Tag Archives: writing

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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Trapped

You used to come so easy to me,

and now I can hardly get a phrase out.

I string together a few letters

and a gust of wind blows them away

higher than any kite in the sky,

but I can still see it.

I yearn for the writing high,

that ache filled.

I crave the feeling of accomplishment

when finishing a piece

and having nothing left to exhale.

It seems like I can’t even

breathe out anymore

with how much my words are trapped.

And it hurts

me

it hurts

to not be able to write

something so simple

and hugely complex.

I miss it.

I’m trapped:

Ask me to write a scholarship essay,

I’ll have it to you in 20 minutes.

Quiz me on Gutenberg printing press influence on the Protestant Reformation in a short answer essay,

I will provide exquisite details bringing a tear to any teacher’s eye.

For my own pleasure,

write a poem or chapter in my novel.

. . . nothing . . .

If I didn’t know better,

I’d think I have forgotten how.

And the little inspiration

I have had

d

i

s

a

p

p

e

a

r

s

Beyond Words

I am a writer at heart

I like to compile my thoughts and emotions

into strings of words

that make others have thoughts and emotions

and so when I cannot explain

what and how much you mean to me

I am annoyed

and at the same time

I cherish it

and so I won’t try to say

what you mean to me,

I will just say you are beyond words

books-1099672_960_720

Pixabay/user:cocoparisienne

Exhaling Midterms

There is only so long that you can take in

before you must put out

Only so long that you can study

and relearn

and process

and read

and take notes

before you must let it all out,

a test isn’t good enough,

no, not at all.

Only so long that you can learn about life

before you must go out and live it.

I can only learn about the “Theories of Intelligence” for so long

before I must go and use my intelligence.

I can only learn about encryption of data for so long

before I must go and make something worth encrypting.

I can only learn about position, velocity, and acceleration for so long

before I must go and make my own motion in the world.

I can only use my “analytical/academic intelligence” for so long

before I must go and use my “creative intelligence”.

***

I love you, my AP classes

but during midterms

(rather more, anytime)

I need to make something

to have the input and learning seem worth it.

***

I need to exhale after weeks of inhaling.

Inhaling:

integrals

the Law of Universal Gravitation

the Vigenère cipher

literary devices

SAT vocabulary

the double approach-avoidance conflict.

I just exhaled this poem,

in a heaving, heavy, ugly breath

because I have been running a race

and the finish line is midterms.

***

Life should be like breathing,

not all inhaling

and not all exhaling

but a balance.

***

I feel like I can breath again

study

Because We Have To

A few days ago,  I was really feeling down

I wasn’t my bubbly self and I haven’t written creatively in a few days

I had a busy weekend coming up that I needed to be myself.

I had a few hours after I had finished my work and before I had to run off somewhere

so I wrote a chapter my novel and couldn’t stop

within three hours I wrote 1550 words

it just started spilling out of me and my fingers were foxtrotting across the keyboard.

After I finished,

I was full of energy again and back to myself.

I think I had so many words that needed to come out that they were literally weighing me down

I write because I like to and because I have something to say,

but also because I have to.

Today I was rereading my second favorite book and it fit perfectly:

“What I’m trying to say is some people do things because they feel they have to. Some people paint pictures or make sculptures because they want to. They choose to do it. But some people do it because they feel that’s what they must do. . . . [Creating art or writing] it’s the only way they know how to make sense of themselves and the only way they can make sense of life. It’s the only way they know how to say something about themselves and about life they feel they need to say. . . . Strikes me you’re saying you do it to keep yourself alive.”

~ Aidan Chambers in Dying to Know You

typewriter-801921_640

Pixabay/Unsplash

The Words Themselves

I am currently re-reading my second favorite book.

I got a copy of it for my birthday

and I am writing all over it,

Underling phrases

Blocking off paragraphs and pages

Scrawling in the margins little notes to myself

It seems like when I do this

then I become a part of the book

and not just the book a part of me.

The book becomes personalized,

an outward sign of the impression the words have left on my heart.

So when someone else reads the words I’ve written

and the phrases I have underlined

Then they see to my heart and my mind.

The second reader trespasses on my personal

private

heart and soul.

And that’s something deeper,

sometimes,

than the words themselves.

book

a;dflskj

When I go onto WordPress

and click on the

Create a New Post

icon

the first thing I always type is

a;ldks

A random fingering of home row keys

first learned in fifth grade typing class by Ms. Naughton

well, that is formally,

to be honest

I’ve grown up with keyboards

and letters on them

I knew the keyboard

before I knew my letters

but at that point

the keys and the letters

might as well have been scribbles.

as;lkd

is what I always type first in the Title box

because

a piece of writing should always have a title

but not before it is finished

If you decree your title while you are still writing

then it might as well be just scribbles

scribbles on a keyboard typed by a four-year-old

for a piece of writing

evolves

and transforms

and adapts

and twists

and turns

a million times before it is finished

So for now

I’ll leave my title

as scribbles on a keyboard typed by a four-year-old

for pieces of writing and life

it is never finished.

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