Start to a Fantasy Story

“Bring the girl here.” Her voice was stern, chilling. “Now!”

My hands tied behind my back, they guide me to her. Someone’s hand grips my shoulder. I stare at the stone ground. I am miles away from my home, in a town seemingly imaginary. “How DARE you,” she hisses, shaking the earth. I feel the tears brimming my eyelids. “You are a criminal, Ophelia! You were my most trusted servant, and you betrayed me. You will not die in honor.” A cry escapes my throat. I try my best to stand tall, to stay dignified. “I hope you enjoyed yourself! You will spend the rest of your life incarcerated!”

My jaw drops. I look up at her, mouth agape. “No! Please!” I plead, but the floor gives out beneath me. They snatch my arms and drag me, my face rubbing the floor. “Please, your highness! Forgive me! My lord!” Then I lose consciousness, due to the increased pressure on my head.

I wake up hours later in utter darkness. I shiver. Chains bond my hands; they press into my now purple skin. Instinctively, I tilt back my head and scream for all it’s worth.

Just a Little Ranting

Prompt: Write about something that really bothers you, then rant about it.

What bothers me most? Love.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe love makes the world go around. It tests people. It defines people. Love is the glue that holds us together when we seem to have nothing left. Love bonds families, bonds friends, bonds two strangers. Actually, we would be nowhere without a thing called love- the most passionate emotion.

But sometimes, love doesn’t go our way. Every song seems to remind you of that person, filling your arms with goosebumps, keeping you awake at night. All your memories constantly play in your mind. That person- that same person who so selflessly brought you into their life- now wants you no longer. No matter how much you wish, how much you cry, you can’t bring them back. They have made up their mind. When you close your eyes, it is they you see. When you clear your mind, you still hear their whisper. When you wake up in the morning, they are the sunshine peeking through the windows.

So now you must move on and act like it never happened. You must go on with your life, filling your daily duties. You mustn’t complain or chase them. That won’t change a thing. No, you must skip the songs that remind of you of them, or turn off the radio altogether. Either is better than the nostalgia. You must avoid taking that route if it was your frequent encounter. When someone asks you about them, you must swallow your feelings and admit that it wasn’t meant to be. It wasn’t meant to be- you know that, right? Erase all your fairy-tale thoughts, erase them all right now. In the end they were only out to hurt you.

I am not trying to be a pessimist. I have seen the world, and I felt my heart rip at the seams. Strangling me, killing me. That is what true, unconditional love does.

I loved love, but it was unrequited.

From EZ Mac to Mac Miller; From Kid to Rap Superstar

It is an afternoon in 2014.

Children explode from the elementary schools, their feet dancing against the pavement. Unlike the surrounding adults, they hold a sense of innocence, a sense of wonder. They don't fear the future; they don't fear anything at all (except maybe a scrape or two). I look at them and give a bright smile. If only I could have kept that drive, that love of life, I think to myself. Life is too complicated anymore.

Instinctively, I retrieve my I-pod and plug in the headphones. I scan through the eight hundred and twenty three songs. I have everything from Rascal Flatts to the Smiths, mostly darker tunes. With a groan, I diligently look for something the least bit uplifting. And there it is.

No matter where life takes me, find me with a smile,
Pursuit to be happy, only laughing like a child

And I do smile. Mac Miller's song "Best Day Ever" never fails to lift my spirits, if only briefly. I imagine his cheeky grin, his sagging jeans, his backwards hat. Anymore, it is rare to find someone who hasn't heard of this rap superstar. He sells out concert after concert; he even has his own show on MTV. But things weren't always so smooth for Mac- he had to work earnestly for success.

Mac Miller grew up in Point Breeze, Pittsburgh- just under an hour from where I live. He often references his hometown, most notoriously his high school Taylor Alldredice. He skipped most classes. In the others, he took naps; he made too much music to sleep. Referring to his early dedication, he says, "Once I hit 15, I got real serious about it and it changed my life completely...I used to be into sports, play all the sports, go to all the high school parties. But once I found out hip-hop is almost like a job, that's all I did."

