Showing posts with label writer's block. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writer's block. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 10, 2013 | By: Brianna

Apology Post

I feel like I should probably apologize because my brain is not with me.  In fact, I just don't really feel creative today, but I'm bouncy and downright pleased with myself.  Not really sure why though, I've got a lot of ideas bouncing around in my head, but none of them want to splat onto paper.  After cranking out this post, I'm off to watch the Doctor Who movie, because I hear it's full of wonderful ridiculousness.

Point being, I'm sorry.  I'm really sorry that I didn't write a legendary poem, I'm sorry that I spent my time at work writing a letter that I'll never send, I'm sorry that I came home and ate pasta with enough garlic to choke a horse, and I'm sorry that I spent more time on the phone than effort on this poem.

So these are random snippets of things that I wrote while I was at my internship.  Shhhh...

April 10, 2013

One in two kissers agree
that you are superb,
a real ace.
Prince Charming, corpse kisser,
ain't got nothing on you.


My imagination ran away
with me,
grabbing my hand
in one sweaty palm
and tugging me
down an alley.
It wanted to see
where the betrayers live,
the ones who expect much
and doublecross
the hearts of friends.

In other news, my forays into cooking have proved pretty successful.  I haven't died from undercooked chicken, and I even managed to make a few things that were delicious on purpose, though I couldn't really tell you what I did different from the times that they didn't turn out delicious.  I made chicken tikka masala because I had a craving for it, avocado pasta-ness (which is essentially guacamole as pasta sauce) because I love avocados with all my heart and soul, and then there was the pork fried rice that I made tonight with some leftovers.  Unfortunately there were no mushrooms, so I couldn't use those.  But on the bright side, there were onions, so now I can repel any intruders upon my quiet evening at home.

"Everything you can imagine is real."
- Pablo Picasso
Tuesday, April 9, 2013 | By: Brianna

Separation Anxiety

I was all over the place today.  I was going to write about drawing blood or booty calls and snack foods, but neither of those ideas really struck me as something that I wanted to write about.  Not sure if it's just because I'm discontent with my current cache of ideas or if I'm hitting a wall, but there it is.  It would be really great if I wasn't hitting a wall because it's fairly early in the month and I should really keep writing.  Because that's a thing.

Yesterday I met up with a friend for dinner (we went for Thai food and it was awesome), and she asked me, "So your Poem-A-Day Project is basically for forever now, right?"  I shrugged noncommittally.  To be quite honest, I have no idea.  I don't know if there's ever going to be a point when I say, "Huh, I think I've written enough poems, I'll just stop writing daily ones."  Because who knows if I'd ever actually write poetry on my own time without the constraint of writing one a day?  And who knows if they'd actually turn out?

My brain is telling me that now is the perfect time to write another zodiac poem because I'm at a loss for what to write...but I'm not really feeling that either.  Not for today, at least.  And I have no idea why!

Oh, my life is so difficult.

Luckily an idea struck me on my way home from internship #2.

April 9, 2013

When you left this morning,
I thought
you were never coming back.
I panicked.
Ran straight to your bed,
rifled through the rumpled sheets,
found the edge of memory foam,
and chewed.
The porous soft stuff
was tough to tear,
but once I got a hunk,
the mechanical chewing
made me feel better.
And the sheets still smelled
like you before you shower
and you know how much
I love that.
So with memory foam
hanging from my lips,
I forgot
to clean up.
I rushed into the closet
to cuddle with your
new $75 leather boots.
Lonely
and hungry.
I ate them.
I'm really sorry,
I just missed you so much.
And I didn't know
what else to do
because you said peeing inside
made me a bad dog.

"A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than he loves himself."
- Josh Billings
Friday, April 5, 2013 | By: Brianna

Virgo

I'm not really sure what I'm doing with this poem challenge.  I feel like I probably shouldn't write about the zodiac signs on a whole because that's going to be full of horrible generalizations that no one will like.  And I'm not sure how I can do something from the perspective of the sign, unless...my creativity died.

Or I'm just lazy.

Let's go with lazy, because I'm not sure how or where I could bury my creativity if it really passed on.

Okay.  But typically there's a list of famous people that go along with the sign.  New idea, I'll write something from their perspective, but slant it with the zodiac.  Or from the perspective of a constellation.  That might be cool.  Or maybe from the perspective of the "ruling planet," or one of the lucky numbers.  I suddenly feel like I might have a better handle on this now.

So I apologize for the craziness that is the Virgo poem and how it's not even a little finished (I promise that one day it will be better and finished), but here we go.

April 5, 2013

Everyone begins as Virgo,
the late summer, early autumn,
awkward in-betweeners
grabbing on to the hem of chaos
and trying to fold it up neatly.
Holding a magnifying glass
over the seams
to see if the threads match.
And if they don't,
someone will be notified.

On another note that's completely unrelated to poetry, I cooked food yesterday.  Not only did I cook food, but it was delicious.  And I made it that way on purpose.  I'm not sure how it happened, but I'd like to thank all the kitchen gods and the gods of fire for blessing me and not burning down the house.  It'd be really unfortunate if my parents came home to a pile of ash and a note saying, "Sorry, I was making dinner..."  Oh, and the chicken cooked all the way through, so I didn't die.

