1.) How to Become a Writer Or, Have You Earned This Cliche? by: Lorrie Moore.
2.) Amy Winehouse. Enough said. I haven't listened to Back To Black in years and I've spent most of today playing all ten tracks on repeat, feeling like crying because I just realized how much I wanted the next album, the one that will never come.
3.) I'm gonna need you to fight me on this: How Violent Sex Helped Ease My PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) by reporter Mac Mcclelland.
4.) "On Being Paki-American" by: Aleeza
Have a great weekend everyone.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Where I Go #1: Everywhere
by: Gracie
I went for a bike ride the other day.
As I rode down the streets behind my dad and brother, tires whizzing along the pavement, I soaked in my surroundings (along with the raindrops that had just begun to fall from the sky). We rode on the winding path next to the creek in the area near my house. I marvelled at the large cattails that grew in large patches in the mud next to the creek. They were beautiful stalks, bending gently as one in the wind. We rode past a once completely flooded field, now dried up to a large puddle and dead, yellow grass. I breathed in deeply the distinctly swampy scent that the field gave off. It reminded me of the marsh at the lake I went to for a week each summer.
I took note of all these thoughts, feelings and senses as I pedaled, soaking wet, up the driveway to my house.
Out in the world. That is where I write.
I know that, technically, I’m not continuously scribbling endless paragraphs of stories everywhere I go. But I am gathering scenes, characters, bits and pieces of stories, everywhere I go. And that’s the important stuff, anyway, the stuff that is the clay I mold my writing out of.
I’ll be sitting in the car, waiting for my mom, and across the parking lot I’ll spot a man in an old, pale yellow truck. My imagination starts up and my brain is filled with questions: Is he waiting for someone? His wife, maybe? What’s his wife like? Why is the hood of his car up? Is it broken? Later, this scene will be incorporated into the actual words I type out on my computer.
For me, where I go to do the physical act of writing (or, typing, really) doesn’t matter as much. Usually I’m just on my bed or at my cluttered desk in the basement (or “dungeon” as I like to call it).
The magic really happens when I’m out in the world, living life. Taking people, events and places and then, from that, creating my own, unique story. With just a little bit of complete imagination thrown in too, of
course. ;)
To read more from Gracie visit her blog at I Am Writer...Hear Me Roar
As I rode down the streets behind my dad and brother, tires whizzing along the pavement, I soaked in my surroundings (along with the raindrops that had just begun to fall from the sky). We rode on the winding path next to the creek in the area near my house. I marvelled at the large cattails that grew in large patches in the mud next to the creek. They were beautiful stalks, bending gently as one in the wind. We rode past a once completely flooded field, now dried up to a large puddle and dead, yellow grass. I breathed in deeply the distinctly swampy scent that the field gave off. It reminded me of the marsh at the lake I went to for a week each summer.
I took note of all these thoughts, feelings and senses as I pedaled, soaking wet, up the driveway to my house.
Out in the world. That is where I write.
I know that, technically, I’m not continuously scribbling endless paragraphs of stories everywhere I go. But I am gathering scenes, characters, bits and pieces of stories, everywhere I go. And that’s the important stuff, anyway, the stuff that is the clay I mold my writing out of.
I’ll be sitting in the car, waiting for my mom, and across the parking lot I’ll spot a man in an old, pale yellow truck. My imagination starts up and my brain is filled with questions: Is he waiting for someone? His wife, maybe? What’s his wife like? Why is the hood of his car up? Is it broken? Later, this scene will be incorporated into the actual words I type out on my computer.
For me, where I go to do the physical act of writing (or, typing, really) doesn’t matter as much. Usually I’m just on my bed or at my cluttered desk in the basement (or “dungeon” as I like to call it).
The magic really happens when I’m out in the world, living life. Taking people, events and places and then, from that, creating my own, unique story. With just a little bit of complete imagination thrown in too, of
course. ;)
**
Gracie is a 17-year-old writer, reader and blogger who likes using pennames on the internet. ;) She's dreamed of becoming an author ever since she can remember, and has been writing since then along with trying to get published in teen writers' mags and win writing contests. (She has been successful twice so far). She lives in Canada with her quirky family and two cats.To read more from Gracie visit her blog at I Am Writer...Hear Me Roar
**
For more info on this guest submissions series, visit the "Where I Go" Submissions page.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Online School vs. Traditional Schooling Part I
"When I told my friends I was going to online school they were confused. They couldn't understand why I would want to subject myself to that type of isolation..."