Besides passing CDs between classes, Mac Miller also performed at a rap club, the Shadow Lounge. A host Thelonious Stretch says regarding Mac, "His charisma has always been at a high level. Because he was already a superstar before the world knew it." His high school knew, though, voting him "Most Likely to be a Rapper" and "Most Likely to be Famous."

While still in high school, he signed with Rostrum Records, releasing the mixtape K.I.D.S, his fourth. "If you're not a kid anymore, this mixtape is about remembering when you were a kid and how you were able to live," he reveals. It has been downloaded over 800,000 times. Due to his success, he went on the "Incredibly Dope Tour" and sold out everywhere. This mixtape includes songs like "Senior Skip Day", which anecdotes his fun high school memories, and  "Nikes on My Feet", which was filmed at Taylor Alldredice.

In 2011, his debut album Blue Slide Park reached number one on billboard 200 chart. The name is derived from Pittsburgh's section Blue Slide Park. Like many others, my favorite is his "Missed Calls", expressing his on-and-off again relationship with Nomi Leasure. This song explores the sad reality of fame, how maintaining relationships becomes much more difficult. "You just don't love me like you used to, think I'm 'bout to lose you," he raps sadly.

Just two years later came his second album, Watching Movies with the Sound off. This album is "very personal and very introspective", covering his addiction to codeine and sex. It carries a much different vibe than the fun Blue Slide Park or K.I.D.S. Every song seems to have hidden meanings, "Remember" a tribute to his deceased childhood friend. But I found that this was the follow-up of fame, the "behind the curtain"appeal. We seem to glorify drugs and partying without viewing its long-term affects. In another song, "Watching Movies", Mac writes as if he views his life objectively.

Imma be fine, no matter the time, just go along with the show

But no matter what variation of Mac you prefer, one thing is universal: his love for music.

Some of My Favorite Authors

These are in no particular order:
Jodi Picoult- With books like The Pact (of course My Sisters Keeper), it is hard to stray from her work. I love the switching perspectives and controversial subjects. It seems as though most of her writings include scandals within households and how these families overcome. They are "larger than life" tales, as they exemplify how a family can suffer and manage to survive. Both books I have read I was not able to put down, which says a lot considering their massive volumes

Emma Donogue- Room. That's all I really have to say. If you pick up that masterpiece, you will understand why she is so successful and rewarded. She writes in the POV of a five year old abducted boy. A very smart child, but a child nonetheless. His thoughts are very coherent and expected of a kid that age. To me, it is remarkable we gain full insight from his character. Such an enjoyable read!

Julie Anne Peters- Keeping You a Secret. A member of the lgbt community, I am always relieved to find books that are relatable. In this novel, we view a passionate love between two teens, two girls. It is so accurate in its scenario; one character accepts herself fully, while the other has never felt such strong emotions. Obviously, family tension arises, and its extremities highlight the struggles the lgbt community still face. Peters does an amazing job capturing adolescent emotions and heartbreak.

Audrey Niffenegger- The Time Traveler's Wife. Now I will start off by criticizing her rapid change of POV, and how both characters seem to perceive things the same. That bothered me a lot. Her writing, however, is flawless and eloquently descriptive. As Henry visited different dimensions, I felt like I was right along with him. Simply because her writing is so vivid. There is so much imagery here, not to mention the entire theme a metaphor. Without smacking us across the face, Niffenegger tells us that no matter what stage of life you visit, never lose track of the ones that mean the most. Put effort into your relationships. Because when you advance to that next step, they will be all you have.

Barry Lyga- Boy Toy. When thirteen year old Josh is abused by his teacher, Eve, he is scarred for life. How can he go on and pretend to be a normal kid? We view Josh's flashbacks through "flickers", tiny snippets of those traumatizing nights. The character's unheard voice is bone-chilling and outright scary. Exciting us further, Lyga continuously promises us that these characters will meet again, that there will be some kind of confrontation. I was running around my house hooting and hollering. Lyga dives right into this scandal and makes us feel for actually both the characters. Although Eve committed a harmful crime, she obviously suffered from a mental illness and will be haunted for the rest of her life. This book teaches us to forgive.

