Update: New Page, New Stuff…

If I’m not mistaken I mentioned in one of my more recent posts that I was going to create a Featured Story Page. Instead of replacing the beginning of Helen, which still seems to get some views from time to time, I decided to just have both up. And I FINALLY completed the first short story and the page is now UP! Go see it here. If you really can’t stand creepy stories, you might want to wait for the next one.

This story was actually written last year, I think, but I didn’t finish it in time to post it for the summer. It was very important to me to post it either at the beginning or middle of summer, and so I figured I would wait until this year. So while everyone is getting ready to spend the next few months outside, I decided to give them a reason to be AFRAID. Is there not a horror movie about this already? I’m surprised.

On my other blog I talked about something I’ve just started, a youtube channel! I am vlogging now. I’m feeling very self-conscious about it and I’m not sure how this is going to go, but I’m just going to do it anyway. I intend to make plenty of videos about writing and reading, and it’s very possible that you’ll get to know stuff about my writing that I won’t blog about. I also am going to talk about things that are related more to the No-Recipe Life blog, so there’s going to be quite a hodgepodge but hopefully an interesting one nonetheless. I only have one video up so far but I am hoping to make more soon. If you want to check it out, my channel is norecipewriter.

Other than that I still have not managed to do any writing. Life is crazy and I usually feel too tired, and only want to write while I’m at work. I know it’s all just excuses, but the end result is the same as if I actually had legit reasons not to write. Adulthood basically sucks.

BUT at least the new page is available now! My goal is to change the story once a month… if I can. I want to see how it works out with this basic structure and schedule and I’ll change it if I need to.

If you really want more frequent posts, I tend to post more on The No-Recipe Life, so you could head over there if you want. 😦 Sorry to my writing blog, I promise I’m not trying to neglect you.

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Life: Chapter 463

Tomorrow, I move! I am thrilled. In a calm way…

This is a goodbye I can hardly wait to say. The new place is in Jamaica Plain. It will be a much quieter apartment and neighborhood. Much more conducive to productive writing time! Of course, I can’t place all the blame on my living situation for the amount of time I don’t spend writing, but I think it definitely plays a part.

I just need something to inspire me. I don’t mean that I need ideas. I’ve got plenty of those. I know, art is its own reward, right? That’s what they say. But sometimes it really isn’t enough. I need something to make me feel like it’s worth it. Writing is a lot of work, and takes a lot of time, and so far it hasn’t gotten me very far in life to put in that writing effort. For example, I spent weeks, if not longer, revising my Mythology project, which you can probably read about in some previous post or other, only to have misplaced the flash drive which, apparently, is the only place the revised versions were saved. There is still a chance it will turn up. There’s always a chance. But, the point is, how is this situation supposed to inspire me to write.

 

Maybe I should read over Gregory Maguire’s comments on the project again. That might make me feel better.

I often dwell on the unfortunate. I should just think about how wonderful my new apartment could be. And then do some creative work. Because there is one undeniable truth: I will never get published if I don’t actually do the writing.

A Lyric Essay

Note: That is, someone might call this a lyric essay. It’s certainly prose, but it’s not exactly a story. I think I like to call it a Poetic Narrative. This is something I wrote for freshman English in high school, and then used as my admission essay for Bennington. This post is in lieu of my personal retelling of Beauty and the Beast, which I’ve realized I need to edit before I post it. In the meantime, enjoy this essay on fire.

From the first spark of a flame to the last dry ash, fire leaves a mark behind it that is hard to remove. It can bring warmth, or severe heat that causes fatal wounds. For most, fire represents both life and death. Some people fear fire more than a shark’s teeth ripping into their skin, staining the disturbed water red with their blood. Some people welcome the flames in the hearth as a wonder, never questioning its presence.  However, both of these types light candles without hesitation, not thinking that the flame would be large enough to start a fire.

Imagine you are young, six at the oldest. It is the middle of December. You have been playing in the park for an hour. The vast expanse of previously unbroken snow is now patterned with footprints and snow angels surrounding the fort you made while throwing snowballs at your five-year old sibling. Now, the sun has almost set, and you and your sibling are getting colder. You walk the few blocks to your house, trudging your wet boots through the thick but light snow, still laughing.

When you reach your house, the white one with the green shutters that you have lived in for most of your life, your mother opens the door for you and helps you with your soaked outerwear. Your snow clothes are hung up to dry, and the sweater you were wearing, which became wet as well, is hung with them. You are now wearing a dark sweatshirt with snowflakes painted on in white, but the chill that had seeped into your skin, as you played has not yet dissipated. Outside, fresh snow begins to fall, covering your tracks and turning the world pristine once again. You don’t have to worry about the snow, as you are inside. When the fire has caught on to the dry, slow-burning logs, you sit in a softly upholstered armchair, under the quilt usually lain over the back of the couch. You watch the flames crackle until the hot chocolate is brought in. You sip it carefully, but still the delicious chocolate burns your tongue. Still, it feels good going down your throat, and you grin as you set the mug carefully down. Your family is gathered in the living room with you, and you all sing Christmas carols until you can hardly keep your eyes open.

Imagine that you are now older, away from home, and nervous about being away. It is not winter, but the wind blowing outside brings the temperature down a few degrees. You were taking a walk with someone you met at this place, and now the two of you rush back inside. There is a hearth here, and you light a fire and make hot chocolate to warm your insides. As you sit talking, telling funny stories, you sip the chocolate. You are reminded of the times when you played outside in the snow, and came back in to a warm fire. You are reminded of home. This place is more comfortable to you now, and you are not worried that you will become homesick. In later years, you will return to this place, and think of it as a second home. In this way, fire served as a comfort, a security. There is nothing menacing or deathlike in the memories of home in the innocent years of childhood.

