Let's Talk Writing: Issue 13

Let's Talk Writing: Issue 13

 

 Let's Talk Writing is my news article featuring five different writers that I've discovered here on deviantArt. It will be published every Friday. If you have any suggestions, please feel free to note me. I will take them into consideration. Now, Let's Talk Writing!  

 

 

 Writer #1: RileyMasters  

Goodbye to MemoryDad's hand stretched out,
Beckoning, straining, grasping at air.
My body froze in the doorway,
Watching his struggle.
"Teri, Teri," he repeated,
Hand falling and rising again.
The words filled the sterile hospital room.
"Teri, Teri."
I took a step towards him,
Pulled back by Mom's touch.
Her head shook.
I fled the room,
My own hand covering my mouth,
Sprinting for the bathroom.
Praying I would make it,
Not wanting to taste the vomit,
"Teri, Teri."
Dad's voice rang through my head,
Calling Mom's name, but addressing me. A Final Goodbye"Daddy?"
I approached the bed slowly, my trainers making a loud squeaking noise with every step. I was trying to keep quiet, not wanting to wake the man lying still in front of me up.
It wasn't as if he could, however. Right now he was drugged out of his mind. The doctors said that all we could do now was make him comfortable. I don't really understand it. They had used a lot of big words. But I guess that's what "terminal" means. I'm not totally sure of that though. I'll have to look it up when I get home.
"Daddy? Are you awake?"
My voice was so quiet, a sharp contrast to what it was only eighteen months ago. Back when we would play catch right outside the house. Back when we would ride our bikes all throughout the neighborhood.
Back when everything was normal.
Things would never be normal again. I just knew it. Looking at my dad's face proved it. I got twelve years of normal. I guess the cards had finally decided to fold.
"Daddy, it's me, Madelynn Rose. Can you hear me?"
The doctors The Woman in the WindowThe woman in the window,
So beautiful, so kind.
The person I want to be.
She waves, I wave back.
She messes her hair, I straighten my shirt.
She smiles, I grin.
The window shatters,
Glass scattering across the tile.
I'm left looking at wood.
The shards reflect a broken image of myself.
The true me.
I pick them up. I pull the wood frame down.
I glue them back together. I hang it back up.
The window is back.
The woman in the mirror is me. That Double-Edged SwordOn the tip of the double-edged sword we walked,
Flirting between the ties of love and hate.
Perhaps the side that we fell from was
Already predetermined by the hands of fate.
Our love was shattered by a simple mistake,
And the cracks were filled with rage.
The happy memories are completely gone,
As if someone set fire to the page.
A whispered apology ices the flames,
And love returns to our heart.
It's more fragile than ever before,
But for now nothing can drive us apart.

 

 What inspired you to start writing?  

 I started writing as a way to make sense of my father’s passing. Within a few weeks, my passion grew, and now all I do is write.  

 How much do you feel you've improved in the last few years?  

 My writing style has grown and matured a lot in the past few years. I’ve created a style more unique to myself, one that actually flows instead of feeling like I hacked the words together with a chainsaw.  

 Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?  

 Honestly, a lot of my friends are on deviantArt. I started posting here just so that they could read what I have written. Now I enjoy reaching people who may not know my writing.  

 Do you write with pen and paper or do you type on a word processor?  

 I usually write the outline or rough draft with pen and paper. After that, I type it up and edit it on Word.  

 What was the first piece you ever wrote?  

 The first piece that I remember writing was a Sonic the Hedgehog fanfiction that was filled with OCs and Mary Sues. I still have it. It’s hanging behind a poster in my room.  

 What room is your favorite to write in?  

 I usually write in my room, with my music on and my lights just right. My bed makes the perfect place to curl up and bash out a chapter or poem.  

 What is your favorite place for thinking?  

 I do a lot of thinking while I drive and while I’m at work. I now carry a couple slips of paper and a pen in my pocket just so I can jot down a few ideas every once in a while.  

 How do you beat out your writers block?  

 I switch projects. I’ve found that when I get stuck on one thing, another will suddenly go smoothly.  

 Do you listen to music when you write?  

