Everything I Learned About Writing

There are no rules to writing. Sure, you're supposed to use correct grammar, and indent your paragraphs-- the list goes on and on-- but everything is up for interpretation. There are no definites and no restrictions. Write what you love. Write what you feel. Write what you know. Write what you wish you knew. Write ANYTHING! Keep in mind your audience, but don't let them control you. The goal is to share experiences and to relate to your readers, but even if no one reads your work it was still worth writing. All writing is equally important no matter how good or bad. It allows you to release your feelings and offers a kind of therapy that no psychiatrist could ever give. Pencil and Paper: $3, Writing: Priceless.

Everything I Learned About Writing

Find someplace quiet.
Write.
Then find someplace loud.
Write.
Writing is a product,
not an action.
Write,
then rewrite.
Whatever comes out of it
must be worth something, so
work hard.
Nature is the perfect inspiration,
but music works for me –
lyric blending into note;
my hands are covered in quotes.
But you must find your own
muse.
“Write of what you know,”
but if you have a great
imagination, imaginate.
Magic mushrooms, faeries,
knights, nights, murders,
nature, fantasy, fact.
Find a good notebook, plain,
and do everything your own way.
Explore.
Do everything your own way,
find your own voice,
find your own tree, find
your own crappy coffee shop,
find a funky way to
express yourself,
after you have exhausted
everyone else’s way,
and be the best you can be,
but never strive for perfection.
Perfection is too contrived.
Keep a pen behind your ear --
you never know when you’ll be struck by
Inspiration

(Crossing my fingers that it actually posted this time...)

Everything I Learned about Writing

There is nothing easier than letting thoughts flow through the end of a pen, or a pencil, or even the tips of your fingers as they navigate through a jumbled but familiar arrangement of keys. But there is nothing harder than harnessing that flow into a stream of meaning. Who is your audience? Why is this worth my time? Does it have conflict and resolution? Can we identify with the voice of the character? I have learned you have to allow a little voice to sit on your shoulder and question your self worth. It is the same little voice that directs your moral compass, the same voice that brings about feelings of regret. Sometimes she comes as your mother, hinting at the importance of broccoli. Sometimes she’s your best girlfriend, smiling at you as you pick your nose. Much of the time you can’t even know who she is, but you feel her snicker at the small puddle of drool on your pillow in the morning, or whispering about the outfit you’ve chosen on your birthday. To be a writer is to be self-indulgent and self-centered enough to believe that some one else, another person, would actually be interested in what you have to express. But then, it is to engage in enough self-critique and inner anxiety that no one can pick you apart more than yourself. Writing is a process. I like to think of chocolate milk––the mixing of dark indulgences, the wonderful bubbles that can be blown from the surface, and the ruckus it makes in the world of the beverage. Writing is the constant swirling of thoughts, and eventually the small splashes that may or may not stain the tablecloth as a result. I will always be a writer. I cannot help but fuel the small voice on my shoulder who keeps telling me to blow bubbles in my chocolate milk.

Why i Write

At the end of each day my mind is fraught with stress. The best way to relieve it is to simply write out my thoughts. Everything that flashes through my head is captured, and in placing it in a tangible area, it is possible to decipher how to repair any problems. During work a few days ago, I found myself troubled by the thought of an upcoming math test. As I returned home caked with grime and grease, this notebook from eighth grade lay opened on my bed. How it came to that particular spot? I’ll never know or even care. I wrote. Line after line about how irritating that class is brought such a wave of relief. Keeping stressful thoughts trapped within one’s mind is tantamount to suicide in my opinion.

Writing is the apex of self-expression. In my work, I very much enjoy insinuating subtle ideas into certain sentences. Even now as I write, much about me is being revealed. Obviously the reader is aware that I am a stressed out person who utilizes this strategy as a means of escape, but with careful deduction, it can be concluded that I am also extremely afraid. It is the only successful way to convey human thought to others. I write to show the diverse perspectives on worldy issues.