This quote was said by the valedictorian of my high school during the speech she gave at our graduation. She was standing in front of the podium in the shapeless navy blue gown that we were all forced to wear. The graduating class of 2011 formed the backdrop behind her as she smiled at the 70-something parents and family members sitting in the auditorium seats below the stage.
There was a sense of kinship between the graduates that day, and not because we were wearing the same cap and gown. We'd never seen each other's faces or sat at a table together to eat lunch. We'd never gone to parties together or passed notes in the back of a classroom. We'd never done any of the things that "normal" teens were supposed to do with each other during those four years of high school that seem to last forever and not long enough. But despite that, we knew each. All of us were bound together in a way that only similar experiences bind people. We understood what sitting on that stage in our cap and gown meant and that was enough to make us into a secret society.
I started out high school in the traditional way: I went to public school with the kids I'd known since middle school. My Freshman year went by in a flurry of Taco-Bell scented ignorance, peer pressure, and a big shrug to all things related to homework or tests or good grades. I was caught up in the new sense of freedom that high school provided, and spent too much time (more than I like to admit) ditching school to do things I shouldn't have been doing.
I've come to think of my Freshman year as all four years of high school packed into one. Every single perk and downside of traditional high school that one can experience, I experienced then. If I didn't have Bee to keep a leash on me and rein me in when I got out of control I don't know what kind of situations I would have gotten myself into. She was the voice of reason.
The summer before Sophomore year, I started to dread going back to all of that. I didn't want to get sucked back into a world that seemed separate from reality. I wanted to slow down, to understand...something, some part of a bigger picture I was missing; or maybe just my place in it. I would never have thought online school was an option because I didn't even know it existed. The idea of going to a high school based solely on the Internet seemed too good to be true even as the idea of isolation from my friends was cripplingly lonely.
It was Bee who found it out about it just a few days before school was due to start back up.
My family likes to joke that Bee can sell ice to an Eskimo. She probably could, too. She convinced my mom that we needed to give online school a try on the day we were shopping for school supplies to go back to school. This was a pivotal moment. My mother could have easily said no, and I still don't completely understand why she didn't, I just know that it was the best decision she could have made. It was the best decision I could have made by signing up.
Sitting on that stage, that's what all of us knew, me and Bee and our classmates. We knew that going to online school was the best decision we could have made. We weren't isolating ourselves, we were making the decision, for whatever reason(s), to give ourselves space; space to grow, and think, and learn. We were finding our place in a bigger picture.
Music I'm listening to: "Misguided Ghosts" by Paramore
This quote was said by the valedictorian of my high school during the speech she gave at our graduation. She was standing in front of the podium in the shapeless navy blue gown that we were all forced to wear. The graduating class of 2011 formed the backdrop behind her as she smiled at the 70-something parents and family members sitting in the auditorium seats below the stage.
There was a sense of kinship between the graduates that day, and not because we were wearing the same cap and gown. We'd never seen each other's faces or sat at a table together to eat lunch. We'd never gone to parties together or passed notes in the back of a classroom. We'd never done any of the things that "normal" teens were supposed to do with each other during those four years of high school that seem to last forever and not long enough. But despite that, we knew each. All of us were bound together in a way that only similar experiences bind people. We understood what sitting on that stage in our cap and gown meant and that was enough to make us into a secret society.
I started out high school in the traditional way: I went to public school with the kids I'd known since middle school. My Freshman year went by in a flurry of Taco-Bell scented ignorance, peer pressure, and a big shrug to all things related to homework or tests or good grades. I was caught up in the new sense of freedom that high school provided, and spent too much time (more than I like to admit) ditching school to do things I shouldn't have been doing.
I've come to think of my Freshman year as all four years of high school packed into one. Every single perk and downside of traditional high school that one can experience, I experienced then. If I didn't have Bee to keep a leash on me and rein me in when I got out of control I don't know what kind of situations I would have gotten myself into. She was the voice of reason.
The summer before Sophomore year, I started to dread going back to all of that. I didn't want to get sucked back into a world that seemed separate from reality. I wanted to slow down, to understand...something, some part of a bigger picture I was missing; or maybe just my place in it. I would never have thought online school was an option because I didn't even know it existed. The idea of going to a high school based solely on the Internet seemed too good to be true even as the idea of isolation from my friends was cripplingly lonely.
It was Bee who found it out about it just a few days before school was due to start back up.
My family likes to joke that Bee can sell ice to an Eskimo. She probably could, too. She convinced my mom that we needed to give online school a try on the day we were shopping for school supplies to go back to school. This was a pivotal moment. My mother could have easily said no, and I still don't completely understand why she didn't, I just know that it was the best decision she could have made. It was the best decision I could have made by signing up.
