Let's Talk Writing: Issue 20

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Let's Talk Writing: Issue 20

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 (which means I'll most likely accept them.) Now, let's talk writing!



Writer #1: :icon0hgravity: 0hgravity
CharlieI had a stalker.
I didn't know his name but I'm sure he knew mine.
I called him Charlie.
He always had a camera hanging from his twig thick neck and he cradled it in his hands; a wispy finger stroking the shutter release. His dark brown hair was a curly mess and his shirts wrinkly and thin. He had the most perfect eyebrows, sweeping and gentle. He must have the most captivating eyes, I thought every time he'd glance my way. We'd never made eye contact. Charlie preferred it that way.
He came into the bookstore once a week, not to watch me leaf through the used books or reach high to shelve the approved ones, but to actually browse them. He read the unknowns; the virgins with their unbroken spines. I imagine he liked the smell of them – aromas preserved for him alone. Charlie appreciated the books wearing dusty coats and factory perfume a decade old.
The rest of the time he spent on the outside looking in. My co-workers were tickled pink. "What a geek." "Poor guy doesn't realize you

Mature Content

rhythmic rain and words for dead treesthis funeral-black night begins with
piano notes soft as the rain soaking
leisurely into wood thirsty for the 
warm essence of     
                         heavy 
                              
            drifting 
clouds
               clack
        drip
click
evoke dead writers with
vintage typewriters, faded
ink stamping out new stories
from old wounds the way
the poets do, old poets with
new admirers
tonight, find
immortality resides 
in water
sliding down a fogged window
leaving behind a clear trail--
the way to see out 
into the natural world waiting. alive.
listen.
to the trees breathing
sweet wooden beings--  
they rattle rain-streaked glass 
with their  oxygen-laced wind.
you.
the cannibaleyes bright for wildflowers
I swear they leaned toward her as she passed
with her boyish gait, a confident stride
she caught me with the absence of her smile
and she thought I was a wildfire
set to burn her worries away 
but I was tame
tame tame tame
and she was burning up
she laughed when she realized my still temperament 
bewildering the sound, a pretty Sunday laugh
light of heart, balancing honesty's edge
hiding between this duality of personality
her fabricated safe haven 
but in the night she asked me to keep her
and for a long time I held her soft body, full of insecurity
to mine securely but her anxiety was an earthquake 
I could feel inside her, I could feel the tectonic
plates shifting in her mind and once she'd chiseled her nails
to bare skin she moved on to mine 
she held my hands like a wounded bird in hers and she
whispered to them "when you fly, I will too" 
yet all the while she kept clipping their wings
with her ner


What inspired you to start writing?

I was grieving a familial loss. I am extremely introverted so I was never very good at expressing my emotions. My parents and even my doctor were always trying to get me to talk but I guess I didn't know how. So after this loss I realized just reading wouldn't be enough; I needed to create and I needed to create fast. I used to animate and draw but that takes too much time so I tried writing. I'd written when I was, you know, eight or nine but nothing too serious.

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

I feel I have improved immensely. I am more conscious of word flow, the sounds and meanings of words. How something as simple as "along" and "across" can change a piece. I think my pieces are a little more complex with the word play and the meaning in general. I've started experimenting more with brevity in my poetry and subtlety in my prose.

Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?

Well I first started posting as a sort of gauge. In other words, was I any good? So that first year I was trying to find my way through the world of creating literature but I was also flexing my critiquing muscles. I was a fierce reader in high school so I had built up these intuitions for writing and deviantArt allowed me to really stretch those and understand those better. I was also looking for friendship, I think. I was a loner and at the time I didn't realize that's what I needed but the friendships I've made through my writing have been a real blessing in my life. I think I still post to dA for those same reasons, improvement and just showing people who I really am and hopefully reaching people on a truly emotional level in what I hope is a beautiful way.

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

As often as I can, pen and paper. I feel my ideas flow better with pen and paper. Usually poetry or the beginnings of a prose piece start off on paper and then the heavy structuring and editing are done on a word processor.

What was the first piece you ever wrote?

Oh god. Do we really want to see that?

-.-

All that is left are the memories
that is not enough
to keep a spirit grounded
It is impossible
to capture a soul completely
For the soul comes and goes as it pleases
It warms the body with its presence
It clouds the eyes in its absence


emo Gravity was emo. and wholly unremarkable.

What room is your favorite to write in?