On a hot, abysmal day when nothing seems to go according to plan, giving one’s thoughts an outlet simplifies everything. It seems peculiar or a waste of time at first, but if given time, the writing will melt away the troubles that plague the mind. Writing for this reason comes off as selfish, however, others can indeed benefit from it. They will see your raw thoughts on the paper, which will most likely cause them to attempt the same thing.

I write to allow others not only access to my own set of beliefs, but to also reveal to them how the basic thoughts the human mind contains are all quite similar. Examples of these are the clichés of teenage stress. I write as someone who is about to enter a whole new chapter of life. Every one of my peers is most likely experiencing the same issues concerning the end of high school. Writing breaks the dam that holds the ever increasing pressure of issues that torment the mind.

Writing will undoubtedly relieve the burdens caused by everyday problems. It can serve to also inspire others to go beyond what is expected in every day activities. I write to allow others a glimpse of insight into the benefits of all this. Some may be fearful to write their thoughts. Do not despair, for no one has to view them. I write in solitude and destroy what is written after the pain escapes, in effect annihilating the horrid memories that have unfortunately brought me woe.

Everything I Learned About Writing

Writing, for me, has become a way to speculate the future, relive the past, and bask in the moment of the present. While I write I become the creator of my life, simply by writing about it the way I see it, or the way I want to see it. I can conveniently leave out details of the past that I do not see as interesting, and I can make a mundane moment into a movie. There is a saying that I heard in DreamWorks Kung Fu Panda that I believe captures my point exactly: “The past is history, the future is a mystery, but the now is a gift, which is why they call it the present.” It is writing that helps us to understand the little things in life that we missed, or want to keep reliving, and the best thing is when you write you have a poetic license to give it as you please. Words are a means of preservation, and passion. Everything funny that I have said in my life stems from something that was once written on a piece of paper. Every funny quote that I heard on the silver screen or on tv, or every passionate, stirring speech was once in the mind of a writer. If that not true power, I don’t what is. This is why I write.

              Everything I Learned About Writing

              Risk being un-liked, stop obsessing and be yourself.  Write what you feel.  Don’t worry about what people will think of you or your writing.  Never abandon your narrative voice.  Your writing should be consistent in everything you write.  The same story should never be told twice but you should always be visible in your writing.  If you don’t write in the same voice, then it’s NOT you writing.  Be different. Be exotic.  Entertain your audience.  They are your critics, so impress them.  If you’re the only one who’s not put to sleep by your story then it’s NOT a good story! Give it a twist or two.  Go for the unexpected. Impress yourself with your writing.  Write something that’s never been written before.  Make it interesting!  Write for yourself, write for your audience, write for your audience about yourself.  “Be afraid of wasting anymore time obsessing about how you look and how people see you”.  Be tangential.  Take the trip down a different road this time.  Go back to your past, as awful as it may be.  Write about it. Write out of vengeance but disguise those you write about.  I don’t, but you should!  Favor one character over the other and give them flaws.  Nobody’s perfect.  Be believable in your plot, setting, and characters. A sad story should give the audience false hope and vice-versa.  Make a good story, regardless of what form it takes. Enjoy your writing and write!  It is your obligation as a writer.

Everything I Learned About Writing

Writing is telling the truth as I understand it;
to risk being not liked.
Writing is creating a world in which one can enter--
a world where you can see me.
See my world.
Step into my shoes and be me.
Writing comes from within;
my thoughts are translated from
body to pen to paper.
It keeps me balanced--
and allows me to relieve my mind of unwanted dread.
Writing is my private way of speaking.
Writing is my heart and soul.
Writing is me.

Everything I Learned about Writing

A painter is to a writer as paint is to words. I learned that writing is a way in which to open up your mind and let it go crazy. Writing has allowed me to keep the constant thoughts about life in general that slowly pass through my mind. I used to be scared of writing, afraid that my words would make no sense on the paper, but now, writing is no longer a daunting task to me; it is one which I very much look forward to. There are very few rules, if any, to writing; creative writing for yourself, that is. Be comedic, be scary, by honest, be harsh, be creative, be who you are. Let writing be a valley in which you walk to let out your thoughts and ideas. Allow the valley to be the place to walk through easy and to be the place in which you can sing at the top of your lungs and have no one near you. Let us all be thankful for the beauty and glory of words and embrace them by sharing them with others to create more for the world. Use each word with respect and care, hug them as if they are your child, and allow them to represent who you are.

