story telling.

So recently I had this idea of writing a novella of sorts, not quite a novel (wow - that would be hard) but longer than the prose and short little snippets I usually write. Now, I did not realize how big of a challenge it is to write a story. Not because of the actual writing, as I write almost every day. But because of the "let's think of a plot" thing. It is hard. People sometimes say draw upon your own experiences. But I feel like I have ruminated and contemplated my own experience to such levels that they no longer have the same poignancy, and actually end up sounding inorganic when written down, so rehearsed. I could tell a story about a little girl, like me, and what mischiefs she did - only they sound trite and boring when I write it down. Fondest memories turn into a haze of mediocrity. So then, I thought, why not write about experiences I wished I had, or was glad I didn't. But they sound over dramatic and over the top. Too much.

The only thing I know to write about (or at least write adequately about) is emotion. I could come up with a  boatload of similes and metaphors, and things to compare this feeling to the sound of thunder or the hint of rain in the air. But, you can't write a story without a plot, a climax, a lesson... and in the end, my writing ends up being about the present. I'm so wrapped up in a moment that I can't seem to string together moments, in a fluid chain of experiences that form a lasting story.

For now, I will keep brainstorming. Maybe one day something will click. Maybe this is why some great authors only write one book. They only find one story worthy enough to tell.

small, yet magnified.

Is there a moment that I do not know myself?

Yet, I find you, my soul, there, in silent footsteps

On the outreaches of the dimming twilight;

Her tiny hands, palms out, open, holding the

World, telling me: now, do you know?

The world is smaller than it appears, and

Your spirit is not so big that you cannot see it:

Pressed against the glass window, small yet magnified,

Your soul is encased in this animal body,

And you know it, like you know your own mind.

Do not be afraid now. 

---

Well, I'm basically unsatisfied with how I've been writing lately. I like what I wrote above, but it just doesn't say how I feel sometimes. Like I've changed and I don't know what or who or how I am anymore. It's a scary feeling, to feel at a loss. I'd also like to note that I now understand how people write so many things about love/heartbreak because I feel as though when I've gone through that this past year, I wrote like crazy. And some of the poems were ones that I'm most proud of. 

On another thought, I reread Plato's allegory of the cave (or skimmed it at least) and I remember how much of full and wonderful thing it is. I want to write something so eloquently elegant and original that it has staying power. Maybe someday. 

---

speed up, slow down.

sometimes the words blurt out,
splashing onto a page like the spilled ink that you
once stepped in and left footprints
behind you as you ran away.

my writing is always a frenzy, 

can't stop the letters from clawing out of my throat

like knives scratching me from the inside.

and oh, my heart is a ticking clock: the hands

speeding faster and faster as i look at a
page with lines and lines of space, 

can't erase my thoughts, cause

i'm moving too fast now as

stanzas fly by, but they're

awkward and heady,

so calm down, girl, 

it's alright now, 

just breathe
and, 

stop and think.

but i just lay it all out as 

my body bursts to its seams,

lungs pressed down and starched,

systems still and steady, careful stitches
of skin undone as the surfeit of phrases move

through my blood like living cells.

i hold down on the wound to keep
the blood from seeping out and about,
clotting words making a jumble of thoughts,
and so i lay it all out, for only then, can i finally breathe.

writing.

sometimes, i read poetry and cannot help but be moved by the delicate way that these imaginers juxtapose words.

for instance, my favorite poet is pablo neruda. his poetry is beautiful in spanish (though I am by no means fluent, I have only taken a couple classes of spanish and a crash course in a spanish speaking country), the words just flow and curl around your tongue like the sweetest of flavors. But I read most of his work in english, and the translation is like a wonderful melody.

"i remembered you with my soul clenched/in that sadness of mine that you know"

How I know this feeling! With my soul clenched! I wish I had thought of that phrase to describe this gut wrenching missing, emptiness.

In truth, I love writing. But I write like I have no time and I need to get these words down now, now now. Because I don't take time pouring over which adjective would be best, and most times, I don't bother trying to rhyme because it interrupts my thoughts.

When I try too hard, and look too closely, I end up with a manufactured and stilted piece of poetry that has no soul, that sounds like a printed receipt from a machine, listing things without any love. It is rhyming, and all the lines are the same number of syllables, and well, I don't sense any feeling of what prompted me to write in the first place. How do writers go through drafts and drafts, when all I know is blurting what is in my mind, like an unsophisticated blob?

Words

Words are the only comfort in this solitude. I have so much to say, I want to pack all the thoughts swirling in my head in this room. But there's no one to listen to these obscure letters and sounds. So, I twist them around and shape them, wrapping them around my tongue like they're the most succulent of flavors. Sometimes, I believe I can make the world change and morph, sparking with new thought and colors more vibrant than the sun. But, when there is only silence all around me, echoing like a stark canyon in the breeze, I feel the stillness. The words choke in my throat, lump like clumps of sand in my hand, fade like the sun in mourning. I can feel the cold then, spreading from my toes to the tips of my fingers, tingling and stinging like tears on my raw, red cheeks. like icicles freezing in the frigid air. Why can we not go back to the time when our vocabulary was not limited by slang and abbreviations, when poetry was in every syllable like the sweetest scent of honeysuckle in the humid, sticky summer air? Maybe someday, people will talk like they enjoy every word. Making art in their phrases, building sculptures with their voices, or drowning out the static silence with their crescendo of adjectives. I feel the words on my lips, moist and sweet like fresh rain water. It is only time until i find the strength to let them out.

.. leena