(Before I let you continue reading this, this is a very boring article about why you should write, how you should write, what you should write. It is poorly edited, and written in a time restraining span. This is just for writers, aspiring writers, and those who believe they are writers.)
"[About writing]...I've also struggled and felt like giving up. While the moments of magic happen, writing, for me, is hard work and at times incredibly frustrating" (http://www.salon.com/life/feature/2011/09/12/writing_reading_imprint?utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pulsenews).
So true. Every time I sit and listen in a writing workshop, I think, wow everyone here is better than me. I should probably just give up. Then I remember, these people are probably thinking the same exact thing. Listen, don't ever give up on your writing. Don't stop. Don't store it away. Keep writing, because someone somewhere out there wants to see your stuff. It may change their life, you never know.
Just yesterday I sat in my poetry class listening to the poets utter life into theirs magical words that caught fire in my heart. I sat admiring, probably google-eyed, thinking to myself that I could never be half the writer that they are. That no one could EVER appreciate my work like theirs. I thought, wow, all the novels I want to write, they all are awful ideas. All my poetry, it's just a bunch of jumbled words on a paper. I am not a good poet nor a good writer. I should just give up. Crumble up my ideas and feed them to the sharks. Run away and never look back.
But I didn't and I won't. I can't just give up. I have a long way to go. I am still a young writer, I have a lot to learn. And when I say a lot, I mean A LOT. My professor made a comment yesterday, though older in age he is, and wise beyond his years, he still learns to write every single day.
I guess you can say that writing is a learning experience. You need to travel the worlds of literature, every sea of poetry, and all the galaxies of writing to be able to craft YOUR own style, your own voice. And even then you won't be able to master it. You are always learning, and I love that. I love learning.
So writer's, I ask you this: why do some of you choose to not read? You say that reading is pretentious, yet all you've read is Charles Dickens, Shakespeare, George Orwell, and all your required reading. Have you honestly sat down to read something in your spare time? I swear you will learn something by feasting your eyes onto a modern day-and-age book, and digging yourself deep into the pages. You will experience worlds you've never dreamed about. You will be blown away by words you've never heard. And most importantly, you will learn. You will learn the different styles of writing, new words, the voice of different authors. And by doing that, you will find your own voice. Because your writing voice comes from what you've last read, I hate to spoil it for you. So right now, what you try and write, is all of your high school required reading. It's all the poetry of the poets you read. It's the lyrics of your favorite band. Go find your own voice. Be yourself.
I have to admit, I call myself a poet but I barely read poetry. I read poetry when it is required, or when I run into it online. So I promise, if you promise, to read it. So read my friends, it is a beautiful learning experience! Also, you need to keep in mind a few things. When you write, don't always write for yourself. You need to have an audience in mind. Don't just write some self-indulgent text. People don't want to hear about how awful your life is. If you are going to write about that, it will soon disappear over time. Write about yourself, but have some ulterior motive in mind. If you choose to write about the weather, personify it to some degree and compare it to something that is important to you and the reader. Draw the reader in, be aware of their intentions.
Writing is hard. It is frustrating. It is annoying. And you almost always want to give up. But don't. Keep writing. Keep up the good work. Keep pursuing your dreams, friends.
Yours always,
Kevin Pees
P.S. I really and disturbed by the fact that people call writers only those who earn money for doing so. Sense when does writing have to be JUST an occupation. Can't it be a hobby as well? A dream, an aspiration? What are your thoughts? What do you call a writer? I'd love to hear your ideas.
to my classmates, my professor, my peers, my elders,
i write to you now, staring at a
blank page of porcelain:
my thoughts, pale like the
marvelous moon reflecting
from the soul in my eyes.
can you see it? the blue? the emptiness
inside these blank thoughts
behind these full frames
of dark?
i sit here, completely attune to
this woeful world, here
in this “silent” study-room
these people breathe like lions
roar. they chew on pencils
like prey, engraving
their murderous marks with their
pearly whites, stained with the remnants of
this morning’s coffee, this afternoon’s
tea. chomping. chomping. chomping.
they crumble on paper
piercing theirs nails into the
grooves of it’s flesh, twisting
their terrible fingers
crinkle. crunch. crack.
i stare at these “silent”
studiers, screaming SHUT-UP
in my head,
which, by the way, is engulfed
in furious flames of rage
and riot
and i am staring, still, at a
blank page
that girl in the corner, wearing
that faded gray hoodie, hiding
behind thick frames, is in texting galore
gallantly giggling in girly
high-pitched shrills, sending shivers
through my spine.
and not those cutsie-wootsie shivers,
it’s those ones that creep and crawl under your skin,
like devils of the damned
that make you scream in your sleep
into your puffy pillow.