Note to self:  don't watch half a dozen vlogbrothers videos before writing a blog post or you'll be thinking at the speed and tone of John Green's speaking voice.

"Once a Virgo doesn't like you, they probably won't ever like you again."
- Unknown
Friday, March 29, 2013 | By: Brianna

Poetry Friday: Preludes

I forgot it was Poetry Friday.  I almost didn't write about a poem, but luckily I remembered in the nick of time!  Huzzah!

So today I read T.S. Eliot's "Preludes."  I remember reading bits and pieces of this poem in my British literature class, junior year of high school.  This was one of the first poems that helped me decide that poetry might be cool to read.  It helped that there are some lines in here that show up in "Memory" from "CATS," and there was a time when I was in that musical...I don't really want to talk about it, it involved spandex and a painted wig.

And my brain is fried.  Hooray!

I promise that next week I won't be so horrible with Poetry Friday.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now is about the time of the month when I talk about my plans for the upcoming month of Poem-A-Day.  April's actually National Poetry Month and also National Poetry Writing Month, so hopefully that means that people out there in the world are taking part in some sort of poetry writing/reading shenanigans during the upcoming month.  For myself, I'm setting myself the challenge to write a poem about each sign of the zodiac. I'm not really sure how I'm going to time them or how I'm going to set them up, or even if I'm going to write them all in similar styles, so we'll see how that goes.  I'm also playing with the idea of posting this month's poems here so I can formally take part in the National Poetry Writing Month things, but that didn't work out too well last year, so I'm a little hesitant.  Plus that would throw off my whole "putting poems in an envelope and not reading them till the end of the month" routine.

"I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing."
- T.S. Eliot, "Preludes"
Tuesday, March 19, 2013 | By: Unknown

Something Old: Eden's Diner


AMIE
An entire book in one week.  That’s unbelievable!

CLANCY
(mumbling under AMIE’s comments)
It’s impossible.  Insanity.  It can’t be done.

AMIE
Any idea what you’re going to do?

CLANCY
No. (sits)  I have nothing.  It’s impossible.  A WHOLE book in a single week?  (Rests forehead on the table)  Nothing’s coming to me.

AMIE
That’s called writer’s block.  Nothing ever comes to you.  You always need to find a “muse.”  But you’re just stressed out.  And you can’t write about nothing.  Why don’t you write about…a writer with writer’s block?

CLANCY
 (rests chin on the table, after a pause)
That sounds oddly familiar…But you know I can’t leave my protagonist alive at the end.

AMIE
He could kill himself.

CLANCY
No.
(forehead on the table)

AMIE
Alright.  Then why don’t you write about that murder that happened recently?

CLANCY
What murder?

AMIE
Didn’t you hear?

(REPORTER enters, and CLANCY isn’t really paying attention.)

REPORTER
This just in.  (mouths words) of (mouths)  Publishing Company has just been found in his office with several bizarre stab wounds in his back.  No word yet on possible suspects or the weapon used in this murder, OR when it could have occurred, but we will keep you updated.
In other news, theatre students from Loyola Academy---

AMIE
(cutting off REPORTER.  REPORTER exits.) 
It’s either that one or the one involving the cat.

CLANCY
 (chin on the table)
 I wouldn’t know which one to pick.

AMIE
You should definitely go with the backstabber.  (Gestures vaguely.) There seems to be a lot of explanation needed for that one.

CLANCY
(Pause)
And the cat murder is self-explanatory?

AMIE
(shrugs)
It’d make a good story.  Use your imagination.

CLANCY
You sound like a kindergarten teacher.  It’s impossible.  I could never pull it off with so little time.

Pause

Well, what are you going to do?

AMIE
I’ve got a couple ideas I’ve been tossing around.  I’m just worried about where you’re going to find inspiration.  For the sake of competition, of course.  I mean, I hate to beat you without you even trying.

CLANCY
 (Sarcastic)
 Of course.  I’ll think of something.  Possibly.  Maybe I’ll find something under “inspiration” in the yellow pages.
Saturday, March 2, 2013 | By: Brianna

This Post Has No Point

The fact that I could possibly have writer's block with regards to a blog post that could quite literally be written about anything at all in the world...makes me really sad.

I mean, I could write about the day that I had today.  It was a pretty good day, all things considered.  I'm now the proud owner of two brand spanking new bookshelves (which trust me, I'm going to need when taking into account that my dresser is full of books rather than clothes), and a roll top desk.  That's right, folks, Brianna has a desk.  And it's gorgeous.  Well, it will be, once we clean it up.  On top of that, I went to the Creative Chicago Expo, and I didn't get nearly enough buttons, but that's alright, because I didn't really go with a strategy.  But I did get fed a delicious lunch by my mother while we were downtown, which was nice.  It was actually just really nice to get out of the house again.  And then I finished a scarf.  And I'm not-so-secretly hoping that the person the scarf is for isn't reading this post, because it's supposed to be a surprise at this point.

And yesterday I lay around doing nothing and feeling like death.  Until I forced myself to eat a piece of toast, and then it was like a miracle occurred and I was returned to health.

And Thursday I went to my first ever storytelling show in the city, and it was awesome.  Tomorrow I'm going to my second, and that's when I get to see Here's the Story in person.  I'm incredibly excited because I've been listening to these podcasts for the past couple weeks, and now I'll get to be there and hear the stories first hand!  Plus, you're looking at the newest intern for the non-profit marketing section of Here's the Story.  I'm only a little smug, but a lot a bit excited!

