the story (short film) has a very dreamlike facade about it that leaves the audience mesmerized with wonder and fascinated to see what happens next. Highly suggest pulling it up on google and watching it!

Monday, March 6, 2017

Blue Eyes

A Poem:

With tantruming Blue Eyes
Wide in what may seem like forever
Afraid to close them: what lies under those lids
That you are so delayed to show?
It’s easy to bare the hand with the petal
Laced with a tapestry of decorative words
But is it easy for you, so Wide Eyed,
To show what’s withheld in your other palm.
What secrets keep your mouth filled with gravel
Of the rubble left from the last time your soul was crushed
The job of someone who has hurt you before
What secrets do you keep behind those lids
And hidden with those thrashing
Blue Eyes



Wednesday, February 8, 2017

Wednesday Word Count 3

My goal is for me to spend at least an hour on my poetry and/or revisit a story I have been wanting to work on for a while but haven't pushed myself to do. I really think this exercise will help me get back into writing.

What am I working on? :

I am still working on my Narrative Assignment, but I'm also trying out different forms of poetry. My narrative's middle plot needs some work.

How do I feel about the process? :

I can't seem to get some events for the short story right. I tend to drop a character into a plot and see how it goes, with little to no idea of how to story will end up. I have reached a point in the plot where I can't seem to go around it though because I need to keep the audience interested. I'm going to keep working on some ideas that may allow it to flow better.

What am I reading now? :

I am still rereading Pedro Paramo, and a few poems here and there from the book I previously mentioned Milk and Honey.

Tuesday, February 7, 2017

The Place They Go Part I

This is the beginning of my short story for the Narrative Project....


Robert Dante hates the way the tide turns red against the burning sun just before the world goes dark. Yet he likes to look at it sometimes, let the red sink in. He has a way in which his mind would wander, thinking about those waves and what lies beneath them. He stands at the end of the old brick bridge, riddled with cracks and eroded by the subtle slosh of the waves hitting against it. He never looks at the sunset for too long; he just glances here and there as he passes by. For some reason, he is afraid to look too long. The sun is blazing hot, and it frightens him.


He crosses over the bridge and into the street, where the market was set up with little stands of fruits and vegetables, all different colors. Watching the stone pavement carefully, he keeps his head low. As the little wooden sign engraved in the town’s name brushes against his shoulder, he thinks to himself: Camala is always set at sunset.


Perhaps it is the color of the sky, a consistent splice of colors he cannot comprehend. Perhaps, it is that feeling he gets as we walks the streets that forces that thought to stay in his mind. He feels paranoid by that sun; always setting and never going anywhere.


Camala is eerily quiet, but Robert Dante does not notice this. He closes his eyes and whistles, not realizing he is absently and thoughtlessly filling the silence. His echoes taunt the walls of the buildings around him, leaving their scrapes and marks on the walls from their repetitions.


He walks to one of the market stands, his favorite. The pomegranates are cut in halves to display what lies inside. He never eats them; He is just transfixed by their rich colors and exotic nature. He doesn’t look up at the shopkeeper, as he presumes is waiting on him. He nods his head in a general direction and leaves without a word, not taking his eyes off the floor.


Robert Dante checks his watch but forgets what time it is. He doesn’t mind though. He isn’t in a hurry.


Suddenly, a woman calls out to him. Her voice rings familiarity as she addresses him from afar. He shudders and continues on down the street.


But she insists. She follows him; he can feel it. He walks faster. So does she.


Their steps become in sync; a rhythm of predator and prey. He doesn’t look behind him, for the same reasons he fears that red. He continues forward.


“Sir!” she yells, “Where are you going?”


Reflecting on what she had just said, he tousles this question around in his thoughts. Where was he going: nowhere he could answer in a word. His legs took him places and his mind followed.


He stops, his back still towards her. Her steps catch up with him. She stays a few feet away, he can feel the distance between them.


“Sir. Where are you going?” her voice travels calmly to his ears, but the words are what frighten him. Robert Dante remains silent.


“Sir. Come sit with me and watch the sunset. It’s so lovely,” he can hear her smile.


His legs captivate him to stand there in the danger for a few more seconds, or at least he presumes they are. To his mind, the seconds are tangled with years, and he soon loses focus on the cobblestone, and he soon loses focus on why he waits. He stands, perhaps for seconds- years maybe.


Now his ears ring from the previously unassuming silence. They ring and ring. For a moment, he thinks he will go deaf.


Then, Robert Dante forces his legs to move. He continues to walk, and the woman does not follow.







