Tag Archives: writing

pompous snowmen and snowless snow days

3 Feb

“I try to avoid looking forward or backward, and try to keep looking upward.”

– Charlotte Bronte

Well, hello hello! Instead of dwelling on the fact that I have not posted a blog in forever and ever and ever, I am just going to dwell on the things that I find fascinating and important that you, uh, probably don’t.

So, I have been up to MULTITUDES of FANTASTICAL and EXOTIC things in the past few months, weeks, days and hours. Well… maybe I’m exaggerating a little. Or a lot. Or a whole lot. But no matter, because I do have a few things worth mentioning. One being my SUPER DUPER not incredibly successful life in the world of Debate. Yes, this lovely specimen whose life you read about and care so dearly about has begun debating competitively with her school’s forensics team. I am involved in the Lincoln- Douglas debate category and am now an Official Member of the National Forensics League, or the NFL for the People in the Know. I’m not great but I’m not horrible and every tournament is a learning experience and I get a sick rush every time I know I have kicked someone’s ass.
Other than debate and debate and more debate, I have been reading quite a bit more. I recently finished Anna and the French Kiss by (nerdfighter!) Stephanie Perkins, where part of the title of this blog post comes from. I though the book was good, due to how the ending turned out and the writing was sweet and clever. The book started out slow and I thought that the character was a bit stupid, but once you get into the book more and start to become engrossed with the romance and the relationships surrounding each character, it is absolutely fantastic. I also just finished Chuck Palahniuk’s Invisible Monsters, which, to be honest, I was disappointed with. I was told by multiple Palahniuk fans that it was his best work, and it was fantastic, but I think I might have liked Snuff more, but I plan on rereading it eventually, so we’ll see if that changes my thoughts on it. I’m going to begin Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro tomorrow, because I’ve heard fantastic things about both the novel and film.
Aside from debate and reading, I have been tumbling obsessively, arguing with people on tumblr, pissing off my close friends and just generally fucking up greatly. I think I’m going to begin blogging more, to let off steam or what have you. I think I’m going to start going out more, whether it’s alone or with others, because I need fresh air. I need to see things other than the four blue walls of my room. I need different noises and sounds and things to experience. I’m going stir crazy and I’m lonely all the time and I’m bored and I’m aggressive and mean and impulsive with people I care about. I need help more than anything, I need someone to talk to and I need to get out more. But right now what I need to do is brush my teeth and go to bed. Goodnight, lovelies. I’ll see you soon.


p.s. I had a snow day today and we didn’t get ANY snow at all. Twas wonderful.


writing and my weakness

29 Aug

This blog will be rambly and will probably make no sense whatsoever.

“I get nervous when I fly, I’m used to walking with my feet.”
– “Go On”  Jack Johnson

All I’ve been wanting to do lately is write. Poetry or prose, I have no preference and my fingers seem to itch for the quiet comfort of both. But every time I take a pen out and press it to the fresh cream page of my little poetry book with it’s precious few pages that are stained with ink, I seem to freeze up. Nothing will come out, and if something does it’s terrible, awful and must be ripped out at once. Or my pen will have a bent tip, or be the wrong color ink or will smear all over the page and ruin the poem. Whenever I attempt prose, I fumble with the keys that are so sure beneath my fingers when tweeting or going on facebook. But it seems when my heart is on the line, my sanity is in slight jeopardy and my self-esteem is out there, low and vulnerable, I can’t quite grasp the “typing” thing and it seems as if every word is wrong. Phrases are wrongly put, sentences aren’t structured well, there is no story in it at all, the entire paragraph reads like one long boring cliche and so on.
My blogs are even troublesome. I can’t put my visit to Kenyon College in more than bite-sized words. I keep worrying that I will screw up that amazing trip and that amazing day if I write one crappy blog post about it. My blog about Oberlin was simple, and I think it was even semi-good, but I wasn’t so genuinely attached to that college, that trip, that day. I wasn’t concerned on screwing it up too severely.
Another thing I hate to admit is that I have this tendency. This awful, heart wrenching tendency to not be able to stay motivated or believe in myself. Other people keeping tabs on what I do keeps me motivated. Those six or seven of you that read this regularly are the ones that keep me going because it just shows that yeah, maybe someone somewhere out there cares what I have to say or whine about. The reason I love genuine compliments on my poetry is because I feel like if someone else likes it, then I have a reason to keep going. It’s one of my worst weaknesses, and therefore one the most powerful ones, but I need others to believe in me in order to believe in myself. I’ve never quit anything, even the times where I would have absolutely no attention to anything I poured my heart and soul into. When I posted things on fictionpress, I would get one review in a blue moon. My best friend at the time started and she got 2+ reviews a day. It took me weeks to get that much attention on stories. When I started blogging, I had maybe one – three hits a month. Things like twitter and tumblr don’t effect me as strongly, because I’m not putting things out there that I want feedback on, I’m not putting effort into those things, I’m not putting the most important parts of me in those things.