Yann Martel- Life of Pi. This is not a read that takes days or even weeks. To fully grasp this plot, you need to dedicate a good amount of time. Because there are so many themes buried within. I feel as though I will need to read this four or five times to truly understand and grasp all meanings. While reading, I continuously asked myself what made this novel so grand. I could not get it. I promise you, though, the ending makes everything come full-circle, and I guarantee some tears will be shed.

An Essay Submission; Tell me your thoughts

I think it's important for young people to get active because activity sets the tone for one's entire life. Whenever someone exercises, it is proven that one's mood improves and stress levels decrease. This is due to the beta endorphins being released. In addition, many people suffer from depression and other mental disorders. Being exposed to fresh air and sunshine would immediately benefit one's mental health, as opposed to inactivity.

As most people realize, exercise greatly affects physical health, too. Obesity is a widespread problem in America: one out of every three children is overweight or obese. Of course, healthy eating is a significant factor, but exercise is significant, too, if not more so. To at least maintain one's weight, a person should burn as many calories as they consume. How can he or she do so while lounging on the couch, or staring at a television? It is impossible! By decreasing risks of obesity, one also decreases risks of other health complications, such as heart disease and diabetes. So, it is reasonable to believe exercise promotes a longer-lasting life.

If a person decides to exercise too close to bedtime, then he or she will probably find themselves wide awake. Otherwise, exercise has been proven to aid sleep. Doctors recommend teenagers get about eight hours of sleep. As a teenager, though, I can say an eight hour sleep for most of us is a dream. Perhaps it correlates with our lack of activity, our desire to be lethargic. In addition, people accuse America of being “over-medicated”, prescribing unnecessary amounts of medication. Would we be able to reduce sleep medication if everyone just exercised a little more?

In 2013, students failed to achieve academics within the global twenty. Considering international competition, this fact is embarrassing, if not terrifying. Our history includes being the leader of every field, of every aspect. What does this mean for the future of the eagle? Frantic, political leaders demand more and more standardized tests. They practically drill us with exams, and if those fail, we have these exotic new methods to learn. With all due respect, I doubt there is more than one way to add one plus one.

But maybe we are digging too deep, trying too hard. Maybe the solution is much more simple, much less expensive and time-consuming.

I have noticed within my school that those who perform in sports generally receive better grades than those who don't. This doesn't exactly make sense, considering the little free time they are given. Exercise, however, has been said to improve concentration and dedication. One's loyalty to a team connects to one's loyalty to his studies. This is not to mention the brain stimulation during activity.

Before you try that new fad diet or sleeping pills or question your mental health, go for a nice walk around the park. It may help more than you think.

November Rain Inspired

I don't know when this started
I don't want it to end
Keep this replaying, over and over
Help erase those years of pain
I want to forget
everything but your eyes and
your smile-
until the end of time.
The deepest shade of green
captures the passion
of one life lived,
of two lives to be.
Forgetting my name
is the price I pay.
All that I sacrifice
day after day.
Just to see you
and to hold you in my arms
is such an honor,
speechless me.
Until then
I'll dream of the moon and stars
knowing my heart
is connected to yours.

5/3/14

"What did you think? Did you expect me not to marry him?" I snap, my arms folding one over the other. "I LOVE him, Chelsey."

Her eyes now hold a glassy shield; her hands begin to tremble. "I know that's not the truth," she whispers. Her tone makes my legs go weak.

Angrily, I swipe away the sneaky tears. "It doesn't matter whether it is or it isn't." I continue the final coating, dabbing at the easel. "All that matters," I finish, "is that he is my husband, and there's nothing more to it."

