Take Note(s)!

Inspiration always seems to strike me at the most unfortunate times. Sometimes it is when I am driving, sometimes in the middle of a conversation, sometimes while I am in class. Then, when I am actually in need of inspiration, my mind is as dry as the Sahara. Because of this unfortunate lapse of inspiration, I started to jot notes down wherever I could when I am feeling inspired. I have a note on my phone, one on my iPad, a notebook in my purse, and a stick it note on my desk. Looking over my notes is pretty amusing, because the thoughts are so random. Here is a sample:

“How do I paint a shirt stretched across a back
That bends forward to look at taughtened sails
As they glide across the sea,
pushed by the muscles of the wind?

Heroes are just ordinary people doing the right thing under hard circumstances.

life is such an interesting thing,
the peasant someday may become the king.”

Just shows you how random my mind is, right? I have found that it is helpful to be able to refer back to these notes sometimes, and build off of their ideas for my writing. Moral of the story? Write down all of those crazy, random thoughts… You never know when you could use them for a blog post!

Prufrockin'

  

                        

One of my favorite poets of all time is T.S. Eliot. My boyfriend introduced me to him a few years ago via "The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock." The first time I read it, I thought it was really weird. Even so, it kept coming back into my mind... I couldn't seem to shake it.

In my freshman year, we studied Prufrock English 214, and I fell in love with the poem. Every time I came to read Eliot's words, I seemed to find something new. The abstraction of the meaning of the verses made it possible to look at each sentence in a different light. 

Prufrock's lament about measuring out his life in coffee spoons, and his continual self analyzation really stuck with me, and his eternal question "do I dare disturb the universe?" haunted me continually. 

Some things seem to always come back to me in my writing. They sneak in without my knowing it, and they influence all that I write. The sea is one of these things, but Prufrock is undoubtedly another. Perhaps it is because I see a little of myself in him, perhaps it is because I fear becoming him. Perhaps, it is because I continually ask myself "do I dare, and do I dare?"

Writing from Experience

One of the first stories that I ever sat down to seriously write was about two girls who went to college in England. After a few pages, I came to the mortifying realization that I had no idea what college life in England was like. My story sounded something like a mix between Harry Potter and the brief glimpses of school life from The Chronicles of Narnia, but with dialogue that could have been a bad parody of Hamlet. At that point, I was not in college, and had never visited an English school. I realized pretty quickly that I could not write well about something I had no knowledge of. Obvious, right?

Maybe not. It seems to me that a lot of young writers want to escape so badly into real or imagined worlds, that they start trying to write about places, cultures, and lifestyles that they have never experienced (I am definitely guilty of this!!). However, this leads to a story that is generally unrealistic, and could be called out as improbable by anyone, but especially anyone who has had actual experience in the field.

Occasionally, it is true, that a writer can write about something via reports, stories and interviews, but unless your specialty is in research journalism, or you are a genius at researching, it is probably a good idea to stick with the familiar, at least for your first few stories.

That doesn't mean that all you can write is nonfiction! Try putting a new story in a place that you know very well, or creating characters based on people you know, but in a city you are less familiar with. Beginning writers can certainly branch out into new locations and cultures, but it is probably a good idea to start from a point where you already have some experiential knowledge.

There are definite advantages of writing from your own experience. For example, I recently wrote a fictitious short story about two women who had a conversation at the SC State House, an area with which I am very familiar.  It was very nice to be able to concentrate on creating the two characters, without having to create a whole new location from my own imagination.

Additionally, if you write about local areas, your work has an added interest for the people who live near the area. Many bookstores host events to promote local authors, and sometimes the city or county council will do the same; pretty nifty, right?

Whatever you write, whether it be located in your own backyard or in a galaxy far, far away, just remember - your main audience should be yourself. Write things you'd want to read! Write from your own experience and point of view. At the risk of sounding like a cat poster, do as Oscar Wilde said and "Be yourself, everyone else is already taken."