the arctic hotel

22 Aug

“static silhouette somehow.”

– “Rome”- Phoenix

I am currently sitting in a room with textured white walls, boring paintings of roses in vases and outdated 90’s light fixtures. You guessed it; I’m in a hotel room. My mother has blasted the air conditioning to the “Alaska” setting, because Ohio weather does this weird thing where it stays hot at night. As this rather scatterbrained and unclear intro may have indicated, I am not home in my bedroom with the slight slant, surrounded by a wall of mountains in cold Upstate New York. I have traveled down to the flat (yes, the rumors are true. It’s flat, but then again, I live in a mountainous state) and warm, if a little stuffy, state of Ohio.

My parents and I hopped in the car and drove the seven hours to visit family and look at colleges for me. We just got back from having dinner at my father’s cousin’s house, and it was one of the most relaxing and laid back evenings I’ve ever had at a distant relative’s house. They spoiled us with yummy appetizers and sandwiches, and there were kids running around and everyone was just interesting and lively and down-to-earth. Once sufficiently full, we caught up about our respective crazy family members, i.e, my favorite uncle and favorite uncle’s crazy ex-wife. I was thrilled to see these people, and even more thrilled to hear that when they last saw me, at age 10 (blonde and blue-eyed), I was writing. I thought my writing phase began much later, and when I was told that I had been writing since then, even if it was just rhymes and stories about haunted houses… I don’t know. I feel like it renewed my faith in myself and my writing. I’m not going to keep exhausting myself with the “I’m a WRITER, I need to WRITE all the time” mantra.

Whoops, little rambly again, but you must be used to that by now. I lied on twitter, saying there was no blog today, I am working DILIGENTLY on a blog that will be well-written (in my opinion, and hopefully others’) and read through by several other people, considering the piece is rather… delicate. I am expressing an opinion I don’t think many will agree with, nor support, and I really hope that the negativity in the entry doesn’t cost me any friends. And if you would like to read it and give constructive criticism, or even your straight up opinion, say so in the comments or reply to me on twitter. I’m off to read The Hunger Games because it’s positively brilliant.



Here’s a short cheesy story.

“Something is wrong with me,” she said softly, her voice calculating and her eyes dull. Blonde hair swinging in her face as the fire crackled and cast a warm glow over her tanned skin.

“What?” I asked, trying for the life of me to figure out what could possibly be wrong with her.

“I’m hurting. It feels like my entire body hurts like it’s burning, as if fire is pulsing through my veins. I feel like I’m being electrocuted over and over, like sparks are flying everywhere. It’s as if I’m alive and the only reason I feel it is because I’m in pain.” Her shoulders were lit a hazy brown-orange, the yellow lace strap of her tank top tangled in the mess of her long locks, turned golden and shimmery in the light of the fire.

“It’s the drugs, Sara,” I said, taking a long drag from my cigarette. “You’ll feel normal once you sleep it off.”

“But I don’t want to sleep it off,” she said, standing up. Her legs were dirty from sitting on the grass and there were goosebumps scattered across her skin. “I want to feel this pain forever… because it makes me think that if I hurt this much, nothing can ever hurt me like it again.”

“Things will always hurt you, Sara. No matter how much pain you’ve felt, things will always end up hurting you.” She came over to me and sat down close, and we were almost touching.

“You see, it’s not painful, really. It’s just a nagging ache that feels good. Like… like I’m stretching in the morning after the perfect sleep. You know?” She said, her eyelids were dropping down, the high was obviously setting in. I laughed.