I hate myself for those heartless words. I hate myself for smiling soon after, pretending as if I am happy. Truthfully, I am not yet acquainted with happiness. If it were to knock on my door, I would mistake it for the dreariness surrounding my world. Day after day is routine. Routine of self-loathing, self-destruction. I wonder if she knows. I wonder if she can see the misery bleeding through my once exuberant eyes. I wonder if she knows that not a day goes by without missing her.

Her voice pleading, desperate, "Look, I'm sorry that I fucked you over! I'm sorry that I left without any fucking reason, and left you worse than when I met you! I'm sorry I'm such a goddamn awful person! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Her screams elapse through these thin walls. A warning, I shoot her a look, but she continues passionately, "I just want you to know that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, Erica Ann, and I will never be the same. I will never be the same." Tears glistening, Chelsey shakes her head. She is sobbing uncontrollably. Humiliated, she bows her head, her hands suffocating.

I have never witnessed such an atrocity.

"Would you stop it?" I shriek, pulling her hands from her head. But she won't. Her hungry nails dig deep into her flesh, the blood immediately arriving. "Chelsey! Stop!"

She shoves me forcefully and hisses, "How could you marry him? After he cheated on you and used to hit you? And then he fucked that hooker across the street? How could you marry such a piece of SHIT? HOW COULD YOU?"

A sea of tears drowns my chubby cheeks. I swoop up her shaking body. By holding her in my arms, I hinder her mental breakdown. My lips are pressed against her sunny hair. Hushing, I whisper, "Everything is going to be okay."

I always hated lying to her.

Writing What You Know- Yay or Nay?

"Write what you know."

It is a piece of advice that has been around for years, having authors now debating and defending. On advising articles, I have read endlessly about writing what it is most familiar, what is felt and experienced. Fickle, I too have tried to wrap my head around this. Before I wrote my first novel, I went through character sketch after character sketch only to find them in the waste basket.

That's where they always found themselves.

I didn't succeed later with finishing a novel until I focused less on how much I knew. Even though Skewed is autobiographical, there were several elements completely foreign to me- domestic abuse, drug/substance abuse, and murder within a family. That's what allowed me to step outside of my comfort zone for the sake of the reader. All in all, isn't that my imagination taking control? As a creative writer, it truly does a body good to actually be creative. It is not always easy to put one's self in another person's shoes (not to mention the criticism you will receive), but it helps you learn a lot about other people.

As far as setting and characterization goes, it also benefits the brain to learn a bit, concerning maybe India's geography or majors at Yale.

Do whatever works for you. If your heart is feeling expressing your latest heart break, and you'd really like to get back at the whore who did it to you, then you know what you must do. You will have greater character development of Tommy who was just left at the altar. But, if you would rather write about bullied Keith and research symptoms of teenage depression, don't be afraid to learn something!

Stay creative and happy writing! <3

My Faith & My Writing

It seems these two come hand in hand.

I went through a rough period a few months ago. I lost all ambition- through literature and through life itself. When I awoke, I saw the same grey clouds, drowning out my energy. No longer existed the sing-songy sun praising my highest achievements and calling for more and more. I picked up the pen. I put down the pen. I dressed nicely. I longed to go back to sleep. I ran mindlessly around town. I felt without a purpose. I saw the rest of the world. They couldn't see me.  Most would have diagnosed me with depression, but I like to think of it as the day I died- spiritually.

I needed to be reborn.

Stumbling onto the floor, I clasped my hands together and whispered through the sobs, "Father God, I need You more now than ever. I don't have any motivation. I hate myself. I hate everything I've done. I can't do the same things that made me happy. I feel nothing at all anymore. Please...just help me be the person I once was. In Your name..." I didn't stop the tears; they arrived as if through a broken pipe. "Amen."

Little did I know that God was planning everything. He already created the future, my destiny. He just needed me to hold on and not do anything stupid. Knowing me, this wouldn't be simple.