Inspiration, Pinsperation, and Perspiration

Today I am going to post a little post about inspiration. It is not a simple "how-to" guide or a list of ways to "get inspired," but it may show you how you can find things in your everyday routine to give you that little burst of creative energy that you've been searching for.

To start off, I would like to tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a tired, drained, stressed college student who had two hours to write the last poem in her poetry class, and she had no inspiration. That student was me, of course, and that evening was very traumatic.

I had tried all day long to come up with something to write my poem on, but inspiration was at an all-time low. After hours of struggle, I decided to take a break. I fixed a cup of tea (always a good idea) and sat down with my iPad to look at Pinterest. I popped over to my "Words" board, where I'd stashed away all those great quotes that come flying across the Pinterest homepage. As I was scrolling through them, I saw two quotes from The Great Gatsby, and suddenly I had an epiphany. I tossed aside my iPad, grabbed a sheet of paper, and wrote down my poem. I incorporated the two quotes into a story I'd already been thinking about using, and the finished product was my best work to date.*
                   *As a side note, this story is very useful in justifying the amount of time I spend on Pinterest.

Since then, I have used Pinterest several times to help with inspiration, whether it is with a few great quotes, or just looking at some beautiful pictures of the ocean or beach.

Walking or biking is another wonderful way to find inspiration. One of my suitemates (I can't write a post and not include them, it seems!) recently sent me an infograph of the creative routines of various famous authors, thinkers, scientists and artists. My suitemate pointed out that many of these famous people included some amount of walking in their daily routine. She walks a good deal herself, especially when she is stressed, and she has encouraged me to do the same. It is remarkable how simultaneously calming and stimulating a walk can be!

I have already mentioned how important it is to write in community. Inspiration comes more naturally when you are surrounded by people who encourage your creative talent. It would be impossible to number the times that my writing friends have encouraged and inspired me, whether through their words, works, suggestions, or lives.

Lastly, the greatest, deepest, and longest-lasting inspiration often comes through reading. The works you read have a profound effect on your creative life, and influence the way you write and think. Just as "bad company corrupts good morals", so also does good reading affect (and enable) good writing. When I feel creatively dry, I love to pick up my old copy of The Lord of the Rings, or some other imaginative work, and immerse myself in the creativity of the author.

These paths to inspiration are available to most of us, and we needn't have a Walden-like nature exile to fuel our writing. Good writing, your writing, comes out of your daily life. Next time you need a little inspiration, go for a walk, call up an old friend, find a shady nook and read, or just scroll down your Pinterest page... you never know what magic may happen.

Rewriting The First Poem You Loved

A friend of mine (once again, it was one of my English major suitemates) pinned a pin on Pinterest that I absolutely love. The pin contained the words of Oscar Wilde: "They say you spend your whole life rewriting the first poem you ever loved." 

This may be somewhat of an exaggeration, but it certainly contains a lot of truth. One of the first poems I remember truly falling in love with was Frost's "Nothing Gold Can Stay." I heard the poem for the first time in a 200 level English class, and immediately was captivated by its use of concrete images and metaphysical ideas.

"Nothing Gold Can Stay"

(By Robert Frost)

"Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf,

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day

Nothing gold can stay."

Last semester, we wrote rhyming couplets for one of our assignments in poetry class. It was a rather difficult assignment for me, because I wanted to choose words that fit both in my rhyming scheme, but also fit the tone and purpose of my poem. As Dr. Cox said, "You need to control the rhyme, don't let the rhyme control you." After much trial and error, I finally came up with one I liked.

"Decline"

(By M.L. Campbell)

The roaring March days warm the moist winter earth

And buds pierce the snow in a show of rebirth.

But the flower of spring turns in summer to green

And brown spots appear on a leaf that was clean.

Then the sunset that fades in the cold western sky

Is the last golden color of autumn to die.

Obviously, the rhyme, meter, and even much of the overall meaning is different from Frost's poem, but I was surprised to see how much imagery I had accidentally borrowed. My suitemate (the one who shared the pin) also took the poetry class with me, and the tone of her poems often felt similar to the poems of Longfellow, her favorite poet. 