Sitting on that stage, that's what all of us knew, me and Bee and our classmates. We knew that going to online school was the best decision we could have made. We weren't isolating ourselves, we were making the decision, for whatever reason(s), to give ourselves space; space to grow, and think, and learn. We were finding our place in a bigger picture.
Music I'm listening to: "Misguided Ghosts" by Paramore
Friday, July 1, 2011
Tomorrows: Endless, yes. Scary, maybe.
This is what I do. In the midst of all this, there is a shower, maybe even a hair brush if I'm feeling lucky, and a little writing on the side. I am okay with this routine...or, I was.
A few nights ago, I was meditating, searching for some burst of latent inspiration when I found something else. Often times when you look that deeply into yourself, you never find what it is that you're hoping you will. I know this, but I was still surprised. Instead of finding the solution to a tricky scene in my story, I found fear. A crippling, paralyzing fear. The kind that looms over you, and you just stand still, knowing it will hit any minute now but hoping like hell that it wont.
So what was I afraid of?
I sat in my dark, little office for an hour, legs crossed half lotus, thumb and index finger touching in wisdom, eyes closed. I separated myself from the nonsense chatter in my mind, and waited...and waited...
...and waited...
Eventually, the tension fell out of my neck and hips, even as my legs fell asleep. But that pain was secondary to the fear in my chest. It's instinctive to want to push that much fear away from yourself. Who in their right mind would want to sit down in the center of it?
Obviously I wasn't in my right mind, because I was pointing my finger at it and saying "Yeah, you, c'mere!"
It did come come, right when I was ready to give up. And again, it just wasn't what I expected. I'm always afraid that I won't succeed, not just in my writing, but in every aspect of my life; that I won't live the best life I possibly can. I'm also afraid of spiders, and heights, and drowning.
But I didn't find any of those fears. I found a fear of change, of how fast everything in my life was changing, faster than I could comprehend, faster than I'd thought possible a month ago.
Before graduation, I was insane with anticipation. I was going out into the real world, it was finally my time. Post graduation, the possibilities stretched endlessly before me. And I was, am, afraid; of tomorrow, of the day after, of making my next move, of not making it, of making it too early or too late. The fears of my future are endless, and it was these fears that had me hiding away.
Uncertainty was suffocating me.
When I opened my eyes and uncrossed my legs, I felt like I was waking up from a really long sleep, weeks of deep sleep. I was still scared, but today when I looked at myself in the mirror, I told myself that it was okay. Yes, everyone, I did talk to myself. I said, "It's okay. You're afraid and it's OKAY." I also told myself to stop looking at the uncertainty of the future as something apocalyptic and daunting. Those same endless possibilities that frighten you should excite you. You can make a mistake tomorrow and fix it the day after. You can cry like your world in ending today and tomorrow you can smile until your cheeks snap in two. There is no telling what tomorrow brings, and it's so exhausting to spend today stressing about it. In fact, it doesn't even make sense.
So, instead of slapping your hands over your eyes (like I did) and hiding away, you should embrace tomorrow with wide eyes and open arms. Give it a big hug and a sloppy kiss.
There's someone out there right now who is just as scared as I am, or was, and I'm not telling you that you need to meditate for an hour in order to recognize this fear and deal with it. I'm telling you to take it a step further: get off the couch, brush your hair, and smile, carry on with your day instead of hiding from it, know that it's okay, that you'll be okay. That's all it takes to make the most of today. And if you get up tomorrow and do the same thing, you'll be making the most of that day too. That's the future: endless, yes. Scary, maybe. But one day at a time, it isn't so impossible to comprehend.
PS: Sorry for staying away so long.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Sunday Routine
Another lazy Sunday, at least for me. I'm drinking too much coffee and reading too many books, searching for some internal spark that will propel me to go write. And though I haven't found it yet, I did find something else just as brilliant.
I was surfing the internet for inspiration and a little voice in the back of my head (the one that usually tells me I need to pay more attention to what's going on in the world so I can sound cultured and aware) told me to check The New York Times.
Usually when I go on this site, I read a few articles and go straight to the New York Times Bestselllers list, but today I stumbled upon something else. It's a series of articles written by writers and creative people and even politicians where they talk about how they spend their Sundays. This doesn't sound extremely interesting, but it's surprisingly inspiring.
Sundays are so slow and calm. Sometimes this standstill can be peaceful and sometimes it's just boring. But what I loved about this series is that there seems to be a common thread running through the articles, one that reminds to relax and enjoy the fact that I'm doing nothing.