-Ariella Faitelson

Everything I Learned About Writing

I learned how to paint words, not only with a thin brush that makes clear lines, but with a thick one that soaks up too much paint. But when this heavily loaded brush is used correctly it makes a majestic smear of color. I learned how to portray my life in a different light, to put a translucent mask over it as a way to disguise the truth but not hide it. The saran wrap film I surround myself with serves as an invisible wall behind which I dance, thinking no one sees me. I learned that sometimes being vulnerable can feel so good. That opening up your heart to be ripped apart or to be embraced is a rewarding experience regardless. From writing I’ve continued to find myself, to find what makes me laugh, cry, yell, dream. I’ve discovered how to pick words and phrases from the stars, and the clouds, the trees and the ocean—how to bring to life an idea I thought could only live within my strange and confused mind. I use writing to share my philosophy on life and love, and because it is something so unexplainable, I use words from the world to help me understand. I’ve explored how to think obscurely about the obvious, and concretely about the intangible. To find the mystery in a sea shell, and the comprehensibility of a dream. I have tried to let others look in to the heart of my emotions, my life, and my experiences, and to recreate events that pieced me together, but at the same time dissected me.

-Isabella Tudisco-Sadacca

Everything I Learned About Writing

Writing must come from you. You have to give it your all. Don’t mess around and half-ass it. You have to put your mind into your writing. Better yet, you have to put your heart into writing. Everyone has their own style of writing, whether its funny, sad, depressing, uplifting, or drama; you have to find your niche. Write what feels right, if you’re good at writing sad stories, then make something shitty happen to your character to make us understand and sympathize. If you can make people laugh with your stories, then do it. You have to leave everything you have in your writing.

            Writing must come from the heart. 

Everything I Learned About Writing

                Writing is an influential language printed on paper that can unite people together through the beauty and essence of language and life experiences we can all relate to in one way or another. It constantly allows us to open our minds and take notice into new words and ideas. Throughout my schooling at St. Gregory I have learned that writing or reading for a homework assignment does not have to be a chore or a burden that is pushed to the side. Instead, I like to think of them, for myself, to be an opportunity to become aware of something about a person, event, or topic that I have never taken notice into before. Writing also triggers all the senses and reminds us of the past and gets us thinking about the future. My favorite style of writing is the kind that creates images of the simple beauties in nature and happy moments life can offer us that I can treasure and think back to when times are tough.

Everything I Learned About Writing

Writing is how an individual communicates. It allows you to convey a thought or feeling to someone you may not know, and this is a great responsibility. A good writer can change the mood, and outlook of every person who reads their work. This is a great power few realize. Although you have to recognize this responsibility, you cannot be concerned with every person who might read what you wrote. You should choose one person to write for, and focus on them. I write for myself. Writing is not about making others happy, or sad, or getting revenge. For me, writing is just about telling the truth, and trying to make sense of this chaotic whirlwind I call my life. This is how I cope with situations I cannot understand. I may have hurt some feelings, but I cannot concern myself with that. I have learned to be strong, and honest, and only produce work I can stand behind one hundred percent. I write to find peace of mind, and that is what is important. And that is what I learned about writing.