It has been said that "imitation is the most sincere form of flattery," but I think there is more to that in poetic imitation. Oftentimes, the poems you love seem to bleed into your soul and stay there. I've found myself perfectly recalling from memory certain lines of poetry that I loved as a child, even years after I had last seen the poem. 

Words are powerful things, and poetry has a wonderful way of remaining in your mind long after you have read it. Perhaps those beloved poems sit there when you write poetry, and blend with your own original thoughts that make their way through your fingers and out onto the pages of your poem.

Don't Be Dejected about Being Rejected

This past spring, I had the honor of being published in our school's literary and art journal, Ivy Leaves (http://www.andersonuniversity.edu/auvisualarts/ivyleaves/html2/index.html). I was ecstatic, partly because was desperate to check it off of my "Bucket List" for college, and partly because I had tried and failed before to publish something in Ivy Leaves. The sting of that first rejection haunted me, and I almost didn't try again. Thank God for my suitemates, who encouraged me to send something in!

Honestly though, this post is not about getting published, it is about getting rejected, because sometimes, you learn a lot more from failure than from victory.

I've mentioned before the poet who visited our campus this spring (http://jessegraves.weebly.com/). Jesse Graves inspired me in a lot of ways, but one of the most encouraging things he said was about his failures. "I'll send poems to journals," he said. "And 80% of the time, they get rejected." But that doesn't keep him from trying. He's now published two books of poetry, but that would never have happened if he had given up after his first rejection.

Kathryn Stockett (the author who wrote the award winning novel, The Help) was rejected by 60 publishers before her novel was finally published. As she says in an article: "In the end, I received 60 rejections for The Help. But letter number 61 was the one that accepted me. What if I had given up at 15? Or 40? Or even 60?" (http://www.more.com/kathryn-stockett-help-best-seller)

As disappointed as I was when I got the rejection email from Ivy Leaves last year, I am now grateful that I received it. Why? Because it taught me strive harder. When something is accepted, it seems finished. The publishers liked it, right? So why change anything? It is often failure that gives the motivation to try harder, dig deeper, write more richly.

Ultimately, it is the "try and try again" mentality of authors that usually leads to their success. Rarely does an author's first (or second, or third) work rocket them into fame. A few stars are born overnight, but for most of us, it is the slow plodding of a thousand late nights, large cups of coffee, and endless rejection letters.

I plan on sending some of my poetry to a few journals this summer. I'll probably get rejected, but you know what? I can be OK with that. I think I may start a Rejection Letter collection, it could be an interesting pastime.....

Remember, every "next time" could be THE time.... so don't give up trying!

Writing in Community

This past semester was the first time that I participated in a writing workshop. As a literature major, I don't take many creative writing classes, but I was blessed this year to take two: poetry workshop and creative nonfiction workshop. I loved both! I had excellent teachers, and the peer critiques of my fellow classmates opened my eyes to things I did well, and things I should avoid. 

Before this semester, I had never taken myself seriously as a writer. Since I was a child, I have written many stories, but they were mainly for myself, with no outside audience intended. However, after taking creative writing classes, I have realized two things: I do have a story to tell (that other people might actually be interested in), and I am learning the tools necessary to tell it. 

Another thing that greatly encouraged me to continue writing was a visit from a poet. Jesse Graves teaches English at East Tennessee, and writes poetry on the side. He has already has two excellent books of poetry published. His connection with our university is Dr. Randall Wilhelm, an English teacher here who knew him at school. 

Jesse Graves spoke to my poetry class, as well as to a group of students later that night. He read some of his poetry, gave us tips, and really affirmed what we were doing; English Majors need that, because we don't choose this major for the money, we choose it because it is something we love. Because of this, it can be discouraging or overwhelming when we think about balancing our passion and our careers. 

The most important thing that I learned from Jesse Graves, was the value of writing in community. He said that his biggest motivator is his fellow writers. This struck me very forcibly, because it is something that I have also been discovering over the past few months. Living with two English majors has immensely helped my work, and having the workshop classroom experience has aided me greatly as well.

