I like these. I have problems crafting stories, but I think I like focusing on small things, like a particular character :)
This is an old one...really rough, I think it's the first one I did. It was during class.
She has a strong, straight nose. Dark eyes shadowed by darker lashes, and a thin face framed by straight, dark brown hair. The styling is austere, hair cut straight across on the back. Only a few, loose strands that slip across her face unnoticed indicate that really she's still a child despite the solemness in her gaze and unsmiling, chapped, cupid's-bow lips. Sometimes, the eyes look so dark, the pupils aren't distinguishable from the iris. All these aspects don't make her look stern, however. There's something about her, perhaps it's her skinniness, that makes her look more delicate than stern.
She wears a school uniform, most times, neatly and smartly, expertly starched, crease-less perfection. She's known how to iron clothes for ages now, and the skill's embedded itself into her hands; it's an art. Putting that all aside, neatness doesn't imply form--the suit isn't flattering. It's purpose is entirely academic. All uniformity.
Anyhow, beyond the ironing, she doesn't focus on her clothes very much. But her shoes are old and kind of too small, and her skirt has gotten slightly short. Not in a miniskirt way, just awkwardly, because she's grown too big for it.
When she's nervous, her eyes flicker this way and that. She keeps looping and relooping her hair back, back, back behind her ears, or if she's standing, she stiffens up like a board, looking at hole worn into the top of her left shoe. When she feels daring at times like this, standing in front of the 62 pairs of eyes that make up her 6th grade class, she'll bring up her hand by her ears again, carefully, deliberately. And reloop her hair.
So she's quiet and reserved, keeping to herself. But she's not standoffish. She's kind--disposed to being sympathetic, and merciful when others do her wrong. And her quietness--it draws other people to her, makes them curious. Who is this child with the silent manner and the silky, solemn hair? Who is this child who seems so curled up, into herself?
She trusts herself the most. Or perhaps her dad because they're the most alike in the family. She used to trust her best friend, but then she was disappointed severely, and though they're still friends, she can't bring herself to put ultimate faith in others anymore. She doesn't quite trust her mother. She doesn't distrust her mother consciously, but inside she's aware that her brother comes first in Mother's eyes.
She doesn't really argue. But when her parents fight, she always sides with her father because she truly believes he's right, and she tries to maintain objectivity. Her older brother and younger sister side with her mother. This is how the family always divides.
Her circle of influence is rather small. She has simple hobbies. When she's bored, she loves to read. She's read just about all the books that the teachers call the "classics." She often rereads Wuthering Heights because secretly, she's a romantic, and she likes emotional stories, whether they end happily or not.
Her sadness is not so simple. She doesn't get sad about things at school, or involved in tangled reality-TV show dramas between her friends. But it makes her sad that her mother needs to work to support the house, and that her father always makes the mistake of trusting his friends with his money. It makes her sad that her father majored in politics and business when he should have been a skilled doctor or lawyer. It makes her sad that her most treasured memory is of her mother, when she came all the way to school once to bring her lunch. At the time, she was embarrassed and pretended she didn't know the woman in the gray apron, running after the school bus with her hair flying everywhich-way, in a messy ponytail.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Oh hey there
I haven't legit posted in this blog for a long time. All of the posts have been stuff I've written for class, or assignment posts. I kind of want to keep a steady flow of voluntary posts in here too...BUT SCHOOL HAS DECIDED TO FIGHT MEEEEE. yeah.
I think I like this course more and more as it goes on. Truthfully, I was kind of dreading it before the school year started. I opened up the letter from school and my heart dropped down to my stomach when I saw "Writing Fiction." I can write literature analysis. I can write journal entries (cause no-no-no-no-nooooooooooobody else can see them). But fiction is a whole nuther planet, darling. And the idea of sharing my creative writing just made me cringe. Literary analysis is more professional, it's based off of another person's work. But something that I bring life to myself seems....much more likely to appear deformed, wrong, weird, boring, dull to others. I'm still dreading the writing workshop. I have no idea what kind of short story I'm supposed to write. I'm used to responding to prompts and whatnot....As you can probably tell, my writing gets pretty incoherent once I decide to write voluntarily and RRRRRamble away to the stars!!!
oh dear. unbelievable.
This is also sort of how I am with my college essay. I don't know how i'm supposed to write this darn thing. And it's awkward when I need to share it with other people for edits. It's supposed to be such a personal, "this is me" sort of piece, but the more people look at it, the more they ogle it, I feel like i need to make it less and less and less personal so I can shield myself from their laser-eyes.
I wonder when I stopped writing fiction. That last sentence implies that at one point and enjoyed and consistently wrote made-up stories....which i did! I was cleaning out my desk, and I found my book of ridiculous stories from when I was 4 or 5 or 6. Haha, it was amusing. but haha, if anyone saw it I think I would be quite, quite humiliated.