And Wednesday I got to catch up with a couple friends from high school, and I'm really excited to hear that they're cool with hanging out again!  Plus they're in the neighborhood, which makes hanging out significantly easier.

So life is looking up.

And that's really all I have to say.

Alright, have a good night.

"I love Jell-O.  I love the way it comes in rainbow colours, wiggles and jiggles and looks like brains."
- Megan McDonald
Tuesday, January 1, 2013 | By: Brianna

Challenge Day 1

Here it is, the first day of 2013, and the first day of my daily writing challenge!  I'm super excited to see what comes from this, especially since I'll also be continuing my Poem-A-Day Project until further notice.  So here we go: Day 1: Re-write a classic fairy tale.  Unfortunately because I happen to be starting off this year with a little bit of scatter-brainedness, it's more going to be a collection of scraps of re-written classic fairy tales.  YAY!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Belle sat alone on the floor in the castle's exquisite library, surrounded by a circle of open books, all of them untouched.  Instead, she had her laptop sitting on top of a short stack of books, and she was typing away on a review for Amazon's Kindle posted as "RosesThorn":

...coldly lit screens imitating the old pages that inspired them.  Their memory stores entire libraries within their sleek frame, but I am constantly drawn to paper.  It's so much more difficult to literarily eavesdrop when I'm looking over the shoulders of e-readers and every page looks alike.  There are no covers to judge on these books, which I guess is a good lesson for society to learn, but still.  How many phrases go by the wayside when books become endangered?  What happens to libraries?  Will they become museums?  I don't understand why someone would need to carry an entire library with them when they can only read one book at a time anyway.  Carrying actual books, and you can really alternate if you must.

She felt rather strongly about this.  Belle brought a finger to her chin, looking critically at that last sentence and shaking her head.

"Belle, that one's not going to work," she mumbled to herself, hitting the 'delete' key and starting over on that last sentence.

As she pondered what she could replace that last clunky sentence with, her Facebook flashed a notification. Belle navigated to the tab that held open Facebook and scrolled her feed to find the post.  It was from her father, tagging her.

So sick.  My only consolation is I got to see my Belle one last time.

Belle's eyes widened and she stifled a short sob.  Not only because of her father's sickness, but because of the sentence fragment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rapunzel's favorite thing in the world was pizza.  Unfortunately, the tower in which she lived was not conducive to making pizza if only because the one time that she tried...her mother had not been very happy because it had gotten close to burning down the place.  That might have been due to the fact that she didn't own a pizza stone, but she wasn't really thinking.

So the only way she could possibly get her pizza fix was by ordering delivery.  Every single day.

"Yeah, it's me again.  I'm the one in the tower.  Can I get a Hawaiian pizza today?  And a new take-out menu, because the one I had fell out of the tower and it didn't really end well," Rapunzel said, chattering into her brand new smartphone, the one she got for Christmas.  "Absolutely bacon is okay, is that even a question?  You can send your usual delivery guy, he knows what to do.  Thanks!"

Rapunzel did a little dance around her tower, rejoicing in the imminent arrival of pizza.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And that's all I've got right now aside from the idea of Snow White running a dwarf brothel which just might show up in a poem one day just because that idea amuses me.

“If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.” 
- Albert Einstein
Sunday, April 1, 2012 | By: Brianna

NaPoWriMo #1

Today I learned that National Poetry Writing Month was a thing in addition to National Poetry Month, and it's April!  You can find information here: http://www.napowrimo.net/.  And there's a Twitter account that you can follow.

I wasn't feeling too creative, but I did write a small bit of a poem-ish on April Fool's Day based on the first line that my friend gave me.

April 1, 2012

I'm pregnant,
only not really because
I thought I'd make
an April fool of you.
I really thought
you'd believe me
while I carry
my food baby.

I promise on my soul that these will get better.  I've been doing my Poem-A-Day Project for 7 months now, and the first couple in a month are usually rough.  So we'll see how this goes.  Ready?  WRITE!
Thursday, March 8, 2012 | By: Brianna

Stranger than Fiction

Today after having finished all of my homework for my classes tomorrow, I decided to settle down to watch a movie and I picked Stranger than Fiction.


I love this movie quite a bit.  It's one of the few movies that I can tolerate Will Farrell in because he's not doing stupid and painful things, and it actually seems like he creates a character, which I appreciate.  Plus Emma Thompson is my hero.  And it's about writing.  As a writer, I feel compelled to fall in love with anything related to or dealing with writing.  Plus I understand the depths of writer's block that Karen Eiffel feels.  No joke.  As demonstrated by my blogging of late.

I'm intrigued by the idea of meeting a character that I've written.  Maybe not discovering that I've killed them, mostly because I don't think I've ever killed a character in my life, but maybe talking to them.  So I'm going to write a little about that.  We'll see how it goes.

-------------------------------------------------

It was mid-afternoon in Chicago, and a young woman sat in a large room, the walls lined with bookshelves.  The young woman had golden blonde hair and green eyes hidden behind black plastic rimmed glasses.  She wore an overlarge cream old man sweater and she sat in an armchair behind a large desk covered with papers.  The papers were strewn across the desk in no particular order, some scribbled on in strange corners and others completely blank.  Bent over the desk's surface, the young woman looked up only when she heard a knock at the door.