Community is essential for English Majors, mainly because of the necessity of encouragement, support, and accountability that a community provides. Until my sophomore spring, I did not really know the English Majors in my year. When I started to form that community with them, I saw my love for the subject skyrocket. It is a wonderful thing to talk to people who are passionate about the same thing as you are! 

So my challenge to you is this: whether you are a writer or not, find community. Find a group of people who love the same things you do. They will help encourage you when you get down, or feel like quitting. Now go, be passionate! Find friends! Write! Do what you do best! 

Learning To Love Longfellow

A few months ago, my suitemates and I had an impromptu poetry-reading session rather late at night in their room. We were tired after a long day of homework and classes, and found just the refreshment we needed in the form of large cups of tea and our favorite poems. One of the poems that they shared with me was Longellow's Day is Done. I regret to say that I have not read many of Longfellow's poems, but after hearing this one, a new found love for his words awoke inside of me. 

Like I have found with most poetry, this poem is best read aloud.

The Day is Done

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

The day is done, and the darkness

      Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward

      From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

      Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

      That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,

      That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

      As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

      Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

      And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

      Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

      Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

      Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavor;

      And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

      Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

      Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,

      And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

      Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

      The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

      That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

      The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

      The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

      And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

      And as silently steal away.

How To Haiku

It's Poetry Friday!

So, I have a confession.... Before this semester, I did not know how to write a haiku. Apparently, this is something that a lot of people learn in Middle School,  but I was probably too busy reading Tolkien to be interested in picking it up. 

So when my poetry teacher told us a few weeks ago to write a haiku, I decided I had better do some research. Here are my findings, nicely compiled into a handy-dandy "How To Haiku" guide for beginners. All poems are my own.

1. Firstly, the basic format. A haiku has three lines, the first and last of which contain five syllables, and the middle of which contains seven. For example:

Drums

Summertime surf boom: (5)

The old earth's mournful rhythm, (7)

Beaten by the sea. (5)

If you are in doubt about how many syllables a word has, then you can look it up in a dictionary to find out. Remember, word choice is very important, because you are allowed so few words... Make them count!

2. Secondly, the subject. In class, we worked on "Classic Haikus", which deal with nature. More specifically, they deal with a particular season. For example:

Spring Drive

Intoxicated:

The flower breath as I pass,

Spring's unique perfume. 

The classic form can feel somewhat constricting, but it is a great way to stretch your ability to create within a framework. It is really surprising what depth you can get out of a three line poem.

3. Thirdly, here are some tips and tricks. My teacher told us that titles are one of the best ways to "cheat" and add in a few extra words (think of the poem "In a Station of the Metro" which has a title half as long as the poem!). Also, avoid using too many adjectives. Some adjectives are good, but like salt, should be used sparingly. Instead, use strong verbs and nouns for a poem that packs a more powerful punch. 

Some people overlook haikus because of their size, but they can be really powerful poems. My teacher likened them to Zen gardens: using a few small things to suggest a larger theme. Haikus can really stretch your ability to use exactly the right word to convey meaning, which will help any other poem or prose piece that you may write. 

I enjoyed haikuing, and I hope you will too. Comment below if you have any questions, or haikus to share! 

A little poetry for the weekend...

Hello! So today is Friday, and amongst other things,  I feel like sharing a little poetry. Can we make "Poetry Friday" a thing? I should probably think of a better name first...

In my poetry writing workshop this semester we are currently working on a poem that we have written about a piece of art that inspires us. Interestingly enough, my poetry teacher calls poetry and painting "sister arts," because of their use of concert images to portray abstract ideas. 

The poem below was inspired by a painting called "Lovers in a Wood", by Grimshaw. My ever-hepful suitemate told me about Grimshaw, and I find his work very imaginatively inspirational. 

"Secret Fire"

A crystal moon refracts

in droplets that coat the path,

and barren winter trees

with harsh white fire from the moon.

