This is my writing journal, which documents all the terrible (and not so terrible!) poems, short stories, narraritives, and essays I've written from ninth grade on. Comments certainly aren't neccessary (or even possible, with this layout), but a tagbox exists in case you absolutely have to say something. No, really, feel free to use it. I love feedback.
Everything that deserves credit has a link to its creator. Everything else--mine. No banditing! I'm the only pirate on this ship.
me
At long last, the monster's found a place to rest her weary little mind. Despite my many attempted journals, I've yet to settle on one. This particular journal is a compendium of all my nonsensical writings. Essays, short stories, and poems, basically. It is my goal to eventually write something worthwhile, something meaningful and profound.
Yeah, right. . .
I think I'm going to pick up "Sun of the Church"---that novel I finally started last November. It's a fantastic story, I know it. Just, telling it's a litte draining to actually write it. Anywho, here's what I'm thinking. Write (and type it up!) everyday--starting when school starts. Complete one scene, once a week, at least. That's pretty much all there is in writing news.
Hopefully this thing'll see a lot more updates, eh?
Mrs. Cast eventually decided it was high-time the average Wiccan-seasons obsession kicked in. We were told to write a poem or essay about what sort of weather we'd be. I think this was one of the most challenging pieces I had, because I refused to stick to the normal sun-or-rain ideas. I thought of sand storms, flash-floods, and rain-less thunder. Finally, I decided that weather has depth, and so should I. . .or maybe it was the other way around.
Snowy Realizations
-classification: short essay-
Have you ever had one of those days where the sun shines blindingly bright and the sky shines nimble-blue? That same day, were, you put on shorts and a T-shirt, only to go outside and find the thermometer reading at a cold fourty-seven degrees? That one day describes me perfectly. Fake, cold, and unhappy. I make people act comfortable, even if I'm cold inside. I look sunny, maybe sometimes I'm even convinced I am. But I don't think that's who I've become. Sometimes I feel like my whole heart is freezing over. When I'm genuinely troubled, I try to keep it hidden. When I'm sad, no one will know. Of course, no one knows! Nobody knows but those four walls and me.
Towards the end, I realized how pointless it all is.
Wadded up Girls
Plain girls don't inspire poetry. Plain girls don't inspire pain, they don't become muses, they don't cause lengthy works of art about beauty and ugliness--because they are neither. Plain girls don't do much, other than provide a safe place.
And even though I get my share of male attention (generally unwanted), I know that I am a plain girl. Because I follow all the plain girl rules. I'm not extraordinary, by any means, no matter which way I try. But the worst way to feel plain is to have something to compare yourself to, to have hard matter-of-fact evidence, and to know that at one point, yes, you were a muse.
When all those interesting, unknown things inside you die, you become a plain girl, the way brides become housewives and then to mothers. Useful, nurturing, kind, but unspecial to those who need them. But, the most disheartening thing about those things dying and becoming unspecial is that the only way that happens is when you become familiar and loving.
Today, tonight, I feel like a used up bride. A muse past her expiration date. Forgotten art in the foyer.
The worst part, however, of being a plain girl is that you have so few choices. To stay a plain girl is to continue loving another without asking for appreciation---because only pretty/fascinating girls (the kind who can afford a few flaws) are allowed to nag. Anyone else who does it becomes annoying. The other option, is to change to quite a different state of being. Those old loves, the one's no one forgets and pines over, but those are the ones who earn poems and countless writings as merit badges of their beauty.
And so.
Plain girls certainly face an interesting delimma.
The third option is for plain girls to stop thinking about themselves, whining, and thinking they deserve some special treatment for being plain.
Dear author:: please choose third option.
Thank you, that is all.
Mrs. Westcott, my eleventh grade English teacher, had us write these awful, fill in the blank poems. To be frank, hers was horribley written. She seemed to throw in a number of random things about herself, nearly all of which would have sounding quite natural coming from a Miss America. None the less. . .
-classification: short essay-
My Tower on the Moon
I am a young astrologer who lives amongst her stars
I wonder if these comforts will keep, though.
I hear echoed words and half-formed thoughts flooding my head.
I see my world in technicolor, with an enthralled sense of curiosity.
I want to keep the jaded me locked away, when I can, behind the constellations.
I am a young astrologer who lives amongst her stars
I pretend that this lofty air holds no terror, no risk.
I feel undeniable, sensible doubts beneath my toes;
I touch this tower's top, in hope of sprouting roots.
I worry that without them, I will tumble down my celestial abyss.
I cry as the fear of me without my stars wanders past
I am a young astrologer who lives amongst her stars
I understand that a part of me feels reluctant to leave.
I say even planetary vagabonds must grow up.
I dream that my lunar home and heavenly ideals remain indestructible
I try to build these dreams out of ignorance and comforts
I hope to hold up my galaxy--and myself--despite gravity's pull.
I am a young astrologer who lives amongst her stars
Unend
-classification: poem-
Falling all over again,
because you're on my mind.
Though familiar and worn in,
this obsession becomes a ravine
in which the end embraces my feet.
My window, my mirror
My compulsion.
You.
An aspiration for the empty girl
All of my fears, all of my hopes
Impossiblilty:
Breaking away from your face in my head
That smile lights me up inside
Those esoteric eyes transform my soul
A divinity, both inspiring and damning
Illusive, evolving, illustrative