and class, you can’t see it,
but my neck is bulging,
my eyes are narrowing
and that boy next to me, consumed
in british literature
is fondling his book, playing with
the pages. crinkling all the notebook paper,
bending back the covers
ruining the spine, folding the corners
into dog ears,
and my mind is playing
on repeat, me bending his back,
ruining his spine, folding
back his fingers. let’s see how
he likes it, because as we all know,
every book has feelings
every book has memories
every book has a soul
and i’m staring at a blank page
things that should have said,
hey class, music is my soul
and my soul is what i like to speak
and speaking is not my specialty so i sing
and singing i do with words on pages
and pages i paint with poetry
and poetry i read and write and love
but hate i do those who hate beautifully
structured sentences, seamed together
with brilliant design
unlike this blank page that has
consumed the blue behind these
crystals i stare through
so class i ask again, do
you see it? the blue? the emptiness
inside these blank thoughts
behind these full frames
of dark?
Isn't it amazing how our long term memory works? I bet you that you can't remember what you were doing ten days ago, let alone ten hours ago, but ten years ago? I guarantee you that most of you can recall that like it happened seconds ago, at least to a certain point. It's a common question that we all get to answer: "Where were you the day of 9/11 when you heard the news?" and often we like to recap it. We like to tear it out of our memory, dress it all nice and pretty, and present it with some detailed description of our own accurate account. Our memory is a brilliant thing. The fact that we can recall this event because it was so HUGE is just, brilliant. But this is not about our memory. This is about the reflection, about our respect, and about honoring those who died.
I'm just honestly blown away by the fact that it's already been ten whole years. I, though the memory is faint because I was but a little lad, will give you what I remember about that day. And in doing so, I hope to hear your recap on this tragic day that we will forever hold dearly in our hearts.
Ten years ago, a ten year old boy I was. And an egocentric little boy at that (like every little kid). I was wearing my dark blue pants and a required, tucked-in collared shirt of some color, with the words "Redeemer Christian School" imprinted on the left breast. The school uniform. I was in my 5th grade class when the principal walked in and asked the teacher to step outside for a few seconds. Except, my teacher didn't step fully outside of the classroom. She did that thing where half of her body was still in the classroom and half of it was in the hallway. This pretty much implied, "Hey class, while yes I am currently speaking outside, I am still physically in here as well." So the entire classroom went quiet. We weren't sure what was going on. In fact, we didn't want to talk anyways. We wanted to listen and hear what was going on. We are all confused. Usually they would call you down from the loud speaker to the principal's office if someone was in trouble. But this time the principal physically came up to our room. Was she, our teacher, in trouble? Were we in trouble? Did something happen in the school? We tried listening, but all we could hear were muffled words here-or-there, a pitch entirely too low to make out. But the way they were talking, the harsh staccato whispers, the body language, it all spoke for itself. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
She stepped back into the classroom, and our hearts began beating rapidly. There was something in her eyes. A different color perhaps, like a shade of gray that we had never seen before. Her face had gone completely pale. Our nerves were on fire, at least, mine were.
She looked up at us, forcing a smile to her face to not show vulnerability. "Well class, that will be it for today." We've called your parents and they are on their way to come pick you all up." We looked at her like she was crazy. The day practically just started. We were excited and yet nervous at the same time.
Someone gathered the strength and asked her, "Why? What happened?"
She looked down to avoid the gaze from our eyes, "That I can't answer, students. That is for your parents to answer as they please. For now, let us sit in silence." So we sat there, apprehension coursing through our veins. What could be so bad that even she, our teacher, couldn't explain?
I sat there, looking around. Shaking vigorously, because I've always been a worried spaz. I was so scared. I thought I had done something wrong so we were all being sent home to be punished, because like I said, I was very egocentric. The world revolved around me. I was too young to understand and too self-centered to realize this had nothing to do with me. It had nothing to do with the class.
Silence surrounded the classroom. No one talked, no one spoke. Everyone just sat there making up stories in our brains of what could have happened. Then the parents came.
I remember it precisely. The parents gathering us in the gym. I saw my mother -- my brother already by her side -- and there was a look in her eyes. Fear I'm guessing, and maybe thankfulness that my brother and I were all right.
"Mommy," I started, "what's going on? Why are they sending us home?"
She looked at me, unsure how to answer it. "Just wait till we get to the van. I'll explain there."
That's it. I did something wrong. I knew it, I could just tell. It was the way she said it. Her articulation spoke for itself. I was in trouble. She wanted to scream at me in the van. But what did I do?