My room, I guess. I usually write before I go to bed. half-asleep, fully sleep-deprived :thumbsup:

What is your favorite place for thinking?

hmm, walking around outside or doing a mundane task. I don't really have a specific place I associate with my mindmeanders.

How do you beat out your writers block?

Listen to copious amounts of music and usually find a photograph or visual piece of art that really speaks to me and try to write its story.

Do you listen to music when you write?

Yes. I rarely write in silence.



Writer #2: :iconthecheshercat: TheChesherCat
you would call out to the starsThis piece is meant to be read slowly.
    You would call out to the stars, in a breathless song that reached through time and lifted your broken edges out of the world. Lifting those pieces and fitting them back together, so the razor-sharp ache would not wound you as you swallowed. You called, waiting for the universe to answer, through the galaxies and swirls of interstellar dust.
    We are all made of star stuff, you told me one day. It’s science, but it’s magic, the way every element is formed from those that came before, fused in the white-hot heart of a blazing star. We are every one of us woven from stars.
    You  kept a diary, I recall, but not of this everyday grind and chatter. It was not this gray, tired world that you yearned for, and so your script told the story of the sky.  You captured each shade of blue and treasured every rainbow. You caught raindrops in your hands and pressed the wind between the pages of your book. And your laughter was a sunri
BrokenCast off this mask; I cast off this mask I wear.
And for a second I show
the fire and pain within.
Then I cry,
and the tears wash away
all inside me that is still.
I do not feel cleansed.
Refreshed.
Forgiven.
I feel like a broken thing.
Broken
beyond
repair.
RiseI think someone told me a long time ago not to run up the stairs. I think she might have even been important to me, and so it almost bothers me that I am breaking that rule now. Almost.
My sneakers are sodden with water, but I pant for breath and drag my exhausted legs up yet another broad, shallow step. The water rushes around my ankles as it pours down the staircase in a long tumbling spiral towards lower ground. When I turn my gaze to the steps before me, the light off the water and white marble is too much; I shade my eyes, gasping. I swallow against a dry throat, realizing how thirsty I am. Yet I still stagger upward, rubber soles slipping on the slick marble and splashing through the layer of water falling, ever falling, down each step from above. My hair drips in my face – I have fallen once or twice, and I am shivering despite the heat stabbing through my legs and calves, despite my ever-increasing burning thirst. But I cannot stop, I cannot rest, I cannot wait. Lurching
ImprisonedHow can I escape?
The prison that I see
(Now here is my mistake)
Is just reality.


What inspired you to start writing?

I honestly don't know, because I've been writing quite literally as long as I can remember. I suppose, being the voracious reader and lover of literature that I am, I just picked up a pencil and, well, there you go.

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

I think I’ve improved quite a lot in the last few years, partially because I’ve stepped up my game and re-committed to seriously working on my writing. Due to an injury, I lost the ability to pursue one of my other passions, and it made me think more about which the skills are that I truly value.

Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?

Out of an egotistic desire to impress the world. No, honestly I’m much too self-conscious to show many pieces to anyone I know personally, but on the internet I can encounter a number of like-minded people who might even take the time to give me helpful or encouraging feedback. And I’m secretly hoping they’ll tell me everything I write is perfect – which is, by the way, blatantly untrue.

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

Either, depending on my mood and the situation. I don’t bring my computer with me when I travel, and I enjoy writing longhand, but I do all my editing on the computer, and usually my daily writing as well. I can type faster than I can write, but sometimes the chance to go slowly will help me put my thoughts in order.

What was the first piece you ever wrote?

Technically, I think it was actually two little two-sentence stories I illustrated myself when I was about four, but the first thing I remember writing was a picture book (also illustrated by yours truly) called “The Dog.” It was about a dog, as one might expect, and a young girl whose parents get hit by a car. More honestly, I have absolutely no clue because I’ve been writing more or less “seriously” my whole life.

What room is your favorite to write in?

My bedroom, because I have my desk and computer there, and I can close the door and shut out life, distractions, and my irritatingly friendly cat.

What is your favorite place for thinking?

I don’t have any specific place for thinking or ideas – things tend to come to me during the course of my day. I get the most ideas when I’m lying in bed on the border between sleeping and waking, and then have to force myself to get up, turn on the light and write them down, or I know they’ll be gone in the morning.

How do you beat out your writers block?

Honestly, I whine about it and then continue to write. Considering I am satisfied with very little of my writing, a “dry spell” is more or less business as usual, grinding out stories word by excruciating word. It’s not pretty.