Wednesday Word Count 2

My goal is for me to spend at least an hour on my poetry and/or revisit a story I have been wanting to work on for a while but haven't pushed myself to do. I really think this exercise will help me get back into writing.

What am I working on? :

I am currently working on the short story for the Narrative project coming up. I started a super rough draft in my Creative Writing notebook and I am trying to piece together the story. So far, I have thought of an old story I once had came up with, and I have planned out the beginning and end. Right now I am just working on filling out the plot.

How do I feel about the process? :

I am actually really excited about this project! I've never in my life written a short story, so that's why I chose to do it instead of a few chapters. Also, I am making this project my "experiment" project, where I am trying out all different types of styles and such. It's really fun so far!

What am I reading now? :

I just pulled down this old book I read last year. It's called Pedro Paramo by Juan Ruflo, and at the time of reading it, i didn't care that much about the story. I hadn't realized until now, however, how much the interesting style and plot stuck with me. As I was writing my short story, the way I wanted it to come across, sort of mysterious and magical realism, w=reminded me of this book. So I'm rereading it, just to get my creatitivity flowing!pe

Monday, February 6, 2017

How to not die from homework


Many of you might be wondering
Or perhaps, simply just pondering
Why we must always suffer so
When our homework is so sickly slow.

If you truly feel like dying
Please read below what I'm implying
Because homework isn't terrible
If you consider these few variables:

If you want homework to be thrilling
The first step is to just stop drilling
Sit down, relax. Don't think about it
Don't even give math a revisit.

And here we have the second step
Simply do nothing but detailed prep
Not for anything that draws concentration
But for planning your next big vacation.

The third is easier than the first
It's just remembering homework's the worst
And doing it makes your day dismal
There's really no reason in doing it at all.

Friday, January 27, 2017

Black and White

A poem

those copper waves caught
me all off my guard
and threw me the green
to, with white knuckles,
lose my grip on it
no more violet days
I’m fazed by the syrup
of a sweet orange
red cheeks and
things that take a look
at that bronze ocean
will be my comfort

Thursday, January 26, 2017

Jaw Couldn't Say

A Poem:

A tragedy.
She was always unsure,
Shaking hands and ears willing to listen
always got her into her own words of trouble
Not the sprint
For the last catch of happiness
sort of trouble,
But the lurking kind.
She could sense it
In her bones
But her jaw couldn’t say
just the thought
of being left behind
Kept her mind captivated
And her heart a tragedy.

Wednesday Word Count 1

My goal is for me to spend at least an hour on my poetry and/or revisit a story I have been wanting to work on for a while but haven't pushed myself to do. I really think this exercise will help me get back into writing.

What am I working on? :

I have been working on some poetry that has been on my mind, and I have been revisiting an old novel I had written originally for my sister but now would like to see how the story will wind up if I continue and try to finish it. I've posted a few poems, which are just some thoughts I had jotted down about an idea I had or a feeling I had felt at one time or another.

How do I feel about the process? :


When I first joined this class, I was so nervous because my classmates seemed to be so passionate about creative writing, while I had kept it as a small hobby rarely shown to anyone. I think it's really helpful to have a blog like this, because now I feel a little more obligated to sit down and just write something- anything really- out on paper at least once a day. Before this I wouldn't even consider it because I've been so busy lately, but I think creative writing, whether poetry or fictional stories, is important for any type of writing and is mandatory to keep creative thinking thriving.

What am I reading now? :

Currently: Nothing, besides the poetry novel written by Rupi Kaur called Milk and Honey. . . However, I have been pulling down some of my favorite books I read when I was younger and have been considering rereading one of my favorites called Because of Winn-Dixie. I just love the way Kate DiCamillo writes her novel; she has such an authentic voice and my goal is to establish a confidence in writing so that I will be able to find my own personal voice in my work.

Sleepless

A Poem

It is sleepless nights
that drove her
To be a dreamer
during the day

Unlevel

A Poem


Cut your poetic teeth with a flame
Unlevel that plateaued head of yours
You are too soft, too slight, too tame
Open up the impetuous doors
One time you had possessed a fire
Burned away the whites in your eyes
Now you smother the smoke with barbed wire
And keep the yellow spark fossilized

City of Gold

A Poem


Their hearts pump blood into this city of gold
Street lamps light my eyes with delight
Hold your tongue if you have the map
Let me see where the water hits the paved brick
Red, red tongue and cheek and hands
Red from the cold biting into the cracks on your skin
Closed eyes; it’s red
But their feet move the pavement
Their eyes give it sight
Their bodies, like water
They make this city of red
A city of gold