 I have to, otherwise I feel like I can’t focus. I usually listen to video game and movie scores. The lack of lyrics make the words flow for me.  

 

 

Writer #2: X12-1992  

:thumb292789240: :thumb308897944: :thumb334310785: :thumb308318003:

 

 What inspired you to start writing?  

 Honestly, nothing inspired me, I just felt a spark within. Now, if your asking why I keep on writing, its because my poetry is a window to my soul, a way to express myself.  

 How much do you feel you've improved in the last few years?  

 I think i have improved a lot.  

 Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?  

 Why not? It has a pretty nice community.  

 Do you write with pen and paper or do you type on a word processor?  

 I type directly to deviantArt.  

 What was the first piece you ever wrote?  

 My first poem was "Season Of Alpha and Omega", made in 2010, which is located in my first ever journal along with poems 2-5, the rest being in my gallery.  

 What room is your favorite to write in?  

 My favorite room to write in is any room that I am alone in.  

 What is your favorite place for thinking?  

 Pretty much the same answer as last question.  

 How do you beat out your writers block?  

 I havent found a way to beat it, I just wait through it.  

 Do you listen to music when you write?  

 Yes, sometimes I do listen to music when i write.  

 

 

Writer #3: autumnlit  

Expunge    It starts like the bristling detachment of Velcro or the arrogant snap of a rubber band on your wrist. The cringing, ripping sound, the reflexive quick sting, ringing vibrantly on in the moments after. Like a bell that tolls a beat of hours that is overlooked in the passing, then counted by recalling rhythm afterwards. Instinctually, you want to keep going, keep climbing, over rubble and debris. The day has long since ended as you move through stark jagged blackness. You check the breast pocket of your jacket for a match. You strike the little brown line, once, twice, three times and light the now apparent hallway. The match burns down to your fingertips and dies. You let the remnants of stick and ash fall on the floor of the thick carpeted rug, decorated like elevator music, and see that your panoramic view of atmosphere stays alight, and right in front of you your eyes are beholding a door in your path.
    You can’t open the door by force. Your elongated appendages, unique

 

 What inspired you to start writing?  

 I've always been a big fan of all kinds of art and I noticed I had a particular fancy for words. Reading them is magic to me. I become completely enthralled by song lyrics. I'm captivated by putting words to visual life, but I came to feel rather alone in my interests. Then I got back to writing and discovered that it hadn't just been something that I liked, it was something that I was passionate about. Since then I have made it a big part of my life.  

 How much do you feel you've improved in the last few years?  

 I've improved A LOT in the last few years when it comes to writing prose. I just kept writing over and over again, and through that I discovered and learned alot of things. I found I had the ability to just go and key things together in ways I hadn't imagined before. Now I just keep doing whatever I can to put all my ideas to good use as much as possible. I hope to keep learning more in the future.  

 Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?  

 I thought posting some work on deviantArt would be a good way to start as a writer and find out reader responses. I wanted to see if other people enjoyed what I was working on. When I write a story all I really want to do is share it right away. If my work is enjoyed or can inspire someone it really helps me keep going.  

 Do you write with pen and paper or do you type on a word processor?  

 usually write with pen first into a notebook and then I type it up on my computer. It's easier for me to look at my work that way in order to edit and proof read. By the time it's typed, it's already been double checked a few times, and then all I need to do, in most cases, is look out for typos. I also find that I discover new ideas while typing the writing from my notebook, but when I type first I feel like I have a harder time discovering that sort of spark and inspiration. I also find that when I type first, I leave ALOT more errors behind.  

 What was the first piece you ever wrote?  

 Well, the first thing I started writing since I started really working on writing was my novel Veritas. I still have not finished putting it together in a final manner, however it has come a long way. Most of the story was rewritten many times, and almost all of what remains of the story now is not what it started out to be. There are multiple notebooks of writing that are not even going to make into the story any longer, just to give you an idea. I consider those parts bad drafts and practice.  

What room is your favorite to write in?  

 Whichever room feels the most comfortable at the time.  

 What is your favorite place for thinking?  