Do you listen to music when you write?

No. I find even music without words is distracting; it messes up the rhythm of the sentences I’m trying to construct inside my head. Occasionally is background noise is too loud I’ll plug in my headphones to my iPod and listen to static, just to drown out any disruptions.



Writer #3: :icontoxic-nebulae: toxic-nebulae
the theatreit is a Tuesday afternoon
and I observe
the proscenium arch
of your spine.
I am separated from you
by several degrees,
a world and a half,
the ornate, sweeping divide
between watcher and watched
(and you've never cared
to break the fourth wall)
the citythese are the things I leave behind:
love like a headstrong art,
a barrage of skyscrapers lined up
like battleships,
a strange, surreal cityscape
with furtive alcoves and concave places
in which I hid my secrets.
perhaps one day I will
walk these streets without
stringing regret along at my heels—
I will greet the weeds
that struggle through the concrete
like lovers.
delicate positionmorning dawns
headaching bright
and I feel like I could
carve out the sun
with a spoon:
scrape a star
from the sky, fling a god
from his chariot.
I go back to sleep.
systemhe said that one day I,
who have grown accustomed
to accumulating moons,
drawn like moths
to my Venus-brightness,
would meet my match.
he told me I would be
captured by the brilliance
of a star,
a Betelgeuse, a behemoth:
supergiant turned supernova turned
supermassive black hole.
he informed me, peeking out
from under my gravity,
his erratic elliptical orbit,
that one day I would be
swallowed up
and that it would be poetic justice.


What inspired you to start writing?

Reading. I encourage everyone, writer or not, to do a lot of it. Also, my primary school classes had forty minutes set aside a day for creative writing, in which my teachers encouraged me and told me that I was "word smart." So, I grew to love writing at a very young age.

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

Immensely. Looking back at some of the earliest pieces I uploaded here, and ones from even before then, they're not nearly as good as my recent ones; I think I've gotten better at being deliberate with my words and message, and I hope that I continue to improve.

Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?

My friend introduced me to it, and it seemed to be a great place to both promote my own writing and to read others' poetry. Up until then, we had been posting on Quizilla, which is not a community tailored towards poets at all. I'm glad I signed up, because not only have I improved my poetry and (hopefully) helped others to improve, but I've made some great friends.

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

Both. If inspiration strikes me while I'm out (and it often does), I'll take notes in my phone, but if I'm in my room, I have a notebook and pencil handy.

What was the first piece you ever wrote?

The first poem that I remember writing was when I was about six, and it goes like this:
"Cold winter night
Moon shining bright
And casting off
Heavenly light
Snow falling soft
Ground gleaming white
Stars are shining
With all of their might."
Which is weird, because it RHYMES. When do I ever do that?!

What room is your favorite to write in?

My bedroom. 400-ish books and a scattering of notebooks and writing utensils make it cosy.
What is your favorite place for thinking?

What is your favorite place for thinking?

Art galleries and museums in France, America, England, Spain... The translation from visual/physical/historical to lyrical/verbal/written leaves my brain buzzing.

How do you beat out your writers block?

I just wait it out. I write when I get the inspiration to, and I when I don't have any, I don't. Reading poetry usually leads to my writing a poem, though.

Do you listen to music when you write?

No: I need complete silence.



Writer #4: :iconanapests-and-ink: anapests-and-ink
Morning LightLove, I dreamt about Wyoming again.  It was cold this time.  We walked barefoot over a frozen field, frostbitten straw scratching the soles of our feet.  The horizon was vast and never-ending and I missed you, even though you were holding my hand, even though our steps fell in sync and our breaths matched, twin plumes in the crisp air.
Do you know what that is, you asked.  That's condensation.  And we laughed, because I thought you'd said 'condescension' and wasn't that a more fitting word anyways?
Your lips were pale and blue and oh, so lucid.
Your laugh crinkled like the straw under our feet and because it was a dream, and dreams are never fair, my hands were empty again, my steps echoing alone, my breath a solemn cloud caught on a clear day.
I still miss you.
NoraSunlight slipped across
the river, leaving
only her hands,
whittling watermelon
with a boning knife.
The Witching HourFreshmen don't get to choose their dorm rooms.  There are a few that are set aside specifically for freshmen: the small rooms, the ones with awkward angles, the ones farthest from the Dining Hall.  But when the entering class is larger than usual, some of the rooms usually reserved for upperclassmen are opened up.  If you're lucky, you could get one of the best rooms available.
I had a large class.  And I got lucky.
My room wasn't huge, especially for sharing with a roommate, but it was on the top floor, right by the Bell Tower.  It had a soaring ceiling, with windows nearly as tall.  The first thing I did was shove the provided armchair (1960's orange and hard as concrete) up against those windows.   When I was satisfactorily perched (far too uncomfortable for lounging), I leaned on the window and gazed out over my kingdom.  The room overlooked a private courtyard, filled with silver-green crabgrass a
Empty SidewalksHer caramel complexion
was the perfect companion hue
to the cinnamon-bronze car.
She was hunched, headscarf
paralleling the curve
of the window, shoulders shielding
her infant: a curled
semi-colon wrapped in her arms.
Her eyes were
the color of wet sidewalks,
and as empty
as the night streets.


