Week #2


“Writing on Your Own”

What are you/have you been most afraid of or what have you found most difficult about writing? Are you afraid of grammar? Spelling? That someone else will read your writing and find out your secrets? That someone else will read your writing, period? That you will be graded by a teacher or judged by a peer?

Writing, for me has never been an intimidating subject, though I never been to Hogwarts and had a wizard hold a wand to my face and zap me every time I spelled something wrong. There has never been a time I though “Oh, I don’t think I want to write something, they might find out who and what I am or what I do!” I mean come on, I have a Facebook! I assure you everyone knows a lot about me, and maybe some I didn’t even know about myself, statistically speaking. I am an extremely open and outgoing person. I wear all my failures and triumphs on my sleeves, with not a worry in the world. Honestly, literature, the arts, creating new things or even having failures are not a fear for me. I see failures as attempts, and I will keep attempting things until I succeed, so in the end is a failure really a failure?

What is the worst thing that will happen if you keep writing?

Once upon a time, I kept writing stories, these stories grew to a terrifyingly large size, so monstrous that even the carrier pigeons with talons of a tridactyl couldn’t deliver the paper upon which they were crafted. This was a sad tale for I, the writer, would never feel the blissfulness of a dull mind. Stuck in a land of creation for many years to come.

What is the worst thing that will happen if you stop writing?

It’s a possibility that without writing, I may lose some imagination and become more statistically normal. My imagination likes to breath, and for my mind, I think the breath of fresh air is a piece of paper, and a newly carved pencil. If I cannot seem to find the words at least the pencil still moves and art forms emerge, making the simple white sheet dance with creativity stroke by stroke.

This Is Why I am a Writer.

Writing is not just a form of expressing myself, it is a form of relieving my energy and bringing my dreams, hopes, creations and imagination to life. If I could share the wonders of my erratically profound mind with people and bring them to another place, a bigger brighter or possibly, darker deeper world that they can enjoy, even for just even a moment in time, to skip that portion of reality, a little great escape, then I am accomplishing my goal as a writer.

I was expecting applause, but I guess stunned silence was also appropriate.

“Warming Up”

What kind of writing space do you have?

The space I have when I write is my own, secluded, quiet, peaceful, full of things I love, decoratively speaking. There are two big windows facing my farm animals. They tend to give me a lot of inspiration. I mean, how could you not look at all those cute faces out there! I have a big long desk, and almost everything and anything I need to write, from scratch paper to computer programs. I wouldn’t change a thing about it.

What kind of writing space would you like to have?

The desk and computer I do most of my writing must be clean, without it clean and organized I cannot think straight. My ideal work space is a pristine environment. Though I tend to get a little messy if I am using note paper, I jot down thoughts and ideas like the mad hatter, notes everywhere!

“Writing for Ideas”

What do you do to get your own writing process started? Write a paragraph that describes your work habits.

Personally, I do not have a certain process to get started when I write. I guess, if I did have one, my process starts with getting an urge to write. The rest would come natural, sit down at my computer or, take out my old notebook, grab the keyboard or pen and just start writing! There has never been a time that I could not think of something to write. Perhaps my mind always has something to say, even if I necessarily do no

What thoughts run through your head when you sit down to write, why?

Thoughts, especially about writing, that is something that comes in a natural wave of insight, or more so like a tsunami but repetitive. The beginning thought is always outlandish, followed by small little inspirations, then details and more inexplicable thoughts. I am not sure how these thoughts come to manifest. My brain is just an incomprehensible, beautiful, perplex disaster of imagination. Now, that is a brain full. 

“Writing for Ideas”

Ambelina was an immensely bright girl, and always obeyed her parent’s orders. She lived right outside a small town with very strict rules; rules that few towns would have, or even consider. They had one rule in particular that no one shall break, that was never be outside past eight.

Years had passed and Ambelina grew older, more daring, more curious, and full of wanderlust. It was Friday morning, and her parents were off to work in their small town as a baker and a cook. She figured it was time to rebel and break the rules, for once in her life she might be cool. She headed off from her small farm house as if she were going to school, ran down the streets towards it, but took a sharp left and darted for the town square instead. Her friends had noticed her odd behavior and called out to her, “where are you going, what are you doing!”, but Ambelina did not respond, she just kept running.

Finally, she was close to the bell tower, she figured she would open the front door slowly, go inside, sneak past the bell keep, and head up the stairwell without being caught, and so she did.