 Definitely outside. I love nature and the sounds of the wind and the leaves or the animals. It is really relaxing. It helps me not think so that I can think clearly. If that makes sense.  

 How do you beat out your writers block?  

 I actually envy writers with writers block. Most of the time for me I am overwhelmed with ideas. Not just for multiple stories, but even if I'm working on just one at a time. The entire book may be in view for me and I just have to write it out, but in order to get to work I have to focus on one part at a time while trying to stop the whole story from flooding through my head. It can take time for me to focus and I always have a lot of other things to do. Part of me just doesn't want to forget all those little ideas before I write them down. I wish I could sit down and spit the whole thing out in one go, but my hands just don't work as fast as the movie projector in my head. It's even harder for me to really take a break. I could spend a week away from working on writing and my mind will still go into overload and then I'll be exhausted without having worked on anything. You might think that having alot of ideas to write would mean I could do a lot of work, but it doesn't, especially when I have a lot of other priorities throughout the day. If I get a moment where I don't feel like I need to write something, it might be when I'm feeling accomplished so far and I don't need to work on what I have, or I don't have an idea, I take that time and thoroughly enjoy it.  

 Do you listen to music when you write?  

 Not always while I write, but definitely sometimes, and I find it extremely useful to listen to music that I can associate with a character or situation I may be working on at the time. It helps me experience those emotions and get into the zone I need to be in for what I'm writing about.  

 

Writer #4: callerofcrows  

I Drink to the ShatteredHere's to the half-hopes,
who lie shallow in their graves,
comatose, their pulse forgotten.
And here's to unrequited love;
impossible thoughts between heartbeats,
the burning pang that follows.
A nod to the empty dreams,
their ankles hobbled, improperly set.
They walk nowhere.
Silence to commemorate the lost cause;
Stillborn revolutions
That never leave the womb.
To the broken and sleepless,
inane and insane,
the clueless, the lonely,
the outcasts forgotten,
to you I raise my glass. Of Suicides and SunsetsI recognized his newsprint face
between the World War II vet
and the cancer patient.
Yesterday he passed me by,
his expression as grey as the city block,
and I wondered who he was for half a thought
before admiring the sun,
resting red between the mountains.
I contemplated verbal possibilities,
drawing his attention to the sky
in the hopes of seeing some of the color
reflected in his eyes.
But like the space between footsteps,
I was silent.
My lack of words is found
in a paragraph expressing
visiting times and floral donations,
and I find myself
reading between the black and white,
because "unexpected passing"
tastes like suicide.
And I wasn't built from naïveté,
putting so much faith in words I choked,
as if they were a knock on the bathroom door
or help held out with open hands.
Who am I to put so much stock
in stranger-eyes and sunsets? The First Thunder of JuneI could tell from the way
the truck barreled down the road,
how its motor revved and caught on the air,
that a storm was coming.
The dog shook,
his twelve-year hips aching with the effort
of tucking his tail between his legs
in the hope that such displays of submission
would appease the weather.
They did not.
The sky turned feral and spat on the house.
While my old-hound panted
with his panic-wide eyes,
mine filled with awe and lightning. Like a Leaf on the Wind...He exhaled slowly,
his lungs tangled in October air,
his mouth like a wrinkle
in the hospice sheets.
His granddaughter reveled
in bringing him lilies;
they sat on the windowsill like a memory.
Half-dried in their vase,
they were pungent as mortality.
Those flowers were dying
and so was he;
what was this room if not a vase,
his wilting on display?
He sat, a drooping bloom,
contemplating the Maple by his window;
how its foliage resembled anything
from God's golden mercy
to hellfire.
They whispered secrets through the open pane,
about dropping from the branch to dance again;
how it must feel like being in love.
He remembered his wife,
who loved him more than Autumn,
who he liked to imagine was waiting for him.
He missed her.
When the next leaf leapt
from its former home,
he closed his eyes
and went with it.

 

 What inspired you to start writing?  