"Come in."

The young woman watched as the door opened to reveal a girl in her mid-teens who seemed to be wearing every article of clothing she could find on the floor of her closet.  The girl was clad in about seven layers of clothing, all covered by a tan trench coat.  A maroon beret sat jauntily atop the girl's mousy brown hair.  The writer watched as the girl looked around the room, taking in the stacks of books, the paper strewn across the desk, and the carousel horse standing in the corner on its wooden hooves.

"Have a seat," the writer said, gesturing to the chair across the desk from her.  The girl sat down without a word, realizing only then that her mouth was still wide open from her journey across the room to that very seat.

"Um, hello," the girl said, looking up at the writer who had been as captivated with the girl as the girl had been with the room.

"Hi, yeah, remind me again, who are you?" the writer asked, pulling a beaten up composition notebook from the haphazardly arranged papers and notes.  She opened it to a fresh page and poised the tip of her cheap pen over the white.

"I'm Marcella, I thought you knew me already," the girl replied, folding her hands in her lap.  She wore mismatched gloves, one without fingers and the other that was made from a thin material that allowed her free movement.

"Oh, uh, yeah, I do, don't I?" the writer sputtered, a nervous smile creeping onto her face as she wrote out notes about the girl's attire and general attitude towards their meeting.

"I love the carousel horse, how did you get him to follow you home?"

"Excuse me?"

"The carousel horse.  Usually they don't like being cooped up in one place for very long, and they only ever go places if they follow someone there, so how'd you get him here?" Marcella asked, blinking her midnight blue eyes.  There was no sign of jest in her face, she was dead serious.

"Oh, aaah, well I'm not really sure, actually," the writer admitted with a slight shrug.  "About why you came here..."

"I wanted to ask you for a story," Marcella said.  She delivered this statement with the same seriousness with which she asked about the carousel horse.  She blinked at the writer and nodded pointedly.

"A story."

"Yes.  You see, you wrote me, but I don't have a story, so I'm kind of stuck," Marcella explained, her face scrunching up a little as she described her predicament.  "I'm not really sure how these things work, so I thought I'd ask and see what you can do about it."

"Well, I don't really know what to tell you, I don't have a story for you right now," the writer said apologetically.  She had abandoned her notebook a couple bullet points ago and had lost her place in her own notes.  "I honestly have no idea what to do with you."

"Well, let's start from ridiculous and go from there."
- Stranger than Fiction
Saturday, November 19, 2011 | By: Brianna

Senior Moment

Q:  So you're a senior, eh?

A:  Yeah, what's it to you?

Q:  So that means you have to do all sorts of senior-y things?

A:  A tad more specific than that, but yeah.

So I have to write a paper for my Senior Seminar class.  This paper has to be about 18-20 pages long.  And I've never written a paper that long before.  So that would be hurdle number one.  I'm also writing about Margaret Atwood's Lady Oracle.  For a professor that I've written really horrible papers for in past classes I've been in.  And when I say those papers were horrible, I'm not kidding.  I'm so totally not kidding.  Lots of not kidding-ness.

I wrote about 10 pages for my rough draft.  I got that back a little while ago, and it's sat in my backpack for about a week, maybe more.  It took forever to write originally.  Anyway, I took a clean copy of it and went through it on my own and marked it up and then added in the marks from my professor.  So now I have a master copy with all the edits that I need to make.  All my comments are in happy orange and my professor's are in pink, so it's a really happy draft.  But that doesn't really matter.  Because despite all the pretty colors, there's a LOT of them.  (I know that sentence didn't make sense, we're just going to leave that alone for now.)  There are a LOT of pretty colors all bleeding on my paper, and this creates the problem for a lot of work for Brianna.  A lot of work for Brianna during a weekend when she's going to have a friend staying with her.  And Brianna's going to want to hang out.

So that leaves Brianna here.  Blogging instead of writing her paper.  Because that's definitely the smartest thing to do at this precise moment.  Yup.  Awesome.

My paper file is open on my desktop, it's right there.  Draft 1.  Yup, there it is.  It's staring at me.
Saturday, October 22, 2011 | By: Brianna

Question Saturday

Q:  What's your interpretation of a recent dream you had?

A:  One of my keys was bent in half.  My RA key.  I would say that has something to do with my apprehensions about my job and fulfilling expectations to the best of my ability.  Performance evaluation this week, so...yeah.

Q:  Why do you think people say someone's "bananas"?

A:  Because saying that they're "kiwis" is weird?

Q:  Why is it important to be genuine?

A:  Because the alternative is so difficult.  If you spend all your time lying about who you are, what you like, where you're from, etc., it's just difficult to keep all the lies straight, and then if you figure out that the person you've been ingenuine towards is someone you actually would rather be genuine with....it would just be way too complicated to straighten out all the deceptions.  Besides, would they like your genuine self?  All sorts of complications there.  Being genuine's just easier.

Q:  What happens in the latest movie you saw?

A:  The latest movie I saw was Puss in Boots, and I would tell you about it...but it hasn't been released in theatres yet.  (Spoilers...)

Thank you to IWU Homecoming for giving us the chance to see Puss in Boots before it's official release!

