– 1 –

It would be easier to be angry
but I’m not
It would also be easier to eat
but I’m not
so I’m
sick
hungry
cold.
And this is the cycle
at least for awhile

– 2 –

You know what your problem is?
I said
laughing
so I wouldn’t cry
He looked at me
a pained look on his face.
You’re too good
I said.
I barely got a smile
before he threw it back at me
You’re the better one
he said.
So we sat there
complimenting each other
in the middle
of our breakup

– 3 –

In mind over matter
is matter heart?
Because I think matter
Brainmatter
Grey.
There is the mind
and Things That Matter
and Heart
where is Heart?

– 4 –

The person I would vent to
The person I would laugh with
I would send that funny link to
I would explain my thoughts to

We will heal
but for now
I’ve lost
my best friend

Due to things
we could probably fix
if circumstances were
different.

– 5 –

My friend said
To put the wallowing on steroids
And heal before my hike

Well.

I’m writing bad poetry

So.

But also
I got compliments on my prose
regarding the breakup –
Prose –
Not Poetry.
Bad, Poetry.
Down.

 

[Edit: Last night can now probably be known as “sobbing night”]. In honor:

I jump
each time there’s a new text
anytime my inbox count
adds a number
Hoping it will be you
And cringing if it is
Because I am not ready
Except, I am:
This is always the worst part
We shouldn’t talk
but I want to
I want to

I want to tell you about my day
I want to send you silly pictures
I want to throw my arms around you
and never let go.

But I can’t.

I am now 5 days into the madness. I don’t have much time for anything but writing – and even this post is taking precious noveling time away (or food, or sleep, or other sanity times). But so far, I’m ahead of where I need to be, which is exciting, since I’ve never been able to do that yet in my three years of trying this. Check it:

I am not certain that this trend will continue, but thanks to awesome pep talks like the one today from Catherynne Valente, it might. It is certainly nice to have the padding. Today I barely made it past the 1,667 requirement before packing up my things. I enjoy writing with other writers – the energy is infectious (and there’s the peer pressure and word sprints, too, of course, which help tremendously). 

Also I’d like to point out to all y’all that NPR has an article about National Novel Writing Month. Uh-huh. Legit. They even did one last year, too. We’re crazy, but there are a lot of us. People who don’t do NaNoWriMo are always stunned when I tell them how many novelists there are currently typing away furiously for a month. As of this writing, this moment, there are 280,570.

Uh, yeah, so speaking of….

I will be pretty quiet this month. I’m trying to post daily updates on the fun new meter off to the right, on that nifty sidebar, so check in there for my latest. Cool? Cool. Peace out. Happy writing.

10 days ago, in a rather silly mood, I gave you a peek into the world of National Novel Month 2013 and roughly what’s in store for me. Much has changed since then, including the major points of my plot. My muse is much happier now, even if it’s taking a turn into fantasy, something I never thought I’d do.

But that is actually nothing compared to my excitement over this:

My dad is going to do NaNoWriMo with me this year!

Repeat: my dad is going to do NaNoWriMo with me this year!

I can’t even – I’m so excited! SO EXCITED, I tell you. This is awesome because, well, dad. But also, he is an incredible writer. He is king of his industry, and is editor and co-owner of a monthly magazine which is rocking the competition like whoa. I’ve done NaNo for two years; this will be my third attempt (and hopefully second win!). His plan is to do lots of flash fiction pieces to total 50,000 words throughout November. Dad who beat up cancer last year and threw a party.