My stories were crazy (awesome)! But i am not posting them on the internet. Oh-no, no-no, no-no-no-no-nooooooo. I suspect my stories reflect my state of mind at the time. I also suspect, from the sort of drawings I still draw on the computer, that my mind has not left it's childish state.
...I like my mind that way :)
No-Name.
This next post is what I wrote for the character-yearning assignment. To be honest, I didn't really want to post this. Something about it isn't right...but I can't figure out which part to fix. I've been tinkering here and there, and the wrong-ness just gets worse and worse.
So why did I post it?
I think I feel a certain responsibility to post everything I write for this course onto my writing blog.....Cause not everyone's checking this blog right?!? 0.0....anyways, it's like, I owe it to the blog to not let the flow of posts stutter and stop...so here it is.
No-Name
Janie’s mother wants her to scrap her college essay. She says it’s too dark, uncreative, and untruthful. It is not the Janie she knows, she is sure.
But who is Janie? She is certainly not the same person as Jane Doe, who goes to school and has friends (she hopes), and laughs, and jokes, and fools around. Jane Doe lives outside and doesn’t know how to frown. She has the depth of a paper plate and the contentedness of an ignorant child.
Janie spends her time at home. Sometimes she is laughing with her mother and smiling with a wordless happiness, other times not. Other times she is fighting and saying cruel things. But Janie’s mother sees no reason for Janie to be truly unhappy. She has had unbelievable luck in life. This consists of plenty to eat, a warm home, and a robust moral education. And Jane Doe, of whom Janie’s mother is also aware, has also had unbelievable luck, this time consisting of a busy social life, abundant resources, and robust academics. Between Janie and Jane Doe, Janie’s mother asserts, nothing is amiss.
But there is also She. Janie’s mother doesn’t know who this is.
She. As in, “She who knows not what her name is,” or “She who answers to Janie and Jane Doe, but feels strange in both names, when She takes the time to think about it.” So let us refer to She as No-Name, for the time being.
No-Name is always confused and never knows what to do. She has much too many dreams, and each dream is a much-too-big dream. No-Name sits up late at night, criss-cross-apple-sauced and straight-backed in her bed, thinking. Listening, to the ticking of her clock and her own breathing. She listens steadily as Time circles her, very close, but never near enough for her to catch in her clumsy hands, so the hours always slip-slide-slip and tick-tock-tick away. No-Name dreams even when she’s awake, and she can be ridiculously foolish. She cries and laughs at the same time. She is all feeling and intuition, so there are no order to her thoughts, yet she continues to think and think, until she slips into a deep, dreamless sleep—which annoys her because she likes dreaming, regardless of whether it’s nightmare or fairytale. Perhaps No-Name doesn’t dream in her sleep because she dreams too much when she’s awake. Because she is already a shadow, insubstantial and invisible, when she is awake.
So when No-Name is asleep, she is gone. Non-existent. She returns in the morning when her body wakes up. But she doesn’t stay for long. If people saw No-Name, they would laugh, which is why she never leaves her room. Her captivity is an inevitable phenomenon, she thinks. She is a blundering, illogical, emotional mess. While her mind is quick, her heart lacks defenses. Her heart is an egg with no shell. There’s just that thin, clear membrane surrounding the core—the yolk—and when you poke it, if you dare poke it, it will surely pop, and the yellow will flood out, into the whites, utterly vulnerable and lost.
When No-Name finds herself looking at the Name blanks on her assignments and school forms, she doesn’t know how to sign them. She doesn’t know how to sign the cards and letters that she writes. Janie? Jane Doe? She feels like not signing, or signing as someone else, though she doesn’t yet know who that “someone else” is.
No-Name is rewriting her college essay. She goes through the trouble of scrapping the first because Janie’s mother is right. Her essay is too dark, uncreative, untruthful. But No-Name does not want to write as the Janie her mother knows. She wants to write an essay about herself, truly. An essay that will place her securely on the paper. But how does one truthfully write about oneself? How can one form words when one is a chaotic splatter of ink on a Rorschach test? How does one grab one’s dreams and lay them bare on so fragile a medium?—A medium that can be water-logged, ripped, shredded, burned.
In the end, the name at the top of the paper will be Jane Doe, and the person written into the essay will be Janie. As she writes, No-Name suspects she will fail to leave the confines of her room yet again. Yet again, she sits safe and unhappy in the quiet.
In Class Character Sketch--Assigned Blog Post #3
So.....here is my in class character sketch. The character's name was Mariana "Mari" Ni. She's a stock broker and fears loneliness.
Uh...this is all notes and incomplete sentences....because I was in a rush :)
She's short. 5 foot 3 inches. 5'5" if she wants to impress someone and wears her fancy pumps. She's small, but she accessorizes to the point of almost, just almost excessive. It's not excessive. Just almost. She knows where the limits are.