Q:  What was your major in college?  How did you choose it?

A:  English Writing.  I knew I wanted to do something with writing.  At least, I was pretty sure.  It was a toss up between creative writing and theatre.  At some point in second semester of my freshman year I spent the majority of my time explaining my actions with "and that's why I should be an English major..." so I declared an English major because it was simple, natural, and it just felt like the right thing to do.

"Write a lot, but read even more."
- Amanda Hocking
Thursday, October 13, 2011 | By: Brianna

Just Write

"Just write."

You have no idea how many times I've been advise to "just write."  And I'll admit it, I've been guilty of advising someone to "just write" when they're stuck.  But what does it mean?

Whenever someone tells me to "just write," I feel an unyielding desire to yell back at them: "And then what?"  Or "duh."  The whole point is that I have writer's block.  If I were to "just write," where would that get me anyway? When I "just write," I write about writer's block.  Or I write about how whiny I am.  Or I just whine.  Or I write lists.  Lots of lists.

So "just write"?  I understand the idea behind it, the idea that you should just write without trying to censor yourself, without correcting your typos or your grammar (it's ten times easier to do that on the computer because the "backspace" button is just so easily accessible...).  Just write and write and write until you plow through the writer's block and end up on the other side with...what?  A page full of randomness?  Granted, a page full of randomness really wouldn't be that bad, but what are you supposed to do with that?

Just write.
I've read that writer's block is merely a refusal to write.  So basically writer's block is a coward's excuse for not writing.  It's kind of like giving yourself permission to be lazy or give up.  Which is why I write about it.  Because every time I think of that saying, I feel guilty.  So instead of just sitting around and wallowing in self-pity about my writer's block, I write about it.  And it's great.  I kid you not, the majority of the things that I'm proudest of are actually about writer's block.  And some of them you can still tell that they're about writer's block.  Mostly because the title tells you so.  Or because the characters reference it frequently.

So write.  Allow the randomness.  Give permission to your inner child to come out and play for a little while without censure.  Because that's what it's all about, right?  Writing.  Creative self-expression.  And if you're not going to have fun with it, what's the point of doing it?  (That's another rant for another day.  Why do people insist on doing things that they don't enjoy?  We'll think about that later...if I can remember...)

Granted, "just write" is a lot less infuriating than "let the real Brianna write," because at least "just write" is a piece of advice that I can follow.  But for a second, can we ponder that second bit of advice?  "Let the real Brianna write."  So who's this "real Brianna"?  And how can I let her write if I don't even know if she exists?  Maybe I should let her "just write" and I'll get that great American novel onto the shelves.

"A truly creative person removes all self-imposed limitations."
- fortune cookie
Monday, September 19, 2011 | By: Brianna

Forget You?

"The calendar says March 10th, but the last day you remember is March 1st."  (Thank you, Twitter!)

I woke up on someone's couch.  It was this squat puke green number with the stuffing oozing out of one of the arms and I was sprawled out across it.  I blinked a couple times in an attempt to get my bearings right up until I realized that my glasses weren't jammed onto my face in their usual position.  As I sat up, the room swayed around me.  I closed my eyes and felt around on the floor next to the couch for my glasses, coming upon them only after nudging aside what I hoped was a dog's chew toy.

Once my glasses were in place, it was much easier to get a handle on where I could possibly be.  One side of the room was made up entirely of very dirty windows that looked out on a rusted metal fire escape.  The walls of the room were plastered with old movie posters and torn up wallpaper.

"Where...am I?" I croaked, discovering only then my sore throat and the fact that I must not have spoken in a good amount of time.

It was then when I saw the day-by-day calendar lying on the coffee table next to my makeshift bed.  March 10th.  March 10th?  That couldn't possibly be right.  It had to be some sort of joke.  I grabbed my hair and squeezed my eyes shut trying to remember the last date I could.

March 1st.  Again.  It couldn't be right.  March 1st.  My best friend's birthday.  What had we done that night?

I wrenched my eyes open and surveyed my surroundings again.  Same movie posters, same torn wallpaper, same dirty windows, and a half empty coffee mug on the table near the calendar.  Non-descript, and virtually harmless.  Hopefully.  I examined my arms, looking for some sign that I had been abducted or kidnapped or beaten brutally and then sent into a nine day coma.  No luck.  I did find a stamp on my hand in the shape of a fleur-de-lis, but that could be from anything, right?  I searched the pockets of my jeans and found my cell phone (dead), a wad of singles, a crushed gum wrapper, a penny, and an arcade token.  Leaving me with...no indication as to what I had done nine days ago or what I was doing here right now.

And leaving me essentially...at a loss.

That is, until there was a rattling at the door.  Someone stuck a key into the door and turned it, allowing them entrance into whatever prison or haven this might be for me.  I opted for the most logical method of defense: playing dead.  I flung myself back across the rundown couch and promptly shut my eyes, realizing almost too late that I was still wearing my glasses, giving me about a half a second to throw them onto the coffee table and return to my sleeping position before the stranger came walking towards me.  I froze, expecting the person to turn and walk away at any moment, but I could hear them coming closer until they were kneeling on the floor next to me.  I felt gentle fingers brushing the hair off my face and heard an exhale of breath before they stood and retreated, leaving me where I was.  I could hear the stranger rummaging about in one of the connected rooms, but they collected whatever it was they meant to get and left without a word (which makes sense considering they believed me to be asleep.  Or dead...).