Imagine you stand in a small field. This field is lush with trees and plants, and the flowers bloom in all colors. You notice that where you happen to be standing, white roses surround you. Imagine that a wall of fire borders the field on all sides. This field is all you have ever known, including people and ideas. Up until this point, these things have satisfied you. But you have just learned that there are things on the other side of the fire, things you could not in your wildest dreams imagine.  You are curious as to what is beyond your field. What could be so fascinating that you could not imagine it?

You have never before thought of leaving your field. The idea frightens you a little. There is no break in the fire, and it is too high for you to tread over. There is no way for you not to pass through, if you decide to leave. You have no clue if you will like what you find, but the way your mind tingles in anticipation seems good. You bounce on the balls of your feet, weighing the advantages against the drawbacks. You look down at yourself. If you go through the fire, you will ruin the silky white that covers your body. However, you quickly realize that you won’t get another chance. If you turn down this opportunity, you may not be offered another.

After careful deliberation, you finally make your decision. Your heart pounds thinking about what you have resolved to do, an arousing mix of fear and anticipation. Slowly at first, but quickening with each step, you make your way to the wall of fire. It does not matter where you pass through; the fire is the same in all parts. First only reaching a hand through, you take a breath and pass into the fire.

The rush of emotions that surge through you at the fire’s touch hit you like a sledgehammer bursting through drywall. The heat of the fire magnifies them until they are all that fills your head. The flames feel somehow refreshing on your skin. Every feeling you acknowledge surges through your whole body, pounding with your blood in veins and arteries. The emotions feel like fire running through you. When you open your mouth the breath, the fire sears your throat. Simultaneously, you feel intense pain, dwarfing wonder, and gentle relief. You could never have imagined the feeling of the fire. Never in your wildest dreams.

The fire is suddenly gone. You look around you. The world you see is different from the one you have left, and yet somehow the same. You feel a bit crisp around the edges, but otherwise unhurt. You look down at yourself. Your previously white clothes are now singed and blackened. Your skin is covered in soot. Your hair smells burned, and it seems a little shorter when you look at it. The ends look strange, they look burned. You don’t care. You know now that this does not matter. It can be fixed. What is important now is not how you look. It is what you do.

You must survive in a world you know very little about. The fire has taught you something, but not enough. There are other fires for you to walk through in the future, each with a different lesson and different feelings. You will not be able to avoid them. The things in this world are new. As much as you will come to loathe the fact, you will need the fires. You will soon learn that this happens to everybody, but that information is not available to you now. You feel alone and small. Someday you will wish you had never entered the fire, but it was a one-way trip. You can never go back through.

Imagine that you are walking down a crowded sidewalk with five books, all somewhat large, in your arms. You are struggling to balance them all and see where you are going. Someone hits your elbow as they walk by. That person barely made contact with you, but it was enough. The books spill out onto the concrete as you catch yourself from joining them. Sighing, you brush off your clothes and begin to gather your fallen belongings. That person helps you. For a moment, your hands touch, and a spark catches on. You smile at each other, and the flame is kindled.
The two of you see each other more often. Every time you are together the flame grows. It fills your entire body, mind and soul, and you rarely think of anything else. Soon you are being consumed by it. The flames burn into you, leaving their everlasting mark. Even with the buzz of distractions through the day and night, the thoughts of this person linger, hovering above all others. If this flame existed in physicality, the entire world would be swept up in the fire.

After many years together, the flame has begun to die down. Now, instead of the passionate, searing fire you felt, the love you have for this person, and their love for you, is embodied in a gentle glow. Everyone who sees you notices this glow, and they walk away with a smile, as though your love is contagious. You know that the flame will never die completely. This knowledge feeds the flames the slightest bit, and they never shrink to anything less than that loving, warm glow. When you die, you know that the flame has not died with you, and so to your last breath, you are happy.

Fire can be these things, and more. It is the extreme of feeling; love, hate, passion, madness. It burns you and leaves you changed, for most things are changed with this contact. You must always remember the lush green world before the fire. If it is forgotten, then all will believe that the dry, brown, earth and stiff parched grass are all that has ever been. Fire sweeps through our lives, leaving barren earth or simply ashes. The way things used to be is just as important, as our roots play a part in the making of our lives.

A Real Live Writing Blog?!

While my most recently created blog (started last August and hanging on by a thread) was intended to be used in a literary way at least part of the time, I have never had a blog devoted to writing alone. I recently decided that the best way to get myself to write more, and possibly get feedback from complete strangers on pieces I post, would be to get one. WordPress was the obvious choice. Now, after a week of contemplation, here it is.

None of the writing I share through this blog has been published. Most of it is first or second draft, ripe for comments and critiques, both of which I welcome happily. I want readers, and I want to know their opinions. If I’m writing something – story, novel, flash fiction – and no one seems to like it, that tells me that it’s either time to scrap it or rewrite it. But if I have no outside opinions to work with, how do I know to do either? I don’t. I write for me, but I also write for you. Other than Emily Dickinson, I can’t think of a writer who kept their words hidden from foreign eyes (although there must have been a few others). I made this blog to be clear: yes, I am a writer. And I am here to find an audience for my work. I want to spread like Nutella on a freshly toasted waffle. I want to be the book you borrowed from a friend, which they had borrowed from their friend, and so on. So if you like what you read, tell a friend or two. Or ten.

P.S. I write what I write and I don’t apologize for it. I don’t try too hard to be tactful, but I don’t try to be offensive either. If you take something in my writing personally, that’s more about you than me. I’m just a writer like everyone else…

Creative Piece Coming Soon