 I think it was my dad who first got me into writing. He was always filling my siblings and I with this absolutely wonderful, enchanting stories off the top of his head. It really got me hooked on the idea of really captivating someone with words in the same way. However, I didn't really start writing poetry until my senior year of high school. It was kind of an accidental discovery; I had always thought I was a short-story person. But my creative writing teacher looked over one of my pieces and said that it had really moved her, which inspired me to write more.  

 How much do you feel you've improved in the last few years?  

 That's hard to say. It's frustrating, but I have periods of growth where I can really craft something awesome, and then this sort of weird, poetic stagnation where I can't really write anything good. I think I've gotten a little better, but I have such a long way to go yet!  

 Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?  

 I'm going to be dead honest, I do it for the feedback. I love knowing my work has affected others in some way, or if I'm really lucky, inspired them to create pieces of their own. However, I also love connecting to other writers through mutual discoveries of each other's work.  

 Do you write with pen and paper or do you type on a word processor?  

 I usually use a word processor, just because it's easier for me to make changes and keep up with my thoughts. Sometimes lines hit me really quickly. However, sometimes I'll write with paper and pen just because it feels nice to break away from the whole keyboard routine. And I don't always have my laptop with me, so there's that!  

 What was the first piece you ever wrote?  

 Oh, that's a hard one! I think it was a poem about seasons changing; I wrote it when I was in the second grade. I remember being really proud of myself because I knew that poems didn't have to rhyme to be poems.  

 What room is your favorite to write in?  

 Anywhere with lots of natural light!  

 What is your favorite place for thinking?  

 Outdoors. If I'm at home, I like to sit on a hammock and look out over the rooftops and trees, or in the garden in the rain. When I'm at school, anywhere I can really sit and look at the mountains--my favorite place is by Lake Champlain, watching the sun go down over the Adirondacks on the other side of the water.  

 How do you beat out your writers block?  

 I look for new poetry formats to try out; different rhythms, syllabic patterns, what have you. It's also really helpful to challenge myself to take different prompts! Both challenge me to try and use original language and avoid cliches.  

 Do you listen to music when you write?  

 Sometimes, but it can't have lyrics--I end up copying the rhythm and the poem seems weird when I read it later when I'm uninspired by the song! Instrumental music can really help move me to write.  

 

Writer #5: EvelynTaliette  

Shattered Ice, Festering WoundsShe studies her face in the mirror; frigid turquoise eyes stare back, imitating the blank eyes of the dead. A sheet of white fabric floats idly around her black hairline, framing her pale, angular face. Absentmindedly, she brushes the cloth away before pressing her toughened hand against the glass, watching her mirror image do the same.
At least I have you.
Indecision lies in the curling of her youthful fingers, the worry of her lowered brow. Without a word she pulls the spider’s web of fabric over her face- an obscuring, shielding veil- and examines herself in the mirror.
Do I look the part of the jubilant bride?
She eases her lips into a masked, shy smile. She feels naked, though she’s wrapped in swaths of fabric. In the mirror, she resembles a doll dressed up in layers upon layers of heavenly snow. Just a mannequin, perhaps; a mold, practice for reality.
Maybe he won't notice.
Pushing herself into motion, she mechanically makes her way out of her roo BeyondSometimes, during those odd moments of spare time here and there, I’ll take a moment to study my hands. Twin appendages, born from the same mold with the same crooked complexity. Ten white, spindly fingers that crouch like spiders legs, or perhaps mimic the animal’s iridescent webs that shine after a refreshing autumn rain.
(Just a skeleton of a life now past. A forgotten remnant- a trinket souvenir- of what once might have been.)
Freckles are scattered across my skin like sparks from an untamed fire. As a child, I believed them to have a hidden meaning- like the stars that sprawled so far above my head that I’ve never yet seen. I would make constellations, memorizing them and tracing them uncountable times and rejoicing as soon as a new star appeared.
(One settles on my pinky finger, another nestles in the crook of my thumb. They have to mean something, so perfectly placed.)
On the undersides, miniature Grand Canyons make their way across the expanse of my palm. S Treasure Among the Swaying Boughs
I've seen her for quite some time now, as if she were but a mirror of myself.
She walks through these cursed forests as a nymph of the old myths would, as if she was one with every being- slivers of her heartwood birthed the sprouting trees, each tear formed the crystal springs.
Does she even have a meaning, a life, a desire? What could she possibly want from this harrowed world- is she yet another selfish servant to desire’s greed? I’ve seen it time and time again. Different faces, same expressions- serpentine eyes, plastic smiles, trigger-happy fingertips- she’s beyond all that, or so I hope.
Who’s she to invade my sanctuary, what with her dreamy-eyed gaze and shy little smile? Does she not know the suffering that lies beyond my forest’s wooden walls? No- she was that carefree, that naïve- but when we first made eye contact, I saw wisdom beyond her young age. As my eyes met hers, she simply watched before silently climbing down out of her tree- War's RemainsDancing
Flames;
Smoldering
Bodies.