I wish I had discovered this earlier today so I could share it at the beginning of the day instead of when the day is about to end, but it's better late than never.
Next week, I may even give this talking-about-my-Sunday thing a try. Until then, click on the link and take a look around. Who knows, you might find something great.
Monday, May 16, 2011
A Few Things on a Melancholy Monday
A few reasons why today sucks, aside from the fact that it's Monday...
1.) I just realized that finals and graduation are around the corner, and all the time that I had this year to slack off and read when I should have been writing and writing when I should have been doing homework are over. Over. Right. Now. The painful, stress-inducing part came in when I also realized how behind I am in most of my classes. I knew for the past few weeks that I was barely hanging on, but it didn't seem as immediate as it does now.
Now it feels like graduation is coming in a minute, or an hour, and OH MY GOSH I didn't shave my legs, or buy shoes for my dress or pass all my classes.
In reality, I have two weeks, but with how quickly everything else is moving. I'm terrified that the next two weeks will be over before I've typed the last period in this blog post.
2.) At about nine this morning, my counselor paid me a lovely call (whose ringing woke me from a vivid dream that I'm not talking about) to remind me how close I am to tanking my classes. Her exact words were: "You need to beat it out, girl!" So yeah, I'll be "beating it out" today. I love this chick.
3.) Let's not talk about how desperate I am for a summer job. How I iron my clothes (I never iron!), and practice my smiles, and try to be charming when I hand in my application (I'm never charming!). Let's not talk about how adult life is four months away and when I move out there will be no one to put money in my outstretched hand.
Look, it's already starting. Don't you see my hand failing in midair? It's empty.
4.) Game of Thrones is getting so good! I love watching the court politics and the scheming and backstabbing. If you have no clue what I'm talking about, Game of Thrones is a series on HBO that's just divine. Think Tudors, with a little more grunge and dirt and blood, and the king is not as cute as John Rhys Meyers. The only thing that bugged me about last night's episode was the throw down between Lord Stark and that Lannister dude, it was pretty sad. I mean, I kept waiting for Stark to bust out some ninja-like moves and show this guy who's boss. It didn't happen.
5.) The rain here has a very twisted sense of humor. I think it knows how badly I want it to fall, so it only starts when I'm asleep. But I'm hopeful today, today it's going to fall, even if I have to set a bonfire on my front lawn and dance naked.
So, maybe this post isn't completely melancholy. But because I'm not feeling so hot and because melancholy starts with an M that goes so well with the M in Monday, the title is staying.
1.) I just realized that finals and graduation are around the corner, and all the time that I had this year to slack off and read when I should have been writing and writing when I should have been doing homework are over. Over. Right. Now. The painful, stress-inducing part came in when I also realized how behind I am in most of my classes. I knew for the past few weeks that I was barely hanging on, but it didn't seem as immediate as it does now.
Now it feels like graduation is coming in a minute, or an hour, and OH MY GOSH I didn't shave my legs, or buy shoes for my dress or pass all my classes.
In reality, I have two weeks, but with how quickly everything else is moving. I'm terrified that the next two weeks will be over before I've typed the last period in this blog post.
2.) At about nine this morning, my counselor paid me a lovely call (whose ringing woke me from a vivid dream that I'm not talking about) to remind me how close I am to tanking my classes. Her exact words were: "You need to beat it out, girl!" So yeah, I'll be "beating it out" today. I love this chick.
3.) Let's not talk about how desperate I am for a summer job. How I iron my clothes (I never iron!), and practice my smiles, and try to be charming when I hand in my application (I'm never charming!). Let's not talk about how adult life is four months away and when I move out there will be no one to put money in my outstretched hand.
Look, it's already starting. Don't you see my hand failing in midair? It's empty.
4.) Game of Thrones is getting so good! I love watching the court politics and the scheming and backstabbing. If you have no clue what I'm talking about, Game of Thrones is a series on HBO that's just divine. Think Tudors, with a little more grunge and dirt and blood, and the king is not as cute as John Rhys Meyers. The only thing that bugged me about last night's episode was the throw down between Lord Stark and that Lannister dude, it was pretty sad. I mean, I kept waiting for Stark to bust out some ninja-like moves and show this guy who's boss. It didn't happen.
5.) The rain here has a very twisted sense of humor. I think it knows how badly I want it to fall, so it only starts when I'm asleep. But I'm hopeful today, today it's going to fall, even if I have to set a bonfire on my front lawn and dance naked.