The moonbeams escape

through winter boughs and shine 

upon the rime-encrusted surface 

of a sluggish creek.

Great drifts of sodden leaves 

lie windblown against

the black tree boles, moldering 

in the chill dew of the night.

Hidden in the trees a cottage, 

revealed only by a wisp of smoke 

that issues from a dying fire

and twists around the somber trees.

Far from this warmth

two figures stand so close 

the moon unites them

in a single shadow.

The cottage chimney smokes.

They hold a fiercer fire

between strong arms:

undying warmth on this frosty night. 

Edisto Sunset

Edisto

This semester I am taking a Creative Nonfiction class with the most difficult Creative Writing teacher here at Anderson University. What I thought was going to be a class full of terror and crushed dreams has become my favorite class this semester. Our teacher, though challenging, has helped me to see the world through brand new eyes. She has shown all of us that we have a story to tell, and she has helped us learn how to tell it. Below is one of the first pieces I wrote. It is still pretty rough, but I like it because it describes a place I love dearly.

1/29/2014

Hold Tight

​All it takes is an aroma: coffee, sunscreen or a salty breeze. As soon as I smell it, I am back to that place where I long to be. People call it Edisto beach, but to me, it is the rustle of wind in the palmetto fronds as they scrape dryly against each other. To me, it is the slap, slap of the small waves against the crushed shells that make up the sand. To me, it is piping of little birds from where they hide amongst the swaying sea oats. To me, it is home.

​I smell that coffee and I feel myself in the yellow bed of the old, white beach house, my father waking me at 5am to go see the sunrise at the easternmost part of the island. He holds in his hand a mug of what he calls “coffee-milk”: more milk than coffee, so that my mom will allow us to have it. My sleepy brothers and I drag blankets to the car and watch the palmetto trees speed by as my father drives through the silent island to the beach, where we set up rickety chairs and sit, expectant, as the sun rises. The sand is soft beneath my bare feet, and cold, still untouched by the new sun’s rays. The dawn comes at last, just as we were about to fall asleep again, and rewards us for our wait by a glorious array of new sunshine.  ​

Later, we return to the house for a breakfast of hash and grits, and maybe some shrimp if the boys caught any the day before. As soon as the food is gone, we slap sunscreen hastily on our young, pale bodies and head down the sandy path that slopes to the pounding sea. As we run, the sand underfoot changes from powder-soft to hard, wet, and closely packed. Here and there are little holes where sand crabs lurk, always eluding our clumsy childish fingers. Mounds of sand in the sea oats show where a mother Loggerhead turtle has laid her nest. There are little orange flags surrounding the nest where the kindly turtle-watchers placed flags of warning: warning children like us that we must not bother the baby turtles. We don’t dream of disturbing the nest, the turtles belong here as much as we do; they love this beach as well. Gulls hover above us as we play, floating on gyres of air, hoping for a crumb; we throw sand instead, and they fly away, disappointed.

​The sea sparkles in the sun, even though it is a brownish-green color, and not the blue that we see in the advertisements for Florida beaches. Edisto beach is near the river and muddy, but it is our beach. A cry goes up from one of my blonde brothers: a porpoise pod has been sighted. We rush to the water and the creatures dip up and down, first in the sea, then in the sunshine, oblivious of the delight their arrival has occasioned. The porpoises leave, and soon the sun departs as well. As a last farewell, she paints the sky with a riot of flaming color, stronger than the colors she showed us during the dawn. We feel her dying heat on our backs as we troop up the sandy path to the weather-beaten gray boards of the porch and inside, where the carpet is rough beneath our feet, sand ingrained forever in its fibers. Later, clean, but somehow still sandy, we take turns on our grandfather’s scout binoculars and watch gulls swoop down on a shrimp-boat far out on the twilight water. We go to bed soon after the sun, snuggling down into sheets that smell like the rest of the house: sunscreen, sand and salt. My room is dark, but a little red light blinks on the smoke alarm attached to the paneled ceiling. I watch its eternal blink and eventually close my eyes, the sound of the distant surf still pounding in my ears.