Once I heard the lock click, I bolted from the couch, grabbing my glasses as I set off to explore this place where I had woken up after days of whatever it was.  The kitchen was just as sad as the living room where I had awoken, with dirty dishes in the sink and very small amounts of food in the refrigerator.  There was only one bedroom which was dark, but fairly neat.  The bathroom I left for last because I figured it would be the most revealing.  And I was right.  When I opened up the medicine cabinet, I found the usual aspirin and Band-Aids, but I also found a single prescription bottle made out for Keri Kalman (thank you, random name generator...) as well as nail polish remover and a modest collection of earrings.

So I had been kidnapped by a woman.  Okay.  I could deal with this.  I was sure I could take her.
But then there was that hair brushing thing.  And she took care of my glasses.  No kidnapper would be that worried about their prisoner.  Unless they wanted their prisoner for other things that they needed to be kept alive for...like ransom...or being sold into slavery.  I wasn't sure my parents would pay a ransom, and slavery was out of the question, so my only conclusion was that I would have to escape.  Unless this Keri Kalman had saved me from something worse.  The apartment was modest, and may have looked rundown, but all signs pointed to the resident being good-hearted or at least having good taste in movies.

March 1st.  March 1st...it was Marcella's 21st birthday.  We thought we'd go out with some friends and make a tour of the bars and clubs in town.  Your average 21st birthday celebration.  We had about three of mine and Marcella's mutual friends with us, and we had hopped three bars.  We were feeling a little tipsy by this point.  It was my idea to check out this new club in town...

"Come on, guys, it'll be fun," I giggled, grabbing Marcella's hand and making my best puppy dog eyes at her.  "Marcie...pleeeeaaaaase?"


Marcella was willing to do just about anything at that point, but our friends decided that it was high time that they went home.


"Fine!" I called after them, my interest turning swiftly back to the peeling paint on the front of the new club's door.  You would think that they would repaint before opening said door for business, but apparently not.


I dragged Marcella inside only to discover that the club was dark, the only light coming from the green strobe light at the front of the place where the DJ was playing some strange music that seemed to combine an Irish jig with your typical rap beat.  I may have been further gone than I thought at the time, but I could have sworn that I saw a guy with goat legs approach me and Marcella, shoving a Solo cup of some liquid into my hands and taking Marcella out onto the dance floor.  I looked down at the cup that I had taken out of reflex and bent my head to sniff the liquid.  It smelled like a mix between honey and roses, and the second the scent hit my nostrils, it was all I could do to keep myself from drinking it all in a single gulp.  The substance called to me.  "Drink me!"  It was like the bottle from Alice in Wonderland had a voice and was conspiring against me to be rude to this random guy.  But he and Marcella were halfway across the dance floor and it didn't look like they were coming back anytime soon.  Why not?  "Just a sip" turned into "finishing it off" and then I was being handed another cup by hands I didn't recognize.  By this time Marcella and the guy were nowhere in sight.  The last thing I remembered was throwing my third cup of the same sweet liquid into a trash can and giggling maniacally as I climbed up onto the bar...
Sunday, September 4, 2011 | By: Brianna

A Letter to Writer's Block

Dearest Writer's Block,

We meet again.  Oh yes, you know me.  At least you should, after that extended relationship we had for a good couple of years.  I woke up next to you every morning those years, and every morning I was disappointed.  You know this.  We did not part on amiable terms.  I'm sorry.

But I've found someone new.  It's Inspiration.  This relationship is everything I've ever looked for, and you know that because you got jealous every time I flirted with Brilliance at the corner store.  And I'm not trying to write this letter to torture you, I just feel that you need to know my situation.  I'd love to know what's going on in your life if you'd like to write back.

Anyway, Inspiration and I...we're like magic.  We stayed up until two in the morning, Inspiration talking while I wrote.  And I did write.  I never wrote while I was with you.  Now I feel the words itching my fingertips as I write.  You'd think that would be uncomfortable, but the words merge with my motions and flow onto the page with only the effort of creating a pen stroke.  I've written in the dark with Inspiration.  I've written in the morning, scribbling out words quick enough so they don't skitter away before I can pin them down with ink.

And it sounds great and all, but I have a problem.  That's the real reason why I'm writing to you.  I need your advice.  I know, me asking you for advice is akin to asking a brick wall to pick up and move to Nevada, but I didn't know who to turn to.  Inspiration walked out.  I woke up this morning and felt the space on the pillow next to me only to find what I feared I would find ever since this relationship with Inspiration began.  An empty pillow.  Inspiration must have snuck out some time during the night.  We weren't really talking at all around midnight last night, and maybe Inspiration wasn't really feeling it anymore.  We didn't even fight.

I want Inspiration back.  I'm not sure if you've seen Inspiration about, but it'd be really great if you could let me know if you have.  Because I need Inspiration back.  We had something great going on.  I wrote all the time, during classes, at home, on recycled paper and on loose leaf, with a fancy pen, and sometimes with one of those Sharpie pens.  It was amazing.  I even managed to blog a couple days in a row, and that was virtually unheard of until Inspiration showed up.