She likes red a lot. Her long nails are red, and she's got fading red highlights in her hair, red boxy glasses, and her favorite 2-inch pumps are red. She thinks the color reflects who she is, because the deep carmine that she wears often is a color that shouldn't be messed with; it means business and getting things done. Despite her jumble of accessories, even her face sets off a quick, efficient, snappy, neat sort of mood. Brisk. Her watches and rings are simple. The small, cold silver ring in her cartilage pierce matches her sharp, bright eyes, and her short hair is quick to brush, but fashionable at the same time. In all aspects, she's a stockbroker, eyes flickering back and forth, balancing risks, measuring out costs and gains. She's admirably fearless and certain. Though physically she's tiny, her presence is huge. It's like she fills any room she enters. It makes it hard for people to notice that really, she's alone.
Meeting:
She meets her neighbor, Cecilia Thornwhistle after she's moved into a smaller neighborhood closer to the city where she works. It's a sort of crowded, dingy neighborhood, and it makes her feel uncomfortable. Claustrophobic, with a dead garden that isn't fit to feed a cow for even a day. She things her neighbor is sort of a nut, breaking glass at 2 in the morning and waking her up, but to some extent, she's okay. It makes her neighborhood seem slightly more alive. She met Cecilia first when Cecilia came over with a tray of baked welcome-to-the-neighborhood brownies. Mari thinks Cecilia looks tired and slow. Consciously, she pities Cecilia because of Cecilia's sense of emptiness and the unattractive, purple bags sitting under her eyes all the time. But unconsciously, she warmed up to Cecilia immediately. Cuz really, she's just as tired. The business world and being a stockbroker is stressful stuff. There's no trust, or sympathy, no rest, no caring. Being tough all the time is exhausting work. Although Mari sees herself and Cecilia as completely different people, they really are quite similar, both backed into the wall by a society that pushes them forward, backward, left, right, in and out of a maze without end.
Uh...this is all notes and incomplete sentences....because I was in a rush :)
She's short. 5 foot 3 inches. 5'5" if she wants to impress someone and wears her fancy pumps. She's small, but she accessorizes to the point of almost, just almost excessive. It's not excessive. Just almost. She knows where the limits are.
She likes red a lot. Her long nails are red, and she's got fading red highlights in her hair, red boxy glasses, and her favorite 2-inch pumps are red. She thinks the color reflects who she is, because the deep carmine that she wears often is a color that shouldn't be messed with; it means business and getting things done. Despite her jumble of accessories, even her face sets off a quick, efficient, snappy, neat sort of mood. Brisk. Her watches and rings are simple. The small, cold silver ring in her cartilage pierce matches her sharp, bright eyes, and her short hair is quick to brush, but fashionable at the same time. In all aspects, she's a stockbroker, eyes flickering back and forth, balancing risks, measuring out costs and gains. She's admirably fearless and certain. Though physically she's tiny, her presence is huge. It's like she fills any room she enters. It makes it hard for people to notice that really, she's alone.
Meeting:
She meets her neighbor, Cecilia Thornwhistle after she's moved into a smaller neighborhood closer to the city where she works. It's a sort of crowded, dingy neighborhood, and it makes her feel uncomfortable. Claustrophobic, with a dead garden that isn't fit to feed a cow for even a day. She things her neighbor is sort of a nut, breaking glass at 2 in the morning and waking her up, but to some extent, she's okay. It makes her neighborhood seem slightly more alive. She met Cecilia first when Cecilia came over with a tray of baked welcome-to-the-neighborhood brownies. Mari thinks Cecilia looks tired and slow. Consciously, she pities Cecilia because of Cecilia's sense of emptiness and the unattractive, purple bags sitting under her eyes all the time. But unconsciously, she warmed up to Cecilia immediately. Cuz really, she's just as tired. The business world and being a stockbroker is stressful stuff. There's no trust, or sympathy, no rest, no caring. Being tough all the time is exhausting work. Although Mari sees herself and Cecilia as completely different people, they really are quite similar, both backed into the wall by a society that pushes them forward, backward, left, right, in and out of a maze without end.
Assigned Blog Post #2
PROMPT: After reading multiple stories from the same writer, do you start to recognize certain styles or patterns they have in their writing? Are there certain aspects of their subjects that they consistently pay special attention to? Do they have a specific or notable sentence structure? Do they tend to go to the same family of similes or metaphors every time? What common threads do you see? What makes the stories “belong” to the writer?
Now think about your own writing. Do you have a specific style? Is there a certain way you write that is different from anyone else? What is your “signature”? Do you have one?