So, maybe this post isn't completely melancholy. But because I'm not feeling so hot and because melancholy starts with an M that goes so well with the M in Monday, the title is staying.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Small Beginnings Part 1: Mrs. Gardener
Last year, I took the SAT for the first time. Despite being a writer, I was so sure I would bomb the writing portion and then the humiliation of that would cause me to bomb the following English portion. And then because I still count with both hands (and sometimes both feet) , I would bomb the Math portion, and ultimately become a failure.
So, you can imagine my surprise when I opened up that little booklet and read my writing prompt, which basically asked me what I thought was more important, creativity or logic and reason. Um, hello? This is probably the most indulgent question you can ask a writer. The answer is so obvious. It's like they were asking me if I would prefer laying on a tropical beach with Leonardo Dicaprio or reenacting the Titanic. And no matter how cute Leonardo was in the Titanic, we all know he dies in that movie. So, I'm taking the beach.
Needless to say, I didn't bomb the writing portion. I wrote my essay about my fifth grade teacher and how she changed my life by assigning a creative project, thus explaining why I thought creativity was limitless, which explained why I thought it was more important. While I wont be sharing my essay with you guys, I am going to share my fifth grade teacher.
Her name is Mrs. Gardener and she is still the best teacher I've ever had. I think what made her such a wonderful teacher was the fact that she was dedicated to her job. That dedication showed in everything she taught me, and I'll always thank her for that, because it makes a difference. At least, it did for me.
As all stories start--Once Upon a Time, Mrs. Gardener handed out an assignment to the class after hanging three paintings on the board. She told the class to choose one and then write a story about it, which didn't sound all that fun to me. But her enthusiasm for the assignment was contagious. It was almost as if she was inviting me into a secret world, giving me a set of keys, and telling me "go ahead, open the door."
I rode on that enthusiasm all the way home and wrote my very first story. I don't remember what the painting I chose was called, but I do remember that it had to do with a book being eaten by vines. From that I got 12 wide-ruled pages about a girl whose mom drove her to the library and told her to make some friends, and in an effort to do so, she befriended a girl working at the checkout counter and ended up checking out a book that was said to be haunted. She then goes home, opens the book, and the vines reach out and pull her into the book, trapping her forever. I know, I think it's pretty brilliant, too.
I wrote this laying in the middle of my bedroom, writing so fast that my words were illegible. Sometimes, I think that I'm still laying there writing, only now, I'm older and the stories are different and I'm typing on a laptop. Sometimes, I believe that Mrs. Gardener really did hand me the keys to a secret world and once I went in I never came back out.
So, you can imagine my surprise when I opened up that little booklet and read my writing prompt, which basically asked me what I thought was more important, creativity or logic and reason. Um, hello? This is probably the most indulgent question you can ask a writer. The answer is so obvious. It's like they were asking me if I would prefer laying on a tropical beach with Leonardo Dicaprio or reenacting the Titanic. And no matter how cute Leonardo was in the Titanic, we all know he dies in that movie. So, I'm taking the beach.
Needless to say, I didn't bomb the writing portion. I wrote my essay about my fifth grade teacher and how she changed my life by assigning a creative project, thus explaining why I thought creativity was limitless, which explained why I thought it was more important. While I wont be sharing my essay with you guys, I am going to share my fifth grade teacher.
Her name is Mrs. Gardener and she is still the best teacher I've ever had. I think what made her such a wonderful teacher was the fact that she was dedicated to her job. That dedication showed in everything she taught me, and I'll always thank her for that, because it makes a difference. At least, it did for me.
As all stories start--Once Upon a Time, Mrs. Gardener handed out an assignment to the class after hanging three paintings on the board. She told the class to choose one and then write a story about it, which didn't sound all that fun to me. But her enthusiasm for the assignment was contagious. It was almost as if she was inviting me into a secret world, giving me a set of keys, and telling me "go ahead, open the door."
I rode on that enthusiasm all the way home and wrote my very first story. I don't remember what the painting I chose was called, but I do remember that it had to do with a book being eaten by vines. From that I got 12 wide-ruled pages about a girl whose mom drove her to the library and told her to make some friends, and in an effort to do so, she befriended a girl working at the checkout counter and ended up checking out a book that was said to be haunted. She then goes home, opens the book, and the vines reach out and pull her into the book, trapping her forever. I know, I think it's pretty brilliant, too.
I wrote this laying in the middle of my bedroom, writing so fast that my words were illegible. Sometimes, I think that I'm still laying there writing, only now, I'm older and the stories are different and I'm typing on a laptop. Sometimes, I believe that Mrs. Gardener really did hand me the keys to a secret world and once I went in I never came back out.
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