Chaviess

A Day of Days

With a mouthful of dirt I quickly got to my feet. The warm summer air created a haze that blurred my view of the ominous beehive in the distance. A swift glance over my shoulder revealed my companion toppling over the sinister log. “This looks like a good one,” Marcus remarked as he spit a rather large clump of dirt from his mouth. “Yeah, a painful one,” I replied. Do you see how many there are? I hope you remembered the band aids.” “Why the hell would I bring band aids you stupid kid,” shouted Marcus. “I don’t think they would be of any use to help with the stingers.” “Don’t call me stupid, you’re the one who is failing math,” I retaliated. Ten minutes later we rose from the ground covered in dirt and wiping blood from our noses and lips. In spite of this small struggle, no lasting anger remained between us.
Sweat and grime covered our bodies as we took sniping positions atop a large boulder overlooking the ancient oak tree. I set up ten pellets by my side and slid the first one into the barrel. “Okay so whatever happens, that queen bee must rest on the sole of either of ours shoes,” I said. I have been waiting for vengeance for the past two weeks ever since one stung me in the heel. “First let’s take care of this one,” said Marcus as he pinned a stray bee under his shoe. “Ready?” I asked. With a nod, Marcus and I carefully took aim as brothers in arms.

Noticing Cracks -

About a month ago
a small pebble hit the window of my car.
The damage began as a small knick,
no bigger than an ant.
Over the course of the month
that small knick grew.
So the once unnoticeable scratch
now resembled branches of a mesquite tree
Etched across my glass.
I now have to replace the whole window
or bear the cracks.

My brother, Riel, recently ran into an old friend,
Whom he has claimed to hate for three years now.
Riel told me about their great memories,
And admitted how he missed that old friend
But, when I suggested that he call him
He said he couldn’t,
The grudge had gone on for too long.
Be weary of holding grudges
And keeping disagreements alive,
They begin as small and stupid,
And if not addressed soon
They spread and slice through your life
Like the branches of a mesquite tree.
-Chaviess

Mimicry of "This Moment"

Mimicry of "This Moment"

Armory Park
At noon.

Things are getting ready
to happen
out of thin air.

Strings and woodwinds,
and a rolling xylophone.

But not yet.

First stubborn sticky pegs,
a shrill from the piccolo.

A baton slowly rises
and silence fills the room
this moment.

A downbeat,
and rosin flies from the twang of the string.
Rehearsal begins.


By Sarah Tatman

The Great War of Second Grade

Omar and I stood face to face, each holding our weapons of choice, and our respective armies behind us. I clutched my bow tightly in one hand and stroked the foam tipped arrow with the other. I watched him put his hand on the double barrel Nerf gun that slung across his waist. This was the calm before the storm, the standoff before the duel. If we were outside a bushel of tumbleweeds would have passed in front of us to set the tone of battle. Anything could shatter the fragile peace that hung between the two of us. A member of my army, which was also known as the spitting cobras, decided to strike a member of Omar’s Army, which was also known as the wolf’s claw, with his glow in the dark lightsabre. And so the Great War of Second Grade began.

Omar tackled my right hand man, Aamir, got on top of him and fired his double barrel Nerf gun point blank on his chest, causing Aamir to weep in defeat. I took out an arrow from the quill, slung back the string, and let the arrow whizz through the air where it met its mark; the nose of Omar’s best friend, Osama. He instantly doubled over, clenched his nose and cried for mommy. I quickly fired off my final two arrows and made two more babies wail. But before I could savor my 100% head shot accuracy, I felt my feet loose the ground, and my head hit the soft blue rug. Osama had tripped me, sat upon my chest, and now began to raise his plastic Samurai sword. As the sword began to accelerate towards me, I shut my eyes to brace for the blow. A second later I felt his weight lift off my body. I opened my eyes to see Osama in the same position I was in with Aamir sitting on top of him. I nodded a thank you to Aamir, and struggled to regain my footing, but once I did I knew the time had arrived.

Omar and I were on opposite sides of the “Big Blue Room,” but once our eyes met, the room shrunk, and the ultimate showdown of ultimate destiny had begun. I dropped my bow, unsheathed my Pirate sword, and sprinted towards him. He threw down his double barrel Nerf gun, pulled his Power Ranger dagger out of his sock, and stood waiting for me. We were just about find out the answer to the age old question: what happens when and unstoppable force meets and immovable object. The answer would have been epic, if our older brothers had not intervened.

