Writing 101: Death to Adverbs: Sept 23: Blood on the page

(Okay, this day required a death to all adverbs, I have to admit they are my weakness. Instead of writing a new piece and going somewhere to observe strangers, I decided to attack an old piece and edit. Hope you like how it came out, I think I need to develop the story further for this protagonist.)

Flipping her bangs to cover her face, she rushed to her favorite spot at the back of the classroom by the window. Banging her backpack onto the chair in front of her, so no one would sit nearby. This girl loved her solitude, and being buried in her cyber world was more than a past time, it was a necessity.

Head down, eyes half-shut, she opened up her bag and retrieved her pen and spiral notebook. She didn’t make the mistake of leaving her spiral behind anywhere. Oh sure, she bore a spiral with her name on it like anyone else in class, but that was the decoy. That was kept up to date merely to amuse her teacher and maintain her common passing average.

With the strength that whispered in her soul, she clicked the pen and began to make the page bleed. Her drawings, her poems, her secrets spilled out of her onto the page. This spiral was no forgery, it was her, she was the paper and ink. Although more tattered and worn, it was more valuable to her than any diamond ring or stolen kiss.

On the page no one judged her, no one scorned her, no one made her cry. If she shed a torment of tears, she did so in the privacy of her spiral. No lock was needed on this treasure, because no one knew its worth.

Cindy glanced at the boy at the head of the row, and smirked. He was an ass, but adorable nonetheless. Good thing he was transferring to another school, their paths would never cross again. She would not be a “star-crossed” lover in a melodramatic play. She would be W-O-M-A-N. No longer the shy, overlooked child with a hesitant smile and blushing face.

This year is her year. She wrote, and never looked up as he stared at her one last time.

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Reaching out… #reblog #writers #writing101 #ramblings

Writers write in order to not drown in the emotion of it all.

I wrote this earlier on someone else’s blog post. I didn’t realize how true it was when I thought of my own writing. An epiphany happened in that moment. When I am strangling those around me with my overflow, I am not writing.

When I am struggling to breathe in my own neurosis, I am not writing. When I write, as this blog has helped me to commit, I can cease the whispers of insecurity in my own head. I feel more grounded and centered in the world around me. I am me. My thoughts bleed onto the page either in ink or digital format, and I can smile without wondering who wants to steal my smile and make me cry.

Singing along with my favorite artists may appease me, like a band aid or a tourniquet on this river of emotion that resides in my soul, but writing creates new streams to redirect the pressure of the rising tide. Teaching can only take me so far, the love of the written word and expressing oneself is so much more. I release what would normally create an overwrought emotional mess. My memories, emotions, creations, and developments on the page ease a base emotional/biological need inside of me.

So bloggers, I ask and beg, come see my blog. It is but a tiny, plain brown sparrow lost in this exotic jungle of rare and wondrous, iridescent birds. I need feedback, comments, likes, and more. Validation and criticism are welcome. I hunger to become a better writer.

Day Two: (Sept 16) A ROOM WITH A VIEW…

The whisper of the grass outside my open window calls to me. I want to feel the blades of grass tickling my tiny toes, and peer into the shadows with that mixture of fear and suspense.

My ten year old self loved that bedroom and its adventures. Although often times my body trapped me in places I didn’t wish to be, you might call it being anti-social, my mind could always take me where I wanted to go. I would escape, but I never needed to escape that bedroom. At night, when the house of eight was finally quiet, this little baby girl would tiptoe to that window and suck in the fresh air. There was no pretense, no suspicion, no derision, and definitely no social pressure in that one perfect spot late at night staring into the darkness.

You would think that I would not want to regress into the past, but at ten years old I had no big worries. I had worries that seemed big, because I had nothing to compare them too. My mother, my foundation on which my present womanhood has been molded to copy, always caught me when I fell. And when she was running around with one of the other, older, kids I had my books, which I would stash underneath that bedroom window.

The world seemed huge, but adventurous. Now, sometimes, the world seems huge but oppressive. I would want my old bedroom view, with the breeze lifting my hair, the cicadas lulling me to sleep, and the darkness hugging me tight. That is my “room with a view.”

Trying to live in more than one world…

I’ve always thought that writing required a deeper understanding of the surface reality. Seeing possibilities in the most improbable opportunities, and trying to stay grounded in the meeting when my mind wants to add more drama to the blasé daily activities of whichever character is tripping in my mind.

I can’t imagine living without the daily chaos that is my life. I both love it and hate it, giving the ever fighting duality of my mixed emotions. The only thing I am sure on a day to day basis is that life has to continue down the sometimes rocky road of adventure.

How does anyone do it? How do you carve a niche (or more like a gaping hole) in your life to write? The dishes always need to be done, the laundry breeds when you blink, and three children under the age of 12 are like swirling dust devils that sprout a mess where it was once clean.

My world is a full world, but I also need to keep a hold of me. The writer in me needs to express thoughts in order not to drown in the voices, but I will take that ten times over the silence that sometimes suffocates. Words are my passion, and writing helps facilitate my addiction. And face it writers of the internet, writing is an addiction.