Writers as Readers

I like to think that I write like Rick Riordan.

Yes, Rick Riordan. The man who battles himself, writes books for middle school children, and makes everyone wait a year for another book after a major cliff hanger. He is probably my favorite writer- The Lightning Thief was the book that made me into the avid reader that I am today. I like to imagine that I write like him, and that my stories are half as good as his. 

So, when I finished reading The Fault in Our Stars it was safe to say I was heartbroken. That story was so bittersweet, and the movie was the same. Are you looking for a good cry over some fictional character, and have your life ruined because Augustus Waters isn't a real person? Then read TFiOS. It was heart wrenching, but so unbelievably beautiful.

Honestly, I hate it when people find ways to nitpick everything. If Harry Potter turns people to occults, then does that mean Wizard of Oz will lead to someone crushing someone with a house, the attempted murder over a pair of shoes, and the murder of someone perceived as evil simply because they think they can go home if they kill said 'evil' doer? Nope. "We've all got both light and dark inside of us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who we really are." That was written by J.K. Rowling, and I think it'll answer your question very well. 

I think reading is very important to the writing process. The more you read, the more you become accustomed to how a story should flow. You can learn different ways to describe something, different point of views and how to make them sound right when you write. I really hope I can apply all of that to my writing- I think I've improved my writing by reading a lot this past year.   

 

Bottled Up

I know why she apologizes
as she hides behind the curtain of hair
and waits till the topic changes
while silently cursing her stupidity.

I know why her story trails off
and her eyes dance across those who surround her
as they talk to one another
and she bites her lip 
while trying to focus on something else. 

She wasn't made for this world
and her crushing insecurities
while waiting for someone to care. 

She was meant to be free
to travel
to satisfy her never ending curiosity
to laugh freely 
without care.

But she bottled up her freedom
and her wanderlust
and tucked away her curiosity
and forces her laughter
as she focuses her thoughts on something else. 

Dream Threads

  She had been suspended in the black abyss for too long, but she had finally woken up. A small groan left her lips as she attempted to blink around the drug induced haze her mind was thrown into. Her eyes strained in the horrible lighting- why was there only one light in the entire room? 

 

  A pounding headache appeared as the haze dissipated from her mind, and her memory finally caught up to her. She could clearly remember angrily making her way down the street before she had a rag shoved over her mouth. A sigh coursed through her once she realized the rag was doused with chloroform- she had seen one too many crime shows to know that was what the sweet smelling drug had been. 

 

  She tried to reach up with her hands to rub her temples- hoping to relieve the tension there- but she couldn't. It hadn't occurred to her that she would be tied to the chair with her hands bound behind her, but when she thought about it, she realized that's what happened when you were kidnapped. A shaky sigh escaped her as she yanked her hands, praying they were loose. 

 

  Of course, none of her prayers were answered before, so why on Earth would they be now? She kept trying even though she knew nothing would come of it, and tears pricked her eyes. She didn't understand any of this. Why was she kidnapped? What did they want from her?

 

  A strangled sob wracked her body as she finally admitted defeat- she could feel the stinging on her wrists from where the rope was biting into her flesh. What's the use? It's not like she could stand a chance if she had to run.  

Maya Angelou

In Maya Angelou's first autobiography I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, she said that the caged bird sings of freedom. What she means is that the bird doesn’t sing for our amusement. When he sings he’s trying to communicate with us, and he’s trying to tell us he wants out. No one understands because he sounds so beautiful, but all he wants is to be free. He doesn’t like being kept in the small cage, he wants out, and wants the chance to spread his wings. I completely understand that.

 

Angelou says she doesn’t talk about her bad dreams because it “gives them too much power.” I completely agree. If you keep feeding something negativity, and if you keep dwelling on it, it’s only going to get worse. Especially any form of drama- well, besides the class. During the musical last year, there was a fairly significant amount of drama. When people keep talking about what’s going on, they tend to add in their own two sense. That’s when it started to get out of hand. Things started to snowball, people started bickering, and we didn’t work as well together as we normally did. It started with a couple people and a small disagreement, and then half of the theatre had a say in what was happening.

 

After going through a major trauma at age seven, Maya stopped talking for five years. I don’t think I could ever do that- I can hardly keep my mouth shut for a few hours. Well, when I’m in school. At school I tend to be a jabberbox- I’m fairly certain that annoys quite a few people- but when I’m at home my family sometimes forgets I’m there. Maybe that’s because I stay locked in my room with a book, and dislike any form of social interaction with them unless food is involved. Or trips to the bookstore. Either way, I would probably learn a lot more about those around me if I talked a lot less, and I may actually get a say in things if I actually spoke up to my family.

 

Maya said she’s comfortable in using six or seven languages. I find that super cool. I really wish I was fluent in French- it is such a beautiful language- and sign language. When I was growing up, I had a few deaf friends, and picked up some sign language from them. Speaking just English is not good enough, even though we live in America. It would be okay if we were living in England. Just because this is America doesn’t me we can do whatever we want. We took this land from Native Americans- we were savages that came in and took the land that already belonged to someone else. America is full of a bunch of idiotic bigots that think way too much of themselves, and I find it fairly appalling.

 

I think writing is a lot of work. Depending on the genre you write will determine the amount of work you do, but putting your thoughts into words is hard. You may understand what’s being said, but getting others to understand is a lot harder. That won’t stop me from trying though.

Seven Shades of Lilac

Crystal eyes gleamed happily as she walked through town.

Her lilac hair bounced behind her as children clustered together in the cool Feburary air.

People spoke about her in hushed whispers. 

Adults dressed in opulent clothes glared her way,

She could easily see the deep disgust int their eyes.

She paid them no mind as she set off to find her family.

Violet could care less what they thought.

 

 

 

Lilac Crystal

Hushed Violet

Lilac Cluster

Opulent Heather

Family Vineyard 

Feburary Violet

Deep Boysenberry 

Espresso Bean

Evenings spent curled under warm blankets while

Sipping hot chocolate out of a mug, and 

Pretending time can stand still for jus five minutes with

Rain tapping against the window.

Even though you spend every night there

Sometimes without the rain, you can't stop the

Smile spreading across your face, and you want

Oh so much to stay like that forever.

 

But you can't

Escape the harsh reality that

Always stares you in the face, and the fact that

Nothing ever goes your way.

Tail Light

 Cars whipped past her in a furious frenzy, but she paid them no mind, and simply tried to keep her hands from shaking. Maybe this was childish of her, but all she could think of was his taunting smirk. This was a game for him- he didn't even care about her. Her fingernails dug into her palms as she tried to focus.

 

 She was so lost in thought that she hardly heard the car door slam behind her. No matter how quick her steps were due to anger, someone else was faster. 

 A rag was shoved over her mouth and nose as an arm was wrapped tightly around her, binding her arms to her body. She yelped in surprise, and tried to get away, but she had already inhaled the sweet toxin. Her eyes fluttered shut as her legs gave out from under her. 

 

 Her attacker caught her as she fell, scooping her into his arms easily. He didn't worry about dropping the rag, simply shoving her into the trunk of his car. He glanced around to see if anyone witnessed his heinous act. A malicious grin spread across his lips as a cold glint flickered across his eyes at the sight of the barren road.

 

 He slid into the drivers seat with sadistic glee that he had caught the girl. He started his car, tail lights glowing a brilliant red before driving off with his stolen prize.