What inspired you to start writing?

I started out telling bedtime stories to my brothers.  There's this feeling you get when you're making up a story as you go, where you can almost see all the threads you've thrown out and feel just when it's right to pull them back in.  That's still what I'm grasping for when I write prose.

Poetry started in high school (doesn't all poetry start with puberty?).  I started getting these moments when everything slowed down and went into hyper-focus.  Poetry was something between a coping mechanism and a desperate desire to share the beauty those moments can capture.


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

Vastly.  I have trouble looking back at some of my older pieces; they're so rough!  Paying attention to all the wonderful critique I get on dA has helped a lot.  I also read just about every writing tutorial I can get my hands on (a special shout-out to MissLunaRose and LitResources).  Seeing so many other wonderful works helps, too.  You can learn a lot just by seeing what other writers do.

Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?

For feedback!  I live for constructive criticism, and dA is the place to get it.  I take every comment into consideration, both when editing old stuff and writing new pieces.  I'm not interested in publishing or anything, but I do want to improve.  DeviantArt is an invaluable resource when it comes to that.

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

It's funny—when I write poetry, I have to do at least the first draft on paper, but I hate writing prose longhand.  I think it's because I'm such a visual person.  When I'm writing with pen and paper I tend to adjust my line lengths to fit the size of the page.  Depending on how wide my notebook is, that can result in some very choppy sentences.  In fact, when I don't have access to a word processor I have to turn the paper sideways and write as small as I can, just to give myself more room.  But when I'm writing poetry I tend to go for short lines and even shorter poems, so notebook-size paper is perfect.

What was the first piece you ever wrote?

I'm not sure if it counts, but my Mom made me write down on of the stories I used to tell my brothers when I was in first grade (on construction paper.  With crayons.  And illustrations).  The first serious writing (as in, completed and typed) wasn't until middle school.

What room is your favorite to write in?

I write anywhere and everywhere.  I carry a notebook with me at all times for when something pops up.  It's embarrassing when you're out with friends, and downright inconvenient at work, but if I don't write it down immediately I always forget it.  The only complication is when there's something that I want to type.  I keep a thumb drive with me for that, in case there's a computer handy.

What is your favorite place for thinking?

I don't like thinking.  It makes me depressed.

How do you beat out your writers block?

I know what you're supposed to do—force yourself to write on a schedule, do some editing, find a few writing exercises—but I seldom pull it off.  Sometimes I go through my notebook and stare at all the things I've jotted down with every intention of fleshing them out into something meaningful.  That's usually followed with making more coffee and moping.

Do you listen to music when you write?

I can't take the distraction.  Sometimes I'll find a song inspiring, but that usually means jotting a few things down and coming back to it later when I'm somewhere nice and quiet.