I think certain styles or patterns are certainly recognizable for particular writers. This is not only for writing style and word choice, but also subject matter and consequently broader trends in tone and mood. Diaz, for example, has stories that speak with a very casual, literal, slang style. His similes and metaphors are often creative, meant to be humorous, and very exaggerated. In addition, Diaz writes stories that is in the context of his particular cultural upbringing. His stories are generally about his family or the people he himself probably new as a child. His heritage and the sort of language he must have used as a child with his family is clear in the overall language of all of his stories. The stories all usually give a bright, lively feeling, and the way in which the stories are told causes the reader to imagine the story as if it were being told in the moment. All of these aspects, then, in combination, create Diaz's unique voice.
As to my own stories, I'm not quite sure what sort of style I have. I think that more experienced writers are able to have they're own "signature" styles and voices in writing because they've written enough to know what type of writing they are most comfortable with. I'm not sure if I've found that yet. It's difficult for me to write, and sometimes I end up reading and rereading my works over and over again because I don't feel like it's quite right. Just now, too, I debated using "because," "'cause" and "cuz" in my last sentence!! Should I write formally? Just as I speak? A little bit of both!?!?!? I dunno. I supposed I do inevitably put in elements of my speech in here. But then there're<--(conjugations always make my stylistically conflicted) soooo many different things that i can do when I tell a story to evoke a certain attitude or mood, I just confuse myself.
One particular stylistic thing that trips me up is the usage of capitals. This drives me nuts. When I talk about death or truth, I often like to personify them. I write Death and Truth, not death and truth. But then I turn it in and get it evaluated, and my paper comes back with red x's over the caps, which gets on my nerves a lot. It really tells me that the person who just edited my paper doesn't think I know how to use capital letters....but I do!!! It was just a style attempt....
So....I don't think I quite have a signature style yet. Or maybe I do, but I don't know it yet. Maybe signatures aren't something to create. Maybe they're just developed naturally, unconsciously, inevitably. How else would they seem so real and fluid?
Now that I've read over what I've just written, I realized something. I like leaving out the "and" when I have lists in my writing. AH-HAH!! So it's a natural unconscious thing. :)
But I guess people can choose to "grow into" styles that they'd like to have....like an over time sort of thing... By shaping and pruning their style, I guess they can make it fit their purposes for writing. But beneath all the changes they make in their style intentionally, I think, they're natural voice will still show hints here and there.
Did this make sense? I hope so. I think I have a confusing style of writing.
Friday, September 10, 2010
I should be doing Chemistry.
I should be doing chemistry. But LOOK WHAT I'M DOING INSTEADDDD
I keep on thinking of things to write about. And then I keep on forgetting what they are.
I really hate forgetting things.
It's the main problem I have when I journal. while i'm writing furiously, I forget the things I meant to say. Especially because i handwrite the entries. Although the Internet is amazing and wonderful, I really DO think there's something magical about handwritten things. Not only is the content meaningful, but the handwriting makes the writing a visual art form also. While people generally maintain a consistent handwriting, it still changes slightly depending on a person's mood or condition. I think that sort of element in reading something adds a whole new dimension. Which is why I love writing letters. Is the handwriting sharp, or round? Does it run perfectly straight across the page, or slant downwards or wobble up and down along the printed lines? Where did the writer mess up? why are things scratched out? What did the writer mean to say? It's all in there, for handwritten letters.
Getting a handwritten letter makes me think of the sender, writing at there desk, scratching things out, or drawing doodles along the sides. And then I realize that there are other people who like handwritten letters for the same reason as I do--the heart and effort that goes in--and the world feels a little less lonely and little more hospitable.
So the price for all that is my ideas. Ideas!!!DSA:FA:L I think of them in the most inconvenient places. and I have nowhere and no time to write them when I'm walking to class during passing period, or in the car, or crossing the street (I should hope not for the last one). So I repeat the idea, over and over in my head until the idea loses its original charm and I get distracted. Then the idea never hits the paper. It never stabilizes. It's gone, and the thought that something can be blasted into oblivion like that, wasted, sorta creeps me out and makes me frustrated when it happens.
I had other things to write about after this.
But guess what, I've forgotten them already.
I keep on thinking of things to write about. And then I keep on forgetting what they are.
I really hate forgetting things.
It's the main problem I have when I journal. while i'm writing furiously, I forget the things I meant to say. Especially because i handwrite the entries. Although the Internet is amazing and wonderful, I really DO think there's something magical about handwritten things. Not only is the content meaningful, but the handwriting makes the writing a visual art form also. While people generally maintain a consistent handwriting, it still changes slightly depending on a person's mood or condition. I think that sort of element in reading something adds a whole new dimension. Which is why I love writing letters. Is the handwriting sharp, or round? Does it run perfectly straight across the page, or slant downwards or wobble up and down along the printed lines? Where did the writer mess up? why are things scratched out? What did the writer mean to say? It's all in there, for handwritten letters.
Getting a handwritten letter makes me think of the sender, writing at there desk, scratching things out, or drawing doodles along the sides. And then I realize that there are other people who like handwritten letters for the same reason as I do--the heart and effort that goes in--and the world feels a little less lonely and little more hospitable.
