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To Anonymously Me at Anonymous Thoughts:
I agree with Haley Sue: put yourself out there. Oh course, you don't have to do anything you don't want to.

To Haley Sue at A Watermelon Dream:
I'm lucky. I have my best friends around me all the time. I guess that's a curse sometimes too. :)

I hope you finish your papers!

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Today I read Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech. It's about a thirteen-year-old girl traveling across the upper-United States with her free-spirited grandparents, telling them the story of her friend Phoebe Winterbottom, all the while maturing as a human being and healing emotional scars after her mom left her and her father and never returned. Told in an easy, poignant manner, I thought the story was touching and heart-felt, while the characters were hilariously off-beat--especially Phoebe. I would recommend this book to anyone looking for a simple, emotional book to finish in an afternoon.

I read this book, by the way, for Children's Literature, which has already become my most rigorous class. I have to finish a 5 page draft of my research paper by next week. (Sure, it's not 9 or even 5 papers like Haley Sue, but I don't think its anything to scoff at either, especially in light of demands from my other classes. But maybe I'm being too childish, though. Haha. I guess I am.)

I don't think I've mentioned the fact that my poetry class is self-publishing our work into a high-quality book. It'll be very professional-looking and organized just like any top-tier poetry magazine. I'm very excited to see my poems published in print. Even though I'm starting to view my writing as something to pour large amounts of effort in and work hard to produce, I'm still flabbergasted by the notion of writing for a living. And I might be doing it for the rest of my life! I may pay my bills with poem money. I would be able to buy a home because I rhymed 'don't' with 'won't.' Can I really make a living doing this? I don't know.

That's all for now.

P.S. May Everyday is going swimmingly. Unfortunately, I only wrote for about an hour and a half yesterday, but I'll catch up. Besides, I still have 27 more days of May! :)

In May

I have plans for May.

I plan to write everyday in May for at least two hours, even if all my grades suffer, my eyes turn yellow and fall out, or if it kills me. It's time I stop being so gosh darn lazy and work hard for what I want. I want to be great at my career; I want to feel proud of what I do everyday of my life.

I'm calling it May Everyday because: 1.) it rhymes, and 2.) it reminds me I may or may not choose to be the best writer I can be. And I'll always choose to write.

Self-confidence and my voice; "You better get there before I get there."

A lot of the time, I don't feel like a poet or a writer, and consequently, I don't feel like my poetry or writing is any good.

I don't say this because I want people to reassure me my stuff is good, and to tell me all writers feel self-doubt once in a while; I really don't want people to think this is that kind of plea. I'm saying this because it's becoming a bigger problem when I write.

My biggest concern is finding my voice. If you ask me, I don't have a voice in my writing. I don't know how to find my voice either. Everything I write, from my blogposts to chicken-scratch words I write on scraps of paper, everything feels...phony. I don't remember the last time I wrote something that I've felt was really worth reading. Nothing I write comes from me. It all feels generic and uninspired and stupid.

As a student in a poetry class, I'm exposed to a bit of stuff from my peers. And although some of it is junk, there's a few people in my class who are just bad-ass poets. One in particular, whom I'll call Hydrogen, has written stuff that knocks me out. Her words, her subject matter: these things are definitely Hydrogen. There's no mistaking her voice for another. I'm astounded by how clear and comfortable her words sound, yet at the same time, how easily they seem to lay on the page.

I'm jealous, I'll admit that. I get uncomfortable when others are praised and my work is unmentioned; I'll admit that too. But these things wouldn't matter, I think, if only I were able to find my voice and keep it close to me. Keep it to remember. Keep it for keeps. I think once I'm content with my voice, I'll be happy to just write and watch as others take the spotlight.

Being an author

I want to write young adult or children books.

For the past two days, I've been reading Lois Lowry's Number the Stars, a historical fiction book set in 1943 Nazi-occupied Denmark. It follows a young girls journey of maturation as she discovers what bravery really means when she is forced to make difficult decisions in the name of saving her Jewish best friend Ellen and her family.