 

 What inspired you to start writing?  

 Looking back, I was a very introverted child. I never spoke unless I had to, but I had so much to say with no idea how to communicate it. Somewhere back there, I eventually picked up a pencil and started scribbling down my thoughts and dreams as an outlet instead of actually talking to anyone. I never had any imaginary friends, but I had imaginary people living in my head!  

 How much do you feel you've improved in the last few years?  

 I've only started writing on a regular basis since I joined Deviantart. I never had any motivation or reason to write before, and as such my writing was mediocre and never finished. Now I've been steadily improving- on a scale of one to ten, where I was once about a three I'm now a five or six.  

 Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?  

 Because art is for sharing! What's the point of it if you keep it locked in your room? You won't grow as an artist, and you won't be exposed to new ideas or different perspectives on your creations.  

 Do you write with pen and paper or do you type on a word processor?  

 Both. Writing on paper is usually for rough outlines, then I type it up to smooth out the details and rearrange everything as I think it sound be.  

 What was the first piece you ever wrote?  

 The first completed piece I can remember is a short story called "Angels" which I wrote when I was about...eight or so. It was about a little girl angel who lived in the clouds, but had flown down to Earth to explore- even though her society told her that humans are dangerous- until her father flew down to collect her. It's actually in my gallery, Angels  *OKAY, so. Please note that this is for an improvement contest and that I wrote this 3-4 years ago, so it's really low quality- I apologize in advance. It's completely unedited due to me wanting to show just how much I improved over time*
  The stars sparkled overhead as Raven flew through the night sky. His midnight-black wings pushed up and down steadily.The wind ruffled his long, midnight colored hair in the cool night breeze as he dived towards a clearing in a forest. He tucked his wings into the curve of his back as he stepped gently onto the ground.
    His child, Snow, had to be here somewhere on the Solid-ground, where humans lived.He looked around in the darkness, searching for her Glow.
    His green eyes searched the clearing, then he heard a soft breath behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see Snow crouched in a tree.Her pure white wings and white-blond hair seemed to Glow against the darkness of the tree.
, if you want to see.  

 What room is your favorite to write in?  

 In my backyard, though that doesn't count as a room. Anywhere quiet and serene will do, and I can't find either of those qualities inside.  

 What is your favorite place for thinking?  

 There's a little hidden spot by the river that I found by accident one boiling hot summer afternoon. It's one of those places that's almost magical- tree roots are exposed, weaving around boulders and stones, eventually finding their way to the river below. A stagnant pool exposes darting tadpoles and the occasional salmon, lazily bobbing behind sheets of ivy. If you aren't content to sit atop one of the huge boulders that overlook the river, or to rest on one of the weaving tree roots, then there's a little island of smooth stones to sit on and rest.

My personal little niche for thinking.</i>

 

 How do you beat out your writers block?  

 I drop all my usual methods of writing. Usually use a desktop computer? Try a laptop instead, or maybe a tablet. Ever tried a typewriter? Well, maybe I should.

I find that when I experiment around enough, the slight change of pace and accommodation to the new machine always wakes up my inspiration.</i>

 

Do you listen to music when you write?  

 Not that often. Occasionally I do, but only when I want my work to be influenced by the music- i.e. trying to capture certain emotions, a certain scene described by the music, etc.