“You’re so baked.”

“Mhm. But… this is the best feeling ever! Michael, I… I want to feel this way forever.”

“You’re going to go broke buying that much weed, babe.”

“Michael!” she said, but she whined my name in that way of hers.

“What?! I’m just saying, this is nothing but a high. No good feeling is free my dear. A fact of life, a fact I want you to learn.”
She looked at me, I knew because I saw her hair fall off her shoulder and I could smell her perfume and shampoo hit me with the faint smell of smoke from the fire and cigarettes. I looked at her, her brown eyes were glossy and had spider-web like crimson lines, the faint freckles across her nose were a little more obvious and her small, young face looked at me with an expression I had never seen before. She was serious, in her own Sara-way, but she looked older, and I realized now she’d caught up to me. We were on the same page, and staring down the same road. The fire popped and smoke came at us. I put my cigarette out, any excuse to look away, and I felt her hand rest on my leg. 
Her hand crept up to my own, and she slowly and gently laced her fingers through mine. Her hand was lightly there, not pressing into me, not squeezing my hand. I squeezed her hand tighter, letting my warmth flow through her and then she leaned her head on my shoulder. She shifted over closer to me, pressing into me, our body heat flowing through each other and I felt the pain, the ache, the burning fire that she felt. It seemed as if hours, days, weeks had passed since I spoke, but it was only seconds. Sara sighed and looked at me, then she smiled slightly. Her dark pink lips parted slightly, as flames dancing around, their silhouettes shimmying across her cheeks.

“Michael,” she whispered, and my name had never sounded so good. “you’ve taught me a lot, but this feeling is freer than anything.”

“How so?”

“This ache… I love it. My heart seems like it beats a hundred times faster, my mind won’t stop turning… you know what that feeling is? I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“It’s love.” I said, without even thinking, and I knew I couldn’t take it back. I squeezed her hand tighter, hoping she wouldn’t let go. She smiled again, and turned to look at me.

“Why are you always right?”

“Because I am.” And then she kissed me.

Day 5- a letter to your dreams

14 Jun


I used to think I had you all figured out. I dreamt that I was going to be a published author, possibly even a bestselling one. But lately, I’m not sure. I still would love to do that, if I could for the life of me finish a novel. I stopped reading as much as I used to and the quality of my writing has suffered because of which. But e. lockhart also had that problem; she said that in high school she stopped reading as much and then picked it back up again and look where she is now. Maybe I could still be a writer, but there is that voice in my head that just keeps steering me away. I don’t have any credentials, other than the writing conference that I didn’t even attend. I’ve never gotten published, I’ve never gotten an award, so I won’t get into Iowa or any other college for writing because they’ll just think I suck, have no potential and am just a waste of time. The publishing industry is in shambles, so you need to be a REALLY FRAKING good writer to get a book published, and you suck, so just don’t. You can’t finish a novel anyhow, why bother trying? And so on.
But I do have potential. I’ve been told by the only English teacher who has ever affected me, Ms. Webb. She wrote on my writing portfolio grade sheet “Writing is hard work. Writers work hard. Amazing writers work harder.” At the time, I thought this was a diss to my writing, that by saying I have “potential” meant I sucked. But now, taking a step back (and realizing how much my current creative writing teacher sucks) this is probably the best advice anyone has ever given me, and probably the only honest thing I have ever heard from a teacher, or anyone really.
So, dreams, maybe I don’t know what you are yet. Maybe I do actually want to study marketing and advertising because I find it interesting, not because it’s a good fall back option. But, even if I don’t know what you are yet, I’ll get a glimpse of you when I close my eyes tonight. Hopefully.