We got into the van, and she drove towards our home in silence. No radio. No screaming. Just her uneven breaths and this deafening silence. But it wasn't just that. It seemed like there was a silence of some sort running through the streets. It hung dead in the air for all to see and notice. Through the trees that shivered in the wind. Through every home that held families gathered around. It was there, and it was terrifying. "So today something happened," she began. "While you were in class a plane crashed into of the world trade center towers in New York City. A little bit later another one crashed into the other tower. They are saying that this was a terrorist attack. Every news station on Television is airing everything. A lot of people are dying and have died already.
"They shut down every Federal Building and every airport is being closed. No planes are allowed to take off."
"But what about Dad? Isn't he supposed to come home today? We're supposed to go over to his house this weekend."
"Yes, but he hasn't taken off yet. He is still stuck in Louisiana [Don't quote me on that, could have been somewhere else.] until further notice. You can call him when we get home."
So we did. He told us that everything was all right, that he was fine, that he would be home whenever he could.
Then we turned on the news. I remember sitting at the Dining room table, ten whole years ago, doing my math and social studies homework, but barely being able to concentrate on it. I was watching the news. Watching the Trade Centers crumble, feeling hope start to crumble. I remember being so full of interest and fear and confusion, that I just put my homework to the side. I joined my brother in the family room and watched the planes crashing into the building. All that smoke. All that fire. The buildings falling. All that debris. The screams from the people inside and from below. The fear in the reporters' voices, trembling. America was terrified. And through all that noise, confusion, and smoke, we were all silent. Happy to be alive, protected by the safety of our families. Protected by the safety of God. Silent.
I remember my mom asking me if I had my homework done and I just sat there, too scared and confused to do my homework.
And I remember the next day after. The halls were silent, every conversation was at a low whisper. Everyone avoided each other's eyes. We all were in disbelief, fearing for what may come next. The teacher in stead of teaching us a lesson, had a discussion about what had happened.
Hope seemed lost. America seemed to be coming down with those towers, at least our morale was. But hope wasn't lost, and America was not crumbling at the seams. We stood taller after that, higher than the towers ever stood. We sang songs, and still do, honoring those who lost their lives. Chills may run through our bones now, but it is not out of fear, it is out of respect. To the innocent who lost their lives, this ones for you. To the firefighters that braved the storm, climbed the tower to save innocent lives knowing they were probably going to die, this ones for you. We were not defeated, no, we were merely awakened. So this blog is written for all of those who do remember. All of those who have a story. What is your story? Where were you when the twin towers fell?
Do not give up hope, my friends. The world is sad and times are tough, yes, but you need to have hope.
"Everything is gonna be alright. Be strong, believe" - Yellowcard "Believe"
So I leave you with a video from my youth. A song that kept me strong, helped me stay believing that we could defeat terrorism. A song that helped me believe in myself as well. It was written after September 11th, and it was track number 11 on the album. I remember listening to it on repeat multiple times, listening to the beautiful melody and the powerful lyrics.
this place grows dead with rotting tongues that spew fire and burn down bridges that souls may never rest on (ever again): a wasteland for the broken, a suburbia for the sick you call yourself gentle servants? your hearts are made of ice, your eyes of ash from the dead: soon you shall join them in their quest, oh wanderers you can spread your disastrous disease, but plagues will reign down from the scorns of heaven, scorching all flowers in bloom with the seeds that were sown by these fools of folly: your minds deceive your heart. you're cunning craftsman but lovers you will never be
My professor assigned my class this writing prompt that I found very exciting and quite interesting. I want to post on here my prompt so you may see into my head and appreciate the beauty of sentence structure. Then I want everyone of you to do something. I want you to do it yourself. Challenge yourself. Open up your mind, expand your creativity with flexible rubber-band-like depth. Go beyond what you can normally do and try this prompt out. It definitely is challenging and a little hard, but it definitely gets your creative juices flowing. So please, if you will, leave in a comment your entry. I want to read all of them. Here are the rules that my professor assigned:
Rules: Write one paragraph, maximum of three sentences, using these 13 punctuation marks: apostrophe, brackets, colon, comma, dash, ellipsis, exclamation point, hyphen, parentheses, period, question mark, quotation mark, and semicolon. You may use a punctuation mark more than once.
My entry:
He stood, towering like a tree – that damn devilish fiend, no friend but foe; “Slender Man” was what they were calling him – staring with his pale, porcelain face into my soul . . . he was eyeless. From the get-go I knew I must’ve been marked (but why? [Slender Man always, ALWAYS had reasons!]), and I didn’t know how I could survive this creature and his psychological haunting: cryptic, elusive, ambiguous. He wore a dark suit, the night concealing his presence, the trees taking him as their own; I blinked, and I was alone.