Ahsan, my brother, tackled me before I reached my target, and Ahmed, Omar’s brother, slapped the dagger out of Omar’s hand and pushed him to the ground. Our brothers, both of whom were two years older than us, cackled at their superiority over us, and congratulated each other for averting a catastrophe.
Without a single word being exchanged between me and Omar we knew what to do. Omar and I called upon the spitting cobras, and the wolf’s claw to join forces and attack our older brothers. Me, Omar, and our collective posse came together to defeat a common enemy, and in doing so forged a friendship in the fires of battle.

"In the Night" mimicry of "This Moment" by Eavan Boland

A park.
At dusk.
No one will see the changes
About to unfold
The moon's light, the star's gleam
And the dog chasing his tail
But not yet.
One grassy patch is yellow
A new leaf emerges, one that noone's ever seen before
Helmets in hand
Young boys playfully skip to the field
Blanketed by the night's sky
The wind chills
Mountains vanish
Children age in the dark

"Three Little Birds": Mimicry of Mary Oliver's "Why I Wake Early"

Hello sun splash

Hello to you

Who wakes me up everyday

You lighten up my room and my house

You wake up everything

Including the mouse

Hello sun

You put the night away

Hello sun

You brighten up my day.

Tangled: Response to Sarah Tatman's Art

Our lives are all intertwined
with each others
and even with ourselves.
Some of us wear thorns on the outside
to defend from pain,
or more truly
to hide from the possibility
of imperfections.
We all have petals that we will lose,
that will take away from our outer beauty,
but we also have leaves that will reappear
and remind us
of our inner youth.
There is confusion, speed, and directionless direction
imbedded through our stems.
Our color can fade and rejuvenate with our emotions,
but despite it all,
the fear, the joy, the hate, the perplexities, and depravities
we are all beautiful
just like the rose that may prick our finger, and make us bleed,
only to remind us
we are alive.

Sonnet 1

Sonnet 1

Que tengo líneas mente de amor,
escrito por la mano hombroso.
Son algo que siempre da dolor?
Se puede los borrar tiempo paso?
There's something about a different stream of thought
that passes in a language not your own
that let's you seep in something you might not
absorb in just the company of your own.
Subconscious tells me I should let him know
our love is bound so inward in my brain
that as I let the other rhythms go
new ripples trace the force behind the pain.
Mañana cantaré la canción
Que sabe, junta mente y corazón.

-Rachel Rosenberg

Mimicry of Pat Schneider's "The Patience of Ordinary Things"

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the case holds its CD,
how the earring rack cradles the posts,
how the paper receives the stab of a pen
or pencil. How the pen knows
what it's supposed to write.
I've been thinking about the patience
of ordinary things, how a blanket
folds comfortably at the bottom of a bed,
and a toothbrush drips in its cup,
and the carpet soaks up the sun,
shimmering through the window.
And the swirling metal of a slinky.
And what is more giving than a book?

"Under the Wings of the Butterfly" Immitation of "How to Listen"

I am going to lie limp on the grass of the park

like a child tired from play;

I am going to watch as a butterfly dips

softly, carefree, beneath the canopy of the mulberry tree--

its powdered wings catching wind 

and carrying itself along the breeze.

I am going to allow the breeze to relieve

me of unwanted thoughts, under the wings of the butterfly.

For once, I will not think about a problem,

or task undone.

For once, I am going to let my mind wander,

just as the butterfly.

An Untitled Poem: Response to "Witness"

I am a witness.
I witness my own life
as it passes me by on the sidewalk
with a casual nod
of acknowledgement.
I witness time
ticking along--
a constant reminder
of my fragile humanity
being held like a porcelain doll
in God's steady hands.
I am a witness.

"Control"

I am going to hunch my back like an old man
with a cane and plant myself in the white leather chair.
I am going to be washed by the pink
sunset which has splattered itself all over the mountain.
I am going to pay attention to our lives
zooming quickly past like shooting stars.
For once, we won't talk about the unraveling
economy or the fancy Mustang that crisply sings.
For once, I am going to ignore the whirling emotions,
thoughts, and chaos
so I can take the moment to stop.
Breathe
inhale, exhale.
And realize that I
am in control.