So the price for all that is my ideas. Ideas!!!DSA:FA:L I think of them in the most inconvenient places. and I have nowhere and no time to write them when I'm walking to class during passing period, or in the car, or crossing the street (I should hope not for the last one). So I repeat the idea, over and over in my head until the idea loses its original charm and I get distracted. Then the idea never hits the paper. It never stabilizes. It's gone, and the thought that something can be blasted into oblivion like that, wasted, sorta creeps me out and makes me frustrated when it happens.
I had other things to write about after this.
But guess what, I've forgotten them already.
Alone
Today (meaning September 9th) was my dog's birthday. My first dog, Terry, I mean. He was put up for adoption about two and a half years ago because my mom got allergic to him. Interestingly, the writing activity today was to write about a time we felt alone.
After her mother left for grocery shopping, she switched off the TV and got up, pulling herself through the still air. She wandered the house aimlessly. She wandered past the empty food bowl set on the kitchen floor. She wandered past the unoccupied dog house in the hallway. She wandered past toys not being played with, a half-consumed chew bone that would never be finished, and an old leash that would never be taken out again. She wandered and wandered, going twice around the living room, through the kitchen, past the dining room, and down the hallway until she'd wandered into her room.
The whole house was quiet--more quiet than it had ever been in seven years. It was so quiet, the stillness was pressing in, digging in, closing in. She sat on the floor, cross-legged by the unoccupied dog bed that made her feel hollowed out inside. Slowly, her gut was crumbling in on itself. It kept crumbling and crumbling and crumbling, until it caved in on itself and an empty, endless pit had been carved in. The pit was growing so huge, even memories couldn't fill it. Slowly it grew deeper and deeper, darker and emptier until she fell in too, and she was sitting at the bottom of the pit, next to her memories.
Where did he go?
Who took him home? Was he tired or hungry, cold, or feeling abandoned by the only close people he'd known his entire life? Or was he sleeping, dreaming, content, satisfied? Though her dog was the one who'd been left at the shelter, she felt like she was the one being left behind.
Where did he go?
He'd been taken to a new home, but she hadn't gone anywhere.
After her mother left for grocery shopping, she switched off the TV and got up, pulling herself through the still air. She wandered the house aimlessly. She wandered past the empty food bowl set on the kitchen floor. She wandered past the unoccupied dog house in the hallway. She wandered past toys not being played with, a half-consumed chew bone that would never be finished, and an old leash that would never be taken out again. She wandered and wandered, going twice around the living room, through the kitchen, past the dining room, and down the hallway until she'd wandered into her room.
The whole house was quiet--more quiet than it had ever been in seven years. It was so quiet, the stillness was pressing in, digging in, closing in. She sat on the floor, cross-legged by the unoccupied dog bed that made her feel hollowed out inside. Slowly, her gut was crumbling in on itself. It kept crumbling and crumbling and crumbling, until it caved in on itself and an empty, endless pit had been carved in. The pit was growing so huge, even memories couldn't fill it. Slowly it grew deeper and deeper, darker and emptier until she fell in too, and she was sitting at the bottom of the pit, next to her memories.
Where did he go?
Who took him home? Was he tired or hungry, cold, or feeling abandoned by the only close people he'd known his entire life? Or was he sleeping, dreaming, content, satisfied? Though her dog was the one who'd been left at the shelter, she felt like she was the one being left behind.
Where did he go?
He'd been taken to a new home, but she hadn't gone anywhere.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Assigned Blog Post #1
PROMPT: What do you think about truth in fiction? How much truth surfaces in your writing? How much of yourself? Does something that comes from a true story resonate more with a reader? (Think about stories or essays you have read.) What role does truth have in our creative work?
The amazing part about writing is that it's so indestructible. It's incredibly powerful. I used to think that preserving things through writing was....not so amazing. Things get lost, burned, smudged, old....whatever. But really, writing comes to its greatest potential and strength when it's read. Because then, it's spreading, and already, it's engraved in someone's mind. A part of the writer is sitting in someone's thoughts. And even when the reader isn't actively thinking about whatever they've read, it's somewhere deep in the crevices of the brain, quietly affecting emotions, memories, beliefs, thoughts, actions...the things that make a human a human, even if it's only affecting the reader a little, minuscule--sometimes unnoticeable--bit.
And the key to the power of the written word is it's truth. Fiction can still hold immense power over people's hearts because under the story and magic and plot and characters, there's reality. While nonfiction lays the truth bare, fiction (in my opinion) is more appealing in that it packages the truth. I don't think one in general is more effective than the other. The degree of truth a work has depends upon the reader. The truth in fiction is wrapped beautifully, and by spreading his/her fiction, a writer is handing off the package to the reader. By spreading the story, the writer is saying, "Here is a little piece of myself. I've decorated it, I've wrapped it, and right now it looks like a book, but if you open up this package, it's really a seed, and then it'll see the light and grow for you."