I immensely enjoyed this book. The simple, direct language and poignant story struck me as brilliant.

But the most astounding facet of reading was how much I enjoyed reading it. I don't remember the last time I looked forward to reading a book than when I was reading Number the Stars. And looking back on my life, this phenomenon has occurred more when I'm reading non-adult fiction than the literary classics. Paper Towns, Stargirl, and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz are clear examples that spring to mind right now. I was pleased so much by all those books that I've read them numerous times, something I rarely do with the classics (Pride & Prejudice being a clear exception).

I don't know if I'll write young adult and children books for sure; it's not like I can stomp my feet and declare "I'm writing young adult and children books for the rest of my life and I'll be successful and it'll be the most fun job that anyone ever had in the history of having jobs!" Well, I guess I could, but: 1.) it won't necessarily mean I'll be successful, and 2.) it won't mean I'd be happier doing something I've yet to discover. But I've got a good feeling about this plan. I really do. And if I decide this is not what I want to do for the rest of my life, I'll move on as easily as a marble on a greased hardwood floor.

One shot written in a parking garage (edited from the original).

The new engine made a weird vacuum sound as Lee threw the car into fourth trying for neutral as we boogied down the highway at sixty-five. Lee mashed the brake pedal. The small Honda jerked forward, stalled, then died as our heads flew forward and cracked against the nearest hard object.

"Lee, what the fuck, man!" I said through stifling moans.
My head was swimming in blurred vision. I was afraid I had a concussion.
"What the fuck, man," I said again.
"We could've died!" Manuel added from the backseat.
"Don't be a pussy," Lee shot back. "You wouldn't have died."
"Why did you do that?" I groaned.
"What if there was another car behind us?"
"There's no one on the goddam road!" Lee rasped.
I don't know why, but this seemed like an odd thing to me to point out.

No people in their right minds would drive on the 10 at three a.m. for no goddam good reason like we were. But for a city of millions, it was surprising how lonesome things became at night, especially the streets. Thousands of miles of paved ghost towns criss-crossed each other in quiet, homesick silence. And as I thought about all this, my mind felt...slower, like I had just woken up after only four hours of sleep and life seemed more fantasy than reality.

"We still could've died, Lee."
"No, you wouldn't."
"Why did you do that?"
"I thought I saw a moren flying," Lee said, solemn.
"A moren?"
"Yeah, a goddam moren."
Manuel and I looked out the window in the starless sky and listened. The balmy air was stagnant. We saw and heard nothing.
"I don't see anything," I said.
"I though I saw one; I'm not sure if it was or not."
"Why would there be a moren here?"
"I don't know why. I just thought I saw one."
I turned back to Manuel.
"You okay?"
He nodded. "Yeah, just a little bruised from the seat belt."
I turned to Lee. His face was covered by his hands.
"You okay?"
He stayed silent. I didn't think he was crying, but there was something.
Finally, he said, "Yeah, I'm good. You?"
"Yeah," I said, though I was feeling like my whole body had been soaked in water for a few days. "I'm good."
"Good," Lee replied, looking forward.

Lee turned the car back on.
Manuel was looking sullen on the way back, flashing occasional glances out the window. Lee continued looking forward. We stayed silent all the way home.

An Old Beginning

I'm a writer--always have been, always will be (I hope). But lately, I've been feeling deprived: creatively and emotionally. Sometimes I feel like the three-year-old me has been given complete artistic control of my verbal sketching (a horribly elitist way of saying the stuff I write) by manner of a magic marker to a white board. Believe me when I say most of the stuff my little self concocts is unreadable garbage--it's that bad. Sometimes I even think I smell the unmistakable scent of gas-station bathroom wafting from the poor piece of paper I have defiled.

But, I keep going, and I'm hoping that this blog with help train my habits and focus my mind so that my