😀

Okay, also my plot. You remember that whole thing about ghost lessons? Yeah, that’s still there but majorly in the background. Here is my (evidently fantasy) plot as of now: In the 17th century, Richard was in love with Cassandra Hart, but despite everything he did for her, she never loved him back. She married Francis instead, and this made him angry. He appeared at their wedding, threatening they would rue the day etc., before taking a blade and stabbing himself through the heart. He stayed on earth as a ghost, and then underwent the requirements for becoming a Voleruh and took on the name Reshkhi. Voleruhs are evil creatures of the undead that steal ghost’s souls. Reshkhi has hunted the Hart family for centuries, with the desire to rip out the female Harts’ souls. Thanks to protection left by Cassandra, Jillian’s and Lea’s ancestor, he was unable to destroy them. Now, the youngest Hart, Jillian, has died at age 17, and her mother, Lea, has been trying to protect her from Reshkhi. Lea died one year ago, and when she did, the protection was broken. Now, Reshkhi is determined to take the soul of Lea’s daughter, Jillian.

* For the record, I’m aware of the “isn’t a ghost a soul?” issue and my comeback is: ghost = spirit; soul = soul. So hah.

It’s a work in progress. I had to create a creature – a Voleruh – which seemed to put me firmly in the fantastic. Which is SO weird. But whatever, let’s run with it, right? Don’t confuse my startled-ness with disliking fantasy; on the contrary it’s one of my favorite genres to read. But it’s also a lot of work and I admit I’m pretty nervous. Still, it’s an easier switch, as I’m not building worlds or races or languages a la Tolkien.

None of that is really important.

My dad is doing NaNoWriMo with me!

new friends new school

the rural rolling hills

so different from the New York suburb

I used to know.

Morning drama class,

a Russian girl could not understand

so we acted it out

and became the tragedy.

it was a game

 


but fires were

still burning,

the innocent

still dying,

the towers

crash down

on all of us

I got caught up tonight in reading some of my old creative writing pieces from high school and college. It’s interesting for me to see how I’ve improved, and a little bit of what I’ve forgotten, in my writing. So, enjoy this. College, Intro to Creative Writing.

Baby Squirrels

Don’t ask me why we called ourselves that. I don’t know if there was a reason. I do recall a baby squirrel Halloween costume, but that may have come after the game began. I was about 6 years old, which would have made Chris 11. Video games weren’t even an option in our house. Whenever we weren’t building forts in the living room, we were playing Baby Squirrels.

Gathering supplies was our number one priority. These consisted of an animated Etch-a-Sketch (apparently called The Animator), some string, Legos, and heaven knows what else. We made objects into whatever we wanted. Our objective: navigate the seas of our house. We set up on the landing of the stairs. We could see the front hall and the doorways to the living room and kitchen, and the dining room if the doors were ever open. On the landing was a small wooden bench, handy for keeping our toys on but not for sitting.

We used the Etch-a-Sketch to navigate. We’d decide where on our “map” we wanted to go, plan it out, and then, inevitably, something would go wrong:

“Oh no, oh no! We’re in the deep seas now! Quick, get the rope!” my brother would say. Once I started collecting Beanie Babies, they would come on our adventures with us: a black dog called “Scotty” and a squirrel called “Nuts.” Chris especially liked doing a Scottish accent (as far as we could tell) when he was voicing Scotty. I had Nuts and he had an Irish accent, though my accent was not nearly as good as my brother’s.

I’d grab the rope, if we had one, or grab one from thin air.

“Oh no! Cap’n! What do we do?”

“Turn, turn! Give me the rope! Scotty, don’t jump!”

“Get the scope! I’ll steer!” I grabbed the Etch-a-Sketch and, moving this way and that, made pictures of scribbles and animated them, and we found our way out. Phew. One catastrophe avoided.

There is one adventure I will never forget. Chris and I were crossing the great sea on our landing, as usual, when we realized there was a shark below. This was dangerous, but also half the fun. We weren’t fast enough to outrun it, and we couldn’t very well see it from the top of the ship. Someone would have to go down into the sea to take it on.

There was no drawing of straws. I bowed my head.

“I’ll go.” I said.