Writer #5: :iconmotleydreams: MotleyDreams
Story Me ThisThe line of worn travelers straggled from the brightness of the barren gray rock valley into the cave mouth, all carrying bags of various sizes and too weary to talk much. The light of the sun was moderated here in the cave due to the angle of the overhang, so they could remove shaded goggles and blink tired eyes, but only a few had the motivation to do so. At the head of the group, their guide folded his map and looked askance at the etched markings on the cave wall, none of which held any meaning for him.
"How much longer?" asked the woman behind him, unslinging her bag so she could roll her neck. "Our elders will need to stop." The pretty woman in tattered brown and gray layers had recently reached her twentieth year. Her husband was two years older, both of them stoop-shouldered with advancing age. The three weeks of travel had not been easy on any of the travelers, but it had taken a toll on the elders especially, some of whom were even as old as thirty, and the guide's wife had t
Voices in the Dark: Prologue"Are you sure of this?" The woman standing opposite him glanced up in surprise before rereading the dirty scrap of paper he had handed her. "Did you double check these numbers?" They stood by the only lit torch in the underground meeting hall, using its scant light to exchange their information.
"Twice. He's already got four hundred he's calling 'new recruits', but they didn't march out with us. The others were all fairly certain how many more they could rally in the next year, they'd obviously been working on that before this meeting." He took the paper from her and flipped it over before handing it back to point at the four scribbled lines. "I didn't get all their names, and I could be wrong about that last one. But I was right outside the tent through the whole conference, and now Iohan's following the group. He should have more information when I get back... he was trying to become the general's personal servant." Dylin Trekys pulled his homespun cloak tightly about himself and sid
Akin to Mystery: ExcerptMara woke with a start to find nothing whatsoever amiss. Staring into the darkness of her tiny private room in the Revolutionaries' underground complex, she wondered what it was that had alerted her so abruptly; whatever her subconscious had noticed did not register in her awakened mind. All she was left with was a vague sense of unease and a rapidly beating heart.
Her uncannily accurate internal clock told her it was not quite dawn, but it was light enough that trying to sleep more was out of the question. "Bugger."
Eduard found her finishing her seventh lap around the underground quarter-mile track, already having completed the two hardest aerobics courses they had room for. "Jesus, Mara, do you ever sleep? I've been looking everywhere for you." His face showed a thin sheen of sweat, so he must have been looking for a fair while before the track occurred to him.
She slowed to a halt as she drew even with him, panting lightly. "Who died and made you my mother?"
When he blanched, she s
12. Insanity
Sanity Plea
Sitting at a lunch table with three of her friends, Heidi was finding the design of the table far more interesting than the conversation. What had started out as congratulations over Amy's upcoming art show had devolved into a discussion of what dress she should wear at the opening night gala. Heidi's attention had wandered around the pizza parlor--the words "rose pink" came up early on in the conversation--her eyes finally coming to rest on the satiny peach tablecloth. She didn't remember the tablecloth; last she'd checked there had been a cheap plastic tan-and-white checked coating on the table.
Except for Amy-the-artist, who had been a friend of theirs for years, the women all worked at a medical office building near Kendall Square--all in different office suites on various floors, but most of the offices in that building knew one another. On any given Tuesday or Wednesday, their little lunch group included two to six people, with a record high of eight, and norma


What inspired you to start writing?

Not a clue. My first story was dictated to my preschool teacher, and I couldn't tell you what inspired it. More recently it is just that my brain has too many stories bouncing around, and the only way to get rid of them is to write them down. They were probably better in my head, but I don't pretend to be perfect. ;)

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

The last few years have been good for feedback, and I'm learning about where my emotive phrases come across and where they don't. Some of my description was only grasped by a small percentage of my readers (probably the ones with similar tastes in genre, I'm not sure) and I needed to learn where to broaden my description and yet still not overdo the exposition. It's hard to grasp, but I think I at least have a better idea of where I often fall short, which is a step in the right direction.

Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?

Feedback, mostly, but let's face it, I like hearing that people like my stories.

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

Both. I have trouble writing by hand because of tendonitis that tends to cramp my hand, but I do switch to it now and again to get away from staring at a computer screen.

What was the first piece you ever wrote?

A story with very little sense involved, but hey, I was three. (I can go see if I have it somewhere if it's of interest...)

What room is your favorite to write in?

It varies. I like some background noise, so I often write at my local Starbucks. But I expect the majority of my writing is done at the desk in my bedroom, not necessarily because of any desire to sit in my room, but just for convenience's sake.

What is your favorite place for thinking?

I think a lot in bed. With my health it's hard to ignore little discomforts like sitting too long in one position, and it's easiest to forget about my body when I'm cocooned in blankets in bed. I also have a lot of inspiration from dreams, so both before and after sleeping I think a lot about stories.

How do you beat out your writers block?

I'll let you know when I do it. :aww:

Do you listen to music when you write?

A lot. Depends on my mood, but I like some background noise and long playlists provide well for that. Sometimes it's trance/electronica background music, sometimes it's new age-y lyric... whatever suits my mood and my migraine best.

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0hgravity's avatar
bit late in replying here but thank you very much for this ^^