I can still remember how sweet those rose tulips smelled. The beaming sun helped not only the plants  but my heart grow twice the size of the moon. Alone on this journey I traveled. Looking at the swaying tree branches, how the leaves traveled simultaneously, I was becoming one with nature. With each step I was becoming anew- bigger and stronger. 

"Mom!" I bellowed, throwing open the front door. I charged up the stairs, ignoring her curious greeting. The Hulk, I slammed my bedroom door behind me and plunged onto my oak wood desk. My hands groped its exterior. "Oh, have I missed you..."

To Judge or To Not Judge

You know what really hurts?

Being judged.

I mean, I've been judged in the past. Who hasn't? We all have certain qualities that stand out from the rest. That's not a bad thing. In fact, I find it glamorous! Learning about Walt Whitman has given me a lot of insight on individuality, how he still managed to be successful. Being bisexual and writing about it caused him quite a few head aches. Leaves of Grass is still considered one of the most controversial pieces ever written, remarkable considering its time period.

I suppose it is human nature: to look at something, scrutinizing, and notice that some aspects aren't comparable to yours.

I bet you're judging me right now.

But, just because something is engraved into our brains, does that necessarily make it just?

The first way to forgive ourselves is to forgive others, to realize that people make mistakes, that people are people. If all people are people, then we must be all the same, unified. It isn't this simple, though. We descend from different families, different cultures, and a lot of our behavior is hereditary. On the other hand, concepts such as religion, perception, and politics are mostly decided as we age. These things are a part of free will.

Thus,  though it seems tempting to decide who a person is before confrontation, it can be considerate and rewarding to not do so.

Atticus seemed to have gotten it right:

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” 

The Novel-Writing Process

Emerson's Philosophy

The decision to participate in Nanowrimo was the most influential. Nanowrimo is an acronym for “National Novel Writing Month”. Through this free program, one must scrounge together fifty thousand words- all through thirty days that seem to morph together. With work and school and dance, I doubted my abilities.

All my life, I have been infatuated with pen-to-paper interaction. I obsessed over spilling my emotions onto pages and pages of literary murals. As I flipped through previous pieces, I wanted something more, something unattempted. I strived to dive deep into the waters of contemporary authors. What does it take to string together a novel? A lot of dedication and time. Did I know how to manage time, or for that matter, be dedicated? The mere thought of commitment bewildered me. I am only sixteen, I thought repeatedly. My mother and father praised but questioned my constant craft, the seemingly dead-end career. Though I enjoyed carrying cash wads, the devil stole my heart and gave it to those who worship Poe and Shakespeare. As a result, I poured my heart and soul into something that may never see the light of day.

It was late October- the colorful trees swaying with the breeze, inspiring me somehow. I look out my window. A woman strides with her two jack russell pups, they dragging her with them. I don’t want to be like that woman. I want to be an independent soul. I want to be an intellectual with great insight on the world and all its inhabitants. I want to liberate myself from my own body. With my mind, I paint a million different possibilities.

Racing, racing, I return to my desk. It welcomes me with open arms, along with a stack of neglected homework. Spanish Three and Algebra Two does not matter- at least not right now. Right now, the present, I want to build a world with words. I feel a story arise in my heart. There is a character; her name is Ryley Simmons. She has not left me alone! Last night, pillow tossed onto the floor, I begged her to stop poking my side and flicking my ear. She kept bellowing her story to me. When she would not quit, things turned physical- her powerful paintbrush flicking waves of hatred. I awoke, pools of sweat under my arms. I was fortunately unaccompanied and unscathed. I carried my day as if I were victorious.

I scribble her life verbatim, less than twenty-four hours later.

It hits me all so hard- her fragmented life and all its pieces. I recap her love for sketches, how it compared to my words, and how she deeply impacted another’s life. What bothered me was her reluctance to share who exactly this other was, and why exactly they meant mountains. Pencil dancing, I completed chart after chart about Ryley- everything from her favorite food to her shoe size. I wanted to fill every shadow but would never fabricate. Still, as much as I could describe her tragedy, I could not understand who created everything. She had been heart-broken, torn, forgotten. Something other than God Himself stirred that trouble. Masterpieces turning into trash, I could not, for the life of me, discover the other figure.

