On Writing

I started this blog back in February of 2015 in my freshman year with a transformative Creative Writing class. The class itself wasn’t all that transformative, yeah I learned good writing techniques and words for things I was already experimenting with. But I was transformed. I learned that my words were important. That people wanted to understand my perspective on life whether that was my Grandma or people from the 122 countries who have visited my words.

When I first started I was writing literally every day with multiple pieces per day. I joined the NaPoWriMo movement in April where you are, supposed to, a write a poem per day for the whole month. I ended up posting 50 pieces on my blog that month. I was always scribbling in one of several notebooks or typing a free verse up. I loved how I felt having finished a poem, the satisfaction that occured.

I continued on at this level for a couple years. In the process my poems and creative essays were published nine times and I had my play produced by a major university. I posted at least 3 times a week. Sure it was difficult to keep to the schedule sometimes, but it was worth it.

I made some great connects with fellow bloggers, some by their words and others talking personally. I follow so many other people’s lives no matter whether it is told through poems, pictures, or write ups about their day. I have found a great community here on WordPress.

But last year my Junior year of testing, huge academic stress, and personal issues hit and my urge for writing slipped. This wasn’t a writer’s block, I’ve dealt with that many times. This was different. To be honest, for the past year almost all of my posts have been saved from years ago that I dug up to have something to show. Sure, writing still gave me pleasure and release, but it wasn’t as much needed as before. I yearned for it’s satisfaction, and yet somehow I didn’t feel like something was missing.

A spark of inspiration would hit that a year ago would have taken a good 250 words to explain, but it would pass before I could get my fingertips to keys. No matter how hard I tried no logical form of letters would escape my keyboard. (You can read a poem about this here)

It’s been over a year since I’ve written my novel. In a year’s time I’ve written only ten poems. I’ve written two short stories in a year. That’s it.

It’s sad.

But I’m accepting it.

However during this time, I have also written a play that received high praise and discussed options for touring. I also written another play to try to see if a third piece can be performed at the major university to break the record there for amount one person’s work has been performed. But my motivations were different for these. I wrote for others, not for myself.

I’ve been writing all my life (read a piece about it here) and have continued to keep a journal for five years. I still have been doing this and have no intention of stopping. It’s fitting though that the journal I’m writing in its cover says, “My Journal: The Original Blog”. Sometimes I just record what I did that day, a funny story, a perceptive. Other days I write lengthy opinions, prayers, parallelism to my life, poems, frantic thoughts.

I don’t want to say good-bye to this place made up of ones and zero and yet which is so so so much more. This has been my life for four years. I’ve written so much. Honestly, sometimes I stumble upons a piece that I completely have forgotten I wrote. Like the words are new to me and they came from my brain only a year ago.

I miss writing poetry the most, a form of expression that I thought was silly years ago. It is true thought captured on a page. (I explain what poetry is to me here)

I will continue to be here. And my blog will continue to be here. But my blog and I will not continue to be here together.

This send off is hard. It’s heavy. It’s thick. But it’s not messy. I knew it was coming for a time.

Writing is still and always will be a major part of my life, but it will depend which part. Writing for everyone and anyone, for a small group of readers, or simply for me.

So I’ll still be around, writing and wandering. But this blog is going to be static for a while. I don’t know how long a while is, but there are 432 other pieces of mine to read.

See me later,

~MavelVarietal

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Stupidman

“And so now Lois thinks I’m not interested in her. Well, what was I supposed to do? Let the fire department take care of the kitten in the tree?” Clark Kent laments his story to Ma Kent on the front porch of his childhood farmhouse.

“Well, Clark, you need to learn how to delegate responsibilities to others who dedicate their lives to this,” Ma explained while knitting Clark’s next Christmas sweater.

Clark sat up, “I dedicate my life to this, Ma.”

“No, you dedicate Superman’s life, but you are sacrificing Clark’s.” Ma stopped knitting.

“It was a kitten!”

“Lois was going to kiss you after three years of chasing her!”

“I can’t believe you, Ma. Doubting my choices.” Clark stands, shoots Ma the look he perfected as a thirteen year old, and flies off in the direction of Metropolis.

Ma Kent sighs and shuffles out to the barn to talk to Pa Kent, “Jonathan, it was a kitten this time. A kitten instead of a kiss is why that big baby boy came crying to me today.”

Pa Kent stops milking a cow, “Again? That boy better figure out where his priorities are.”

“I just wish I get it through his thick skull that Superman doesn’t have to save everyone. He can save the whole world four times over but when it comes to stuff like this, Clark is stupid or something,” Ma Kent says.

Then Pa gives her the best idea since he made lead wrapped birthday presents.

Ma spends the rest of the night finishing Clark’s Christmas sweater. Instead of the usual ionic insignia, she embroiders stupid on it. She sets down her work with smile and kisses Pa on the forehead goodnight.

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Inspired by the image

Skylos Milo

“With my new invention the Skylos Milo which means dog speak in Greek, I will be able to hear what dogs are trying to tell us. First, I will test my device in veterinary hospitals. Stomach ache? Labor pains? Pulled tendon? We’ll be able to understand your beloved canine. Then I will allow the device to be commercialized and the dog can actually be part of the family!” I explain to my potential investors.

“Professor Schwartzman, have you tested this device yet?” A board member asks.

I clasp my hands together, “Yes, I am in the final stage of testing. And I wouldn’t be before you here today if I wasn’t absolutely positive that my device can interpret what dogs are saying.”

The board decides to fund my device. I could not be happier. I rush home and cannot wait until next week for the lab to finish testing. Causally, I walk down my neighborhood street to the corner where the houses have the most dogs.