self-pity, jealousy, angst

13 May

You might be able to tell by the title that this blog will probably contain an insufferable amount of whining, and if you couldn’t deduce that from the title, I am giving you fair warning: this blog contains a shitton of whining.
Now, what is it you’re whining about today, Caitlyn? I’m whining about the big fat jealous failure of a writer/person I am. See, there is this magazine thing in my region of my state for high school students to submit poetry, short stories and artwork to. Maybe one short story is accepted, and the rest of the content is poetry and artwork. So, as the wannabe poet I am, I submitted about three or four poems, none of which were published. This hurts, so so so much because I am the type of person that has so little confidence in their work, not to mention self, that I need reassurance and someone else to believe in me in order to believe in myself. I am aware this is pathetic.  I am aware that this is just a fancy way of saying I’m weak. But, it is who I am, pathetic and weak, at least when it comes to my work. And my work has such a solid affect and hold on me, that my world can break, little bits at a time if my work isn’t appreciated.
I’m not saying I’ve never heard a compliment, I’m saying that I’ve never believed a compliment, or heard a compliment from the right place. My friends who read my poetry tell me it’s “SOO GOOOOD”, but I can’t help but doubt them and think they’re only lying to me so I feel better about myself, or so they don’t hurt my feelings. And, despite what you may assume from what I previously mentioned, I would prefer someone tell me, honestly, that my poem sucked. But I don’t have that advantage. Or teachers, who when I ask for their opinion, they don’t give me an opinion; they just tell me to either a. read more classical literature or b. edit, edit, EDIT , neither of which helps me much on the opinion front or writing front. So, basically I’m stuck with hearing my friends say I’m great, my teachers telling me what to do and my parents saying I can do anything I want. So I am devoid of an honest, straightforward opinion, which just hinders my work.
Onto the jealousy front. One of my best friends, whom I love dearly, but, unfortunately,  am ridiculously jealous of. She made it to the semi-final round for the speech writing competition at the beginning of the year and then she had her poem published in aforementioned magazine thing. And it’s not as if she sucks and I feel it is unjust she was published and I wasn’t, it is that she is substantially more talented than me and I am jealous. And I know her work is good, really good, but I know, deep, deep de(eeeee)p down, my work is good too. But I always feel less talented the less my work is appreciated. As I think I’ve said a few thousand times in this blog. Not to mention, my teacher insists on analyzing my friend’s poem and emphasizing on how she is published now. We now have a published writer in our class. What do I get? To sit across from my friend, smile and act like everything is fine. I get to get into a writing conference at the college of my dreams, but I don’t get to go. I get to sit here and write a blog and dwell in my pathetic weakness and cry about how untalented and useless I am.

And on that depressing (coughpatheticcough) note,


this blog is made of fail

12 May

“It is not sufficient to see and to know the beauty of a work. We must feel and be affected by it.”

So, I was originally going to write another in a long and agonizing series of would-be witty blogs, but the subject of my freestyle rapping career is just not what I’m feeling today. However, I am feeling like writing about writing about writing about writing about fish. What? Oh right! Writing about writing. TO BEGIN: I will introduce you to my writing process.

1. I look up names on this website: name website thingy

2. After that, I fill out this survey for my main characters.

3. Then I make a VERY rough outline. But I rarely outline my stories, I just jump into writing most of the time.

4. Write.

5. Read again, become over-analytical and delete everything or just abandon the Terrible Writing and avoid it like the plague.

BUT NOW: I will actually try to continue my story and finish it. Basically, the story is about a boy and a girl, Emma and Ayden. Emma is broken, with a troubled past and a lot of problems, Ayden is the best friend from the wealthy family and little baggage, other than that he wants his best friend. Enter Anberlin, the boarding school for “free thinkers, artists and the youth of today with a sense of culture”, where Emma and Ayden go to escape everyone from the city. Emma leading the way, Ayden tagging along under the pretense of his parents’ iron fist of Boarding School Dreams coming down to punch him. Things don’t turn out the way Emma planned; she doesn’t make a huge circle of friends, discover any hidden talents or escape any of the ghosts she left behind, while Ayden has the time of his life. Told in alternating points of view, first person.

So, yes, very rough, still patchy and working on it. Also, this is my third attempt at writing this story and I’ve never finished it. Maybe I just need to move on, but I am in love with this story, no matter how many times it breaks up with me and attempts to file restraining orders. I just love it, despite how much of a cliche it seems like (/is). If I actually do get a chapter done, I will post it here, provided there is some interest.

But, now that I think of it, maybe I should start up my NaNoWriMo story from last year…




SOUNDTRACK: Angst in my Pants by Sparks