How can people write without weaving themselves into the letters? I don't mean any kind of writing, like scientific lab reports, or set equations. I mean expressive writing--journals, fiction, nonfiction, poems, songs, and school essays analyzing someone else's work of literature ('cuz those do indicate opinion). Even if someone wrote a bunch of lies about him/herself, there's still that inevitable grain of truth latched on and hanging haphazardly off the end. In such a case, the truth isn't in the content. It's in the intent. It's in one's attempt to hide oneself, to cover oneself, one's fear of being discovered. And if a reader is able to understand those lies, it's true for the reader, too, or at least I think it would be, because all people have tried to hide things about themselves before, right? (i'm not the only one, right?)
I'm going off on a lot of tangents. I need to set some things straight before I go on. There's two types of truths in all writing, including in fiction. The writer's truth and the reader's truth. Of course, the writer's truth is the strongest. The writer is the one who knows the story inside and out, the thoughts behind writing the story, the reason for the story. The writer is the one who went through the pains of making the story, loving the story enough not to abandon it, molding it, shaping it, remaking it, hating it, but coming back to it every time.
The reader's truth is the understanding the reader reaches while reading (alliteration!). The reader's interpretation of the story reflects the reader's own personality, experiences, and beliefs. Two people look at two different sides of a statue. One person sees white and the other sees black. But both are right because it depends on where you're standing in respect to the work. The sculptor knows both sides, and therefore has a general idea of the two different views the viewers possess. But even the sculptor doesn't know precisely how the two sides are being seen. What is it like to look at the white side at a 45 degree angle, and what is it like to look at the black side while being upside down like that ridiculous chap over there?
So the understandings and truths overlap for everyone (or it wouldn't be the same book!), but no truth is exactly the same between two people. I reallllllllly hope this made sense, if it didn't, either you're the ridiculous chap hanging upside down, or I'm the idiot sculptor making my works whilst hanging from the ceiling.
Now to answer the personal parts of the prompt. eh.
Truth in my writing is a problem I deal with constantly. I can't even put all of my secrets into my own journal (that NO ONE GETS TO SEE EVARRRRR EVAR EVAR) because seeing them smack-dab on a sheet of paper gives me heart palpitations. I'm afraid to write semi-personal stories because I'm paranoid and I keep imagining some guy twirling his mustache and asking "Which character are YOU liekkk? This actually happened, DIDN'T IT."
OHGEEZPTAS;DFOIJA;SDLKJFLDFJASLDJ;K.
BUT guess what, I'm workin' on it. sorta. when i feel like it and have time :)
Despite my desperate, and admittedly dumb, attempts to hide myself in my writing, I know that my personal self is always somewhere in there. How much of myself? A lot, actually. It's just that I never show my writing to other people, so I'm the only one who knows about it :p
I journal to put myself on paper. I said that gave me heart palpitations, right? But still. Though I flip out while doing the writing, I grow when I do the reading. I decided to start keeping a journal at about the end of 8th grade to the beginning of 9th grade after I cleaned out my room. There's a connection. BECAUSE i cleaned out my room, I found my little stories and my "장혜지 ONLEY. DONT REDD THIS." diary from when I was...4/5? Probably when I was four, considering i had a 50% spelling rate. But reading that little book with the Winnie-the-Pooh cover was amazing. By reading it, I understood exactly who Diane Jang, age 4, was. Then there were the letters.
Birthday cards, cheesy valentines, passed notes from class, everything...in a Ziplock sandwich baggie. The idea of corresponding through letters and the personalities those records revealed was overwhelming. So I started writing letters again, too. Locker-buddy letters, BFF letters, Pen-Pal-in-Texas letters, sometimes letters to myself in my journal, letters I never ended up giving, letters where I messed up and had to start all over again....And I made copies of everything I wrote, for the record.
Considering how much I now understand of myself by reading from the past, I'd say I put myself completely into my writing. I dig a pit for myself and I can't get out, but I trick myself into thinking I'm covered by popping myself deeper into the soil of what I write. But when the reader digs deeper, I'm still there. Nowhere to run. All of me, splattered on the pages like a Rorschach test. So I eliminated the reader from the equation. I've never shared anything I've really, truly, purely written.
But English class doesn't give me a choice, right?
....scary, but I guess that's cool too.
:)
The amazing part about writing is that it's so indestructible. It's incredibly powerful. I used to think that preserving things through writing was....not so amazing. Things get lost, burned, smudged, old....whatever. But really, writing comes to its greatest potential and strength when it's read. Because then, it's spreading, and already, it's engraved in someone's mind. A part of the writer is sitting in someone's thoughts. And even when the reader isn't actively thinking about whatever they've read, it's somewhere deep in the crevices of the brain, quietly affecting emotions, memories, beliefs, thoughts, actions...the things that make a human a human, even if it's only affecting the reader a little, minuscule--sometimes unnoticeable--bit.