I'm a better person when Inspiration is around.  I'm more excited about life, I'm enthusiastic about my work, and it just feels so much better when Inspiration is around.  I may have been a little sleep-deprived, but it was worth it because Inspiration was there, and we could wake up with bags under our eyes together.  We could shuffle through the day without drinking caffeine because neither of us need it.  I was wittier.  I was more put together.  I knew what I was doing.  I never needed prompts for my Poem-a-Day September exercise, and then today I needed to use itunes shuffle to help me write a poem.  They weren't even my own original words, Writer's Block!  That's why I need Inspiration back.  I can't even find Brilliance any more, I think Brilliance might have left town with Passion.  I'm not sure though.

So if you've seen Inspiration, can you say that I'm sorry?  I'm sorry that I stayed up watching Mulan and drinking wine instead of writing poetry.  I'm sorry that I didn't walk Inspiration home after a couple tarot spreads.  That wasn't fair of me.  So I'm sorry.  Ask Inspiration to come back.  For me?  If you could do this one thing for me, I would be so grateful.  I'll take you out for lunch some time.  Please just ask Inspiration to come back to me.

Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.  I hope our time together hasn't meant so little to you that you won't do me this favor.  I would do the same for you if (God forbid) anything happened to you and Motivation.

Have a good day!

Cheers,
Brianna
The Lost Writer

"Enthusiasm is excitement with inspiration, motivation, and a pinch of creativity."
- Bo Bennett
Monday, July 18, 2011 | By: Brianna

Hitchkratz's Guide to the Galaxy: Walking

The entry on "walking" in The Hitchkratz's Guide to the Galaxy is highly illustrated, picturing humans young and old strolling through a variety of locales including (but not limited to) parks, gardens, cities, country roads, and the moon, but only for casual strolls.  Then there are also the people walking about in sweatbands and athletic shorts, drenched in their own sweat.  These humans presumably walked a great distance in high temperatures, or have had a bucket of sweat poured over them for the purposes of taking the photograph.

An expert in the study of walking observes:

Walking is exercise for the people who don't exercise.

Eloquently put, this observation is held among elite circles of people who venture out into the world for the express purpose of creating perspiration.  But there are other folks who walk for both fun and recreation.

Walking is a simple matter of falling and catching yourself continually until you get to the place where you're going.   There are some humans who find this practice difficult and manage to forget to catch themselves, thereby falling on flat ground and injuring themselves (though not permanently.  Experts have concluded that such consistent falling takes a toll on a person's "pride" more than anything else and once that store of pride has been depleted, it is quite difficult to win it back.).

See other entries related to this one: walking on sunshine, walking contradiction, walk the dog
Wednesday, June 8, 2011 | By: Brianna

Teachers

First off, before I answer any questions, I'd like to make the observation that summer has successfully helped me forget what day of the week it is, the date, and what I have to do on any given day.  Luckily, I don't have anything too pressing to worry about, but all the same.

Q:  Who was your favorite teacher in elementary school?

A:  I had three.  In first grade, I had Mrs. R (names have been changed to protect the innocent and everyone's privacy).  She was the sweetest lady.  I just remember loving her class.  She encouraged me to write, and when I told her that I wanted to write a story, or become an author, she was the first person to say "Hey, you can do it!  Just practice!"

For third and fourth grade, I had Mrs. V, because I was in a "split class" which meant that half the time she would teach one grade something, and the other half she would teach the other half.  If that makes any sense. And then there must have been certain projects and assignments that we all did, because I remember it working fairly well.  Well Mrs. V was also super sweet.  She was this little older lady, and once I hit sixth grade, I'm pretty sure I was taller than her.  I remember those two years being really difficult with my friends  because we were always fighting.  I'm not even sure about what, but people were always fighting, and we always had to go out in the hall with Mrs. V and figure things out.  It was weird that I was out there so much because I always thought I was more quiet than the girls that were really fighting fighting, but I was involved in some way because I remember going out there.  After I left her class, I don't know for how long, but I remember journaling back and forth with her.  I would write her letters in this notebook and leave it in her mailbox in the office, and she would reply and do the same.  She just always made me feel special!

For fifth and sixth grade (split class again), I had Miss F.  Now Miss F had a reputation for being a tough teacher.  Everyone in the school knew who she was because she was tall, and she had this curly red hair that she always pulled back into a low ponytail.  Her class was supposed to do a ton of projects, and rumor had it that she wasn't very good at teaching math.  Those two years I remember vividly, well, kind of vividly because I did all sorts of projects from a presentation on Egyptian food to the Medieval Banquet (for which Miss F was famous because everyone looked forward to doing it) to burning a paper goat as a sacrifice to the Greek gods, to two years worth of the wax museum in the lunch room (one year as Sara Knight and one year as Augustus Caesar).  We did SO much when it came to history and I loved it.  I loved coming up with interesting ways of presenting the material, and I loved showing up everyone when mine was super creative.  Those years were also the first two years of the school play.  In fifth grade, we did Wizard of Oz and in sixth grade we did Annie Jr.  I was told by some gossipy older girls that Miss F (because she was the director) favored the students that she had had in class with regards to the casting, which might have been why I got to play Lily St. Regis in Annie Jr.  Didn't bother me, mostly because I benefited.  Which might be wrong...but hey.