She was lying there full of adrenaline, out of breath, on the cold cement floor of the bell tower, through small cracks in the stone walls, she could make out the bustling silhouettes of the many towns people and hear all their chatter. Ambelina was there, it seemed forever. Time was blowing by without a clue as to how many minutes or hours had passed, bored, uncomfortable, and cold, she found solace in a wicker basket filled with old books.

Hearing footsteps encroaching upon her, she ran and hid behind an old dusty oil painting of a plump woman holding a small dog. In fact, she was not supposed to be in the bell tower, it was forbidden. The door swung open to the room where she claimed sanctuary. It was the bell keeper, he would surly catch her, and punish her, or so she thought.

She watched on intently as he reached above his head to grab the prickly thick rope attached to the bell top, he pulled the rope to his knees, ringing the bell, he then walked over and sounded the carillon as well. This was the sound Ambelina was familiar with in her everyday life, the bell of seven o’clock. The bell keeper, however, looked as if he was terrified at the site of the big bell and carillons chiming loudly through the town, “I wonder what that was all about?” She thought to herself, he opened the door back up and headed off back down the stairs. She could hear his footsteps dissipate, she put her ear to the cracks of the tower once more. This time, not a peep, not a sound, not a pin drop, the city so still and eerie, but where were the towns people?

It had been pitch black outside for over an hour now, but as the moon slowly danced its way across the sky, it, and its collection of stars lit up the whole town. Ambelina could finally see. The wind was howling and it blew specks of dust between the perfectly placed cobble stone in the roadways. For once in her life Ambelina had felt utterly alone. She fashioned herself a bed from the old books she had found earlier in the wicker basket and let the thoughts pass as she slowly drifted to sleep.

Thwap! Scratch!

Ambelina jolted up from a deep slumber, “Hello! Is someone there?” she screamed out, shaking and heart thumping so hard she can almost feel her eyes pulsing to the beat of it.

Peering through the moon lit hole, she saw it for the first time. The reason, the reason you are not supposed to stay out past eight.

She gasped, covered her mouth with her cold trembling hands, jumped back, pressed her back against the stone wall and thought to herself, “I never should have stayed out, I should have listened!”

The scratching was getting closer, almost as if that THING was climbing the walls of the bell tower! She could soon feel its breath on the nape of her neck through the small crack of the stone wall.

Ambelina felt and knew in her heart that this was in fact, her ending.

 “Writing for Ideas”

The early lilacs became part of this child,

And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,

And the Third-month lambs, and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and the mare’s foal, and the cow’s calf,

And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side,

And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there—and the beautiful curious liquid,

And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads.

Walt Whitman, from “There Was a Child Went Forth”

The house was more dilapidated than when I was last there, barely a shack, but it was overgrown with

yellow roses, which my family had planted many years ago. The air was heavy and sweet and very peaceful. I felt strange walking through the gate and up the old rickety steps. But the strangeness left me as I caught sight of the long white beard I loved so well flowing down the thin body over the familiar quilt coverlet. Mr. Sweet!

His eyes were closed tight and his hands, crossed over his stomach, were thin and delicate, no longer scratchy. I remembered how always before I had run and jumped up on him just anywhere; now I knew he would not be able to support my weight. I looked around at my parents, and was surprised to see that my father and mother also looked old and frail. My father, his own hair very gray, leaned over the quietly sleeping old man, who, incidentally, smelled still of wine and tobacco…

From “To Hell with Dying”

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his faces,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues-

From “Dulce Et Decorum Est”

Choose one of the passages and list what was being described with specific sensory detail-smells, sights, sounds, tastes, temperatures, textures.

The passage from To Hell with Dying held the most sensory detail. The house felt as if I may had been there before, the rickety steps and the smell of the heavy yet sweet air, it brought me back to the South. The description of the elderly made it seem to me, as if I was greeting my great grandfather again in his old rocking chair on the porch, and as just how she stated she always jumped into his arms as I had with my grandfather, yet was afraid he couldn’t handle it due to his aging. She had shown how frail people become in old age but their love seemed to never fade, they as well still seemed the same.

Which of the passages are most descriptive, in terms of the details included?

The passage from To Hell with Dying was extremely descriptive. I could feel myself being a part of her world, like I had been there before. I felt I was walking into one of the scenes form my childhood but, we all seemed to be much older than I dreamt, or remembered

Which of the passages creates the strongest image in your mind or feeling for you?

The passage from Dulce Et Decorum Est created a strong image for me. Death felt all too real and the descriptions of seeing his untimely body in ruins made it seem like time had passed slower, as if there was a moment I may have known him myself.

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