And the key to the power of the written word is it's truth. Fiction can still hold immense power over people's hearts because under the story and magic and plot and characters, there's reality. While nonfiction lays the truth bare, fiction (in my opinion) is more appealing in that it packages the truth. I don't think one in general is more effective than the other. The degree of truth a work has depends upon the reader. The truth in fiction is wrapped beautifully, and by spreading his/her fiction, a writer is handing off the package to the reader. By spreading the story, the writer is saying, "Here is a little piece of myself. I've decorated it, I've wrapped it, and right now it looks like a book, but if you open up this package, it's really a seed, and then it'll see the light and grow for you."
How can people write without weaving themselves into the letters? I don't mean any kind of writing, like scientific lab reports, or set equations. I mean expressive writing--journals, fiction, nonfiction, poems, songs, and school essays analyzing someone else's work of literature ('cuz those do indicate opinion). Even if someone wrote a bunch of lies about him/herself, there's still that inevitable grain of truth latched on and hanging haphazardly off the end. In such a case, the truth isn't in the content. It's in the intent. It's in one's attempt to hide oneself, to cover oneself, one's fear of being discovered. And if a reader is able to understand those lies, it's true for the reader, too, or at least I think it would be, because all people have tried to hide things about themselves before, right? (i'm not the only one, right?)
I'm going off on a lot of tangents. I need to set some things straight before I go on. There's two types of truths in all writing, including in fiction. The writer's truth and the reader's truth. Of course, the writer's truth is the strongest. The writer is the one who knows the story inside and out, the thoughts behind writing the story, the reason for the story. The writer is the one who went through the pains of making the story, loving the story enough not to abandon it, molding it, shaping it, remaking it, hating it, but coming back to it every time.
The reader's truth is the understanding the reader reaches while reading (alliteration!). The reader's interpretation of the story reflects the reader's own personality, experiences, and beliefs. Two people look at two different sides of a statue. One person sees white and the other sees black. But both are right because it depends on where you're standing in respect to the work. The sculptor knows both sides, and therefore has a general idea of the two different views the viewers possess. But even the sculptor doesn't know precisely how the two sides are being seen. What is it like to look at the white side at a 45 degree angle, and what is it like to look at the black side while being upside down like that ridiculous chap over there?
So the understandings and truths overlap for everyone (or it wouldn't be the same book!), but no truth is exactly the same between two people. I reallllllllly hope this made sense, if it didn't, either you're the ridiculous chap hanging upside down, or I'm the idiot sculptor making my works whilst hanging from the ceiling.
Now to answer the personal parts of the prompt. eh.
Truth in my writing is a problem I deal with constantly. I can't even put all of my secrets into my own journal (that NO ONE GETS TO SEE EVARRRRR EVAR EVAR) because seeing them smack-dab on a sheet of paper gives me heart palpitations. I'm afraid to write semi-personal stories because I'm paranoid and I keep imagining some guy twirling his mustache and asking "Which character are YOU liekkk? This actually happened, DIDN'T IT."
OHGEEZPTAS;DFOIJA;SDLKJFLDFJASLDJ;K.
BUT guess what, I'm workin' on it. sorta. when i feel like it and have time :)
Despite my desperate, and admittedly dumb, attempts to hide myself in my writing, I know that my personal self is always somewhere in there. How much of myself? A lot, actually. It's just that I never show my writing to other people, so I'm the only one who knows about it :p
I journal to put myself on paper. I said that gave me heart palpitations, right? But still. Though I flip out while doing the writing, I grow when I do the reading. I decided to start keeping a journal at about the end of 8th grade to the beginning of 9th grade after I cleaned out my room. There's a connection. BECAUSE i cleaned out my room, I found my little stories and my "장혜지 ONLEY. DONT REDD THIS." diary from when I was...4/5? Probably when I was four, considering i had a 50% spelling rate. But reading that little book with the Winnie-the-Pooh cover was amazing. By reading it, I understood exactly who Diane Jang, age 4, was. Then there were the letters.
Birthday cards, cheesy valentines, passed notes from class, everything...in a Ziplock sandwich baggie. The idea of corresponding through letters and the personalities those records revealed was overwhelming. So I started writing letters again, too. Locker-buddy letters, BFF letters, Pen-Pal-in-Texas letters, sometimes letters to myself in my journal, letters I never ended up giving, letters where I messed up and had to start all over again....And I made copies of everything I wrote, for the record.
Considering how much I now understand of myself by reading from the past, I'd say I put myself completely into my writing. I dig a pit for myself and I can't get out, but I trick myself into thinking I'm covered by popping myself deeper into the soil of what I write. But when the reader digs deeper, I'm still there. Nowhere to run. All of me, splattered on the pages like a Rorschach test. So I eliminated the reader from the equation. I've never shared anything I've really, truly, purely written.