It might be because it was so long ago, but elementary school just seems like a blur to me.  I don't remember much, but those things that I do remember are mostly silly things.  I remember being on the "crossing guard," which meant that I got to wear this orange belt with a badge on it and help stop cars so people could cross the street safely on their way to school.  I had the morning shift, so I didn't have to cross an excessive amount of people.  During the winter, we could go to the gym to get hot chocolate from the gym teacher who was in charge of the crossing guards.  Sometimes we brought our hot chocolate to our classes, and all the other kids in our classes were jealous.  Some of us got to be on the color guard for assemblies, so that was a big deal.  I got to be a guard for one of the flags, but I had to help the girl who carried the American flag because it was super heavy.

I remember playing silly games, mostly playing pretend (creating a band or being a group of witches, or playing Harry Potter characters) or four square or sometimes jumping rope.  Or tag, I loved tag.

On the rainy days we had to stay in the auditorium, and sometimes they would play a movie, but I don't remember anyone actually watching the movie because they never played anything good.  We usually turned around in our seats and talked to each other or passed notes.  Oh passing notes...

I remember in fourth grade I developed my first crush on a guy who was two years older than me.  Which I kept mostly a secret.  Okay, I told my friends, but that was about it.  I remember sending him a candy-gram or whatever the elementary school equivalent was, anonymously in sixth grade because I really had nothing to lose at that point.  And when you're little, you really don't know what to do with your liking of someone.  I remember I got to go to the rehearsal for eighth grade graduation that year, and I'm not sure why.  It might have been because I was on color guard.  But I cried so much because I had a bunch of friends who were graduating that year, and it just felt like the end of the world.  Eleven years old, and I was convinced that the world was ending at that very second.  I remember walking through the empty hallways to get back to my class, and one of the boy crossing guards who was also an eighth grader but not the guy that I liked stopped me and asked me what was wrong.  I explained rather quickly because I had to get back to class, but then he asked if I wanted a hug.  Me being the not very touchy-feely person that I was in sixth grade nodded pathetically even though it was out of character, because I needed a little comfort.  And that is still one of the best hugs I've ever gotten.

Our old librarian retired at some point during the time when I was at school there, and her replacement was evil.  I was sure of it.  But even though I absolutely hated her (because she was evil), I sucked up to her, and through some strange miracle, she liked me.  At least, I think she did.  It was pretty much amazing.

I remember the ladies in the front office knowing who I was, and I remember being in the front office quite a bit, though I was never there to see the principal.  So I'm not exactly sure why I was always there.  I just remember sitting on that bench that was set into the wall and staring over the counter at where these ladies worked.

I remember the younger kids lining up to come into school on the side of the building, and the older kids lined up in the back.  I remember they used metal detecting wands on our backpacks a couple times during sixth grade, but I was never really sure what they were looking for.

I remember saying that I would miss all my friends from elementary school while I went on the middle school at a different school and they stayed there for seventh and eighth grade, but I remember losing touch.  It was just one of those things that we realized that we didn't really have much in common any more.  And now that I think about it, I think about the way our lives have diverged so much that it's weird that we were together for those short years.  That we grew up partially together.  And just look how different we are.

"I've been making a list of the things they don't teach you at school.  They don't teach you how to love somebody.  They don't teach you how to be famous.  They don't teach you how to be rich or how to be poor.  They don't teach you how to walk away from someone you don't love any longer.  They don't teach you how to know what's going on in someone else's mind.  They don't teach you what to say to someone who's dying.  They don't teach you anything worth knowing."
- Neil Gaiman
Tuesday, January 19, 2010 | By: Brianna

Some Preferences

As I attempt to write close to every day this month, I've discovered a number of preferences I've developed through the years. Going through my old writings, I was relieved to note that my handwriting has improved since 4th or 5th grade or so. Definitely good to know I don't take up half a page with three sentences of my gigantic writing. My writing is still admittedly larger than others', but it's significantly neater now. Such a relief.

Preferences:
- Dark black pen, ball point...preferably Bic (none of that "gray" ink, and not the ink that sinks through the paper either)
- NEVER pencil.
- Papermate blue pens, if I have to write in blue. Black wins, usually.
- Notebook over loose leaf, usually.
- Handwritten, not typed.
- Quiet, or very VERY low music.

And that's all I can think of right now. Pretty basic. I was just thinking about it and wondered if any of my quirks were odd. To me, they're perfectly normal, or maybe a little odd, but not horribly so. I mean, maybe the dark black ink is a little weird, but I can tell the difference between that icky gray-ish ink and real black ink. It just looks so much better in true black ink.

A thought on chronic writer's block:
Everything that I've ever read that offers a solution to writer's block tells me, "Just write." And I can't help but wonder, "But how am I supposed to write? I have writer's block!" It's as if those people don't understand what you're telling them. You're telling them that there's no other alternative for you but to pound your head up against a brick wall, and they tell you in that infuriatingly patient text, "Just write." So what they're saying is, you have to struggle and run into that brick wall a couple hundred times with a pen, and then it'll come tumbling down, your own personal Wonderland of infinite story lines. An oasis of inspiration. Is that right? Is the pen mightier than the brick?

"The difference between the right word and the almost right word is really a large matter — it's the difference between a lightning bug and the lightning." - Mark Twain