“What if her match was the exact opposite?” I think aloud, and everything changes. I remember how outgoing and loud Ryley was, how she never feared to take chances. What if this opposing person stayed up at night fearing her parent’s opinions? What if, while Ryley intoxicated herself, the other attended strict Bible studies with these parents? What if this other person wanted more than anything to please her sweet, sweet Ryley, but something supernatural prevented such? Slowly, I was cracking the case. I loathed cliches; I loathed recurring themes. Temptation swindled my finger with his, his lips too close to mine. Controversy invited me. Glancing at the filled trash can, I refused to be another tragedy. I would leave that to my characters.

Ryley and Meg’s story needed to be written.

“What are you doing in there, Elizabeth?” I hear my father cry, his monstrous fist barreling into my bedroom door. I swear he is going to ruin that thing someday. “Don’t you have schoolwork to do? Why are you always writing? It’s all you ever do!” Headphones plugged in, I continue to bob my head and allow the words to flow.

Day after day, from three in the afternoon to midnight, I devote my everything to this project. I hush my constant criticizing voices. I agree to receiving a few red marks. I consume far too much coffee and green tea. Even when I do not express myself, I am constantly using the world as my greatest resource, my greatest inspiration. Nature is especially intriguing. It seems so natural to abandon my piece, but I know too well that one day turns into two, and two into forevermore. At awkward family gatherings, I primarily dodge the anticipated question:

“What are you writing about?”

It is such a simple request that holds so much tension. The need to know can drive a person mad, the curiosity fetal. I understand their eagerness but hope they understand my privacy, my reasons for burial. After all, ignorance has been said to be bliss.

I will forever remember the night: Saturday, November 30th, 2013. After creating the world’s ugliest monster, my personal Frankenstein, I must leave it to the world now. Much like disrespectful children, my work is society’s burden. I decide to name it Skewed, its title shining with both truth and extended metaphor. “Why are you so dedicated to something that doesn’t reward you back?” my mind snickers, simply jealous. Intuition always conquers.

“Liz, we want to hear about your novel,” my teacher tells me as I arrive at her club. My cheeks immediately turn into fire. I am so incredibly honored. Tongue-tied, I have the slightest clue of where to begin. Truthfully, this experience has rewarded me more than anything. I now can say that I have at least written a novel. I remained faithful in the ugliest times, similar to a marriage. Where it goes from here is irrelevant. Like Emerson once said, “It’s about the journey, not the destination.”

Hello!

Today is officially my first day of blogging.

I guess I will begin by telling you fifteen writerly facts about myself. :)

1. I enjoy writing contemporary romance & spiritual work.
2. I listen to a lot of Coldplay and, actually, depressing music. It inspires me the most.
3. I have a lot of trouble writing while I'm happy.
4. Nature makes me want to never put down the pen.
5. I am a prewriting kind of person. I cannot create solid characters without character sketches.
6. I wrote a book, Skewed, for NaNoWriMo, and it was easily the best decision of my life.
7. I have been writing for 11 years-ever since I was six.
8. I am planning to major in English & Literature at some nice college. (Not sure where yet...hahaha)
9. My favorite author is Jodi Picoult. All of her work amazes me.
10. To say I am obsessed with quotes is quite an understatement. I litter my room with everything from Emerson to Will Smith.
11. I loooove deep writing that is either insightful or metaphoric. Or both. If it makes me think, it's getting a spot on my shelf.
12. When I feel creatively insecure, I try to think of J.K. Rowling. That woman literally had nothing and managed to be one of America's most remembered authors.
13. If it's controversial, I have to fling that monster to the public.
14. I try to write every day. Blogging isn't technically writing-writing, but it's something at least. Writing every day means improvement, and I have much room for that.
15. I will never quit.