But English class doesn't give me a choice, right?
....scary, but I guess that's cool too.
:)
Saturday, September 4, 2010
First Post :D
....not really sure what I'm doing....but here goes--
I didn't really know what to name my blog. :) That's one reason why it's titled the way it is, but it's not the only or most significant reason. I think having my blog called "Nameless" is fitting in some aspects. I think it's the sort of quality I want to achieve with my writing. In writing, every individual word that the writer selects is full of meaning, right? A single word can be intensely powerful, but limited at the same time because words are designed to convey specific concepts, objects, perceptions, etc--which is why word choice is so important in the first place. Depending on the words used, the whole flavor of a sentence changes.
I think it's difficult to learn how to use something so concentrated in a completely professional, subtle way. A lot of the time, I have problems saying exactly what I want to say. The feelings are up in my head, but how do I know precisely what words to use? What's the secret recipe--the perfect combination of words--for something that clearly exists in my head, but is nameless at the same time?
Good writers are remarkable because they bring something that's nameless to light. They figure out the secret recipe, and all of a sudden the light comes flooding into the reader's mind. The reader understands the entirety of the thought the author was seeking to communicate.
Right now, I stumble over my words a lot. I'm often at a loss for words....:) especially when I'm talking and I can't edit what I'm writing, like I'm doing now. I'm still not sure if the first part of my blog makes any sense, because ironically, the "logic" and thought I'm trying to convey is still sort of nameless itself. I don't know how to phrase it, and the ideas are sort of going all over the place.
....
Despite the difficulty, I do like writing. Or at least that's what I think. I'm not much of a creative writer--I've never done much of that. But I enjoy journaling, and the idea of keeping a blog for class made me pretty excited, since I've been continuously putting off writing in my journal after school started. I feel kind of dorky and cliche for saying this, but words fascinate me! Thousands, millions, bajillions of words are spoken a day, so people often take them for granted. Really, though, when I think about words carefully and slowly, like when I'm writing, I start seeing how remarkable they actually are. It's magical how some words seem to convey their meanings just by the way they sound, or how they feel when they're spoken. These aspects, I guess, are what make writing a legitimate art.
One frustrating thing about writing though--it's almost impossible for anyone to write as fast as they think. When I get an idea I end up writing furiously, but I'm always left with the feeling I left out about half of what I originally planned on writing. And in the meantime, my mind is still making up more things that I'm probably going to forget in the next few seconds.
I can't really tell while I'm writing in the "new post" box, but I'm thinking this is a long post. :D
I didn't really know what to name my blog. :) That's one reason why it's titled the way it is, but it's not the only or most significant reason. I think having my blog called "Nameless" is fitting in some aspects. I think it's the sort of quality I want to achieve with my writing. In writing, every individual word that the writer selects is full of meaning, right? A single word can be intensely powerful, but limited at the same time because words are designed to convey specific concepts, objects, perceptions, etc--which is why word choice is so important in the first place. Depending on the words used, the whole flavor of a sentence changes.
I think it's difficult to learn how to use something so concentrated in a completely professional, subtle way. A lot of the time, I have problems saying exactly what I want to say. The feelings are up in my head, but how do I know precisely what words to use? What's the secret recipe--the perfect combination of words--for something that clearly exists in my head, but is nameless at the same time?
Good writers are remarkable because they bring something that's nameless to light. They figure out the secret recipe, and all of a sudden the light comes flooding into the reader's mind. The reader understands the entirety of the thought the author was seeking to communicate.
Right now, I stumble over my words a lot. I'm often at a loss for words....:) especially when I'm talking and I can't edit what I'm writing, like I'm doing now. I'm still not sure if the first part of my blog makes any sense, because ironically, the "logic" and thought I'm trying to convey is still sort of nameless itself. I don't know how to phrase it, and the ideas are sort of going all over the place.
....
Despite the difficulty, I do like writing. Or at least that's what I think. I'm not much of a creative writer--I've never done much of that. But I enjoy journaling, and the idea of keeping a blog for class made me pretty excited, since I've been continuously putting off writing in my journal after school started. I feel kind of dorky and cliche for saying this, but words fascinate me! Thousands, millions, bajillions of words are spoken a day, so people often take them for granted. Really, though, when I think about words carefully and slowly, like when I'm writing, I start seeing how remarkable they actually are. It's magical how some words seem to convey their meanings just by the way they sound, or how they feel when they're spoken. These aspects, I guess, are what make writing a legitimate art.
One frustrating thing about writing though--it's almost impossible for anyone to write as fast as they think. When I get an idea I end up writing furiously, but I'm always left with the feeling I left out about half of what I originally planned on writing. And in the meantime, my mind is still making up more things that I'm probably going to forget in the next few seconds.
I can't really tell while I'm writing in the "new post" box, but I'm thinking this is a long post. :D
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