I have been working for this moment for five years. I start pushing buttons and flicking switches. An excitement unlike anything I have felt like ever before washes over me when I place the device like helmet on my head.

I hear a whirling sound then a dog barks chasing a car. I expect to hear a complex language even if the communication is not in English, but sadly not. “Hey! Hey!”

Then another dog barks at me, “Hey! Hey! Hey!”

Dogs do not communicate as much in sounds as I thought!? My life is ruined.

My device works perfectly, but it is the problem I was trying to solve ends up it is actually not even a problem.

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Inspired by the image

My Decrepit Soul

 

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Story inspired by this image

“Congratulations, Private Johnson, you survived Basic Training,” Dad said patting me on the back.

All smiles, I say, “Thanks Dad. BCT was – really rough, but I’m glad to be able to- to have the experience.”

“Yeah, it was the experience all right.” My sister, Jessy, is doing everything I have not been able to do for ten weeks: chew bubble gum, pop her hip out, scroll through her phone, and say ‘yeah’.

Mom swoops in for a hug, “Well, honey, I am so incredibly proud of you!”

“Thanks. You’re letters really kept me going. Letters keep everyone . . . motivated. You can just see how different people act when they haven’t – uh- received any mail to when they finally have,” I say while at parade rest, a force of habit.

“We tried to write you as often as possible, but your letters just got to us so slowly,” Mom explains.

“Yes, the mail has to go through several, um what’s the word, post offices before coming to the base and often the drill sergeants don’t pass mail out for a week.” It is so strange being the center of attention again.

“Hm, that’s too bad,” Jessy says popping a bubble.

“Well, you must be in the best shape of your life, son,” Dad says.

“No, not really. I’ve got so many ant-bites, rashes and, oh whatdacallit, a stress fracture in my hip. Yes, I gained – muscle, I’m fit. But not the best shape, no.”

I did not realize how difficult it would be to talk. I have been focused on one task at a time and clearing everything else out of my mind for so long. Stringing words together that actually make sense is so foreign to me.

The Army has one large dictionary and the only words are swear words. I hardly swore before, and now restraining from cussing only makes talking all the more difficult.

I have forgotten so much. This morning a civilian asked me if the ground was muddy. I forgot what the word ‘ground’ meant. We have all forgotten voices, lyrics to our favorite songs, names of loved ones.

I feel like my mind is a glowing light bulb, but with the cord unplugged. Where I get my energy, my motivation, my will power is gone. I cannot find it; I am so exhausted not only physically but also emotionally. I have to be strong for my family, but I can hardly be strong for myself. Somehow, unbeknownst to me, I keep going, continue to have my light glow.

More muscle than ever before, but I have never felt this unconnected to the universe outside my own decrepit soul.

 

Think of You

I can’t not think of you

when I see a sunrise

I can’t not think of you

when I see Phineas and Ferb

I can’t not think of you

when I hear a sneeze

I can’t not think of you

when I see a lamb

I can’t not think of you

when I hear “Let Her Go”

I can’t not think of you

when I see white with cream

I can’t not think of you

when I see an elephant

I can’t not think of you

when I see a card game

but isn’t that the way life is suppose to be?

Filled not only with things and experiences

but with people

to define those things and experiences.

And so I think of all the people

that fill and define my life

with a smile

because that is what each of you

make me think of

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Wikimedia/Jessie Eastland

A Wrestler Named Tiny: A Mad Lib

Prompt from 642 Tiny Things to Write About: Once upon a time there was a _____ (adjective) wrestler named Tiny. One day, Tiny was ______ (verb ending in -ing) near the White House when an enormous  ______ (noun) fell on Tiny’s head. Because of that, Tiny was forever _____ (adverb). For some reason, no one investigated (end the story).

I asked my sister to fill in the blanks without telling her the story and she chose: purple, going, Harvard, and shiny. So the story is: Once upon a time there was a purple wrestler named Tiny. One day, Tiny was going near the White House when an enormous Harvard fell on Tiny’s head. Because of that, Tiny was forever shiny. For some reason, no one investigated.

Everyone has heard of the Wicked Witch of the West and her sister, the Wicked Witch of the East, but few know of their Warlock brother: the purple wrestler named Tiny of Washington DC. The Wicked Witch of the West was green but Tiny was purple because all super-villains are either green or purple (I mean there is Green Goblin, Lex Luther, Impossible Man, Annihilus, Hulk).

Tiny was going to the White House to inflict his wrath on the established authority because magic was not allowed in wrestling and he wanted to change the rules. Suddenly, an enormous Harvard fell on Tiny’s head; however, Tiny did not die because his magic powers saved him, but he became forever shiny. The whole event only added to his fame as a purple warlock wrestler, brother to the Wicked Witch of the West.

The similarities between what happened to Tiny and what happened to the Wicked Witch of the East are rather odd: both had magical powers and had buildings dropped on them; however, no little girl stole Tiny’s shoes (probably because they were too small for her because a purple warlock wrestler must have a reason why his name is “Tiny”). There must be a correlation between the Wicked Witch of the East’s ruby slippers and Tiny’s shininess. No one investigated the Harvard v. Tiny incident because everyone was so busy with some girl named Dorothy and some flying monkeys.


Thank you for indulging with me in some silliness. Some days you just feel like being silly and some days the world needs a bit of silly. 🙂

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Memories’s Magic Act

When the world seems too much

When the weather in my mind is rainy

When that familiar ache in my heart whistles its melancholy tune

When I miss you

Then I will think of this moment

I will think of it briefly and sparingly

Just enough to see the sun and change the melody in my heart

Because the more I relive a moment

The less its potency

It fades until the smile it gives

Is only a marred reflection

Of smiles past

How sorrowful it is indeed

That our favorite memories

Disappear

But that just means that we have to make new ones

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