“Are you sure?” Chris asked. I nodded. He took up the rope (which I’m wondering now if we ever actually had) and wrapped it around my stomach, then knotted it so I would be safe. He pulled on it, tugging me toward him to make sure it would stay on me. He then presented me with a plastic screwdriver, our only weapon. We looked on our navigator to find out where the shark might be. I was ready.

“Remember, just tug on the rope when you need to come up. Do you have your mask on?” he asked. I stared at him.

“Can’t you see it?”

“Oh. Sorry,” he whispered. We weren’t always on the same imagination plane. “Okay, I’m going to lower you down slowly.”

It was that time of day when it’s just begun to get dark inside but no one’s ready to turn on the lights. There was a little sunlight streaming in through the window in the front door, but even that was covered with a tiny lace curtain. There was more sunlight from the living room on the right, but that wasn’t where the shark would be. I crept slowly down the stairs, careful to avoid any creaks. Once, I missed, and there was a mild “reee!” of the wood. I cringed, held my breath, and with my hands awkwardly raised in a zombie-like creeping motion and my mouth slightly open, I stood there, keeping entirely still. After a few moments, I deemed it safe again and relaxed, allowing myself to go deeper and keep a lookout for the shark. My brother watched me from the top of the stairs, his intense green eyes like seaweed in the ocean. He put his fingers to his lips to remind me (as if I needed it): be quiet.

I got to the bottom of the stairs and froze. My dad was sitting at the kitchen table, his back to me. The shark was one thing, but we had to avoid detection by parents at all costs. I’d have to be extra careful on this run. We didn’t want to get “caught.” It would have brought them into our world by the necessity to interact with them, and that would break our story. It was as if their voices were too loud and would have broken the game, and forced us into “reality.”

I looked around. I crept toward the front hallway. I had to be sure not to stray too far from the bottom of the stairs; the invisible rope didn’t stretch that far. Suddenly, movement to my left. The shark! It was huge! Much bigger than any we’d taken on before. I jabbed at it with my screwdriver, but before I could deliver the final blow, it turned and prepared for an attack. I looked back at Chris. Could he see me? I took a step back and tugged on the rope. I tugged harder. I couldn’t risk even a whisper; we had to avoid parent detection no matter what. But I was going to get eaten by a shark! I shook my fists in an effort to get his attention. The shark would attack any minute, and I was running out of air. Finally, at the last second, Chris saw me tugging for dear life and started pulling me up. I hopped onto the first step just in time, feeling the slimy skin of a fin against my leg. From there, I tiptoed up those stairs as fast as my little legs could carry me.

Once I got to the top, I took in a huge breath of air.

“It almost got me! What took you so long?” I demanded.

“Oh my goodness,” he said – this was to become his classic line. “I’m so sorry. We were getting deep again and Scotty couldn’t navigate. I guess we should leave that to us.”

“Well, I stabbed it, but I couldn’t hit it again before it noticed.”

“Rats. We’ll just have to wait.”

“It was huge!” I said.

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Phew!”

“Hey, what do you want for dinner?” our mom called from downstairs. I jumped. I didn’t even realize she was home; everything had been so quiet.

“Fishsticks!” I yelled (this was also my word for physicists until I learned to say it right). Chris and I looked at each other. We’d have to start cleaning up.

“Oh, well,” he said. We gathered our toys and went to our rooms, awaiting another adventure of Baby Squirrels.

A sunset above the clouds is unlike any other.

At the edge of the horizon it looks like the ocean curling into orange.

The clouds all weave together, like softest snow. It feels like you could just walk right out on them, walk right out to the edge, where the sun continues its descent.

These little rolling hills of cloud, a cushion to the biggest fall.

A soft paintbrush has swept across them, cleaning any impurities for wisps of grey-blue whitecaps.

The closer you get the more you see how layered they really are.

Down. Down.

Engulfed in grey.

I just had to try to capture the sunset from the airplane. Had to. So it’s a bit broken, a bit unfinished. But here for you.

“This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals–sounds that say listen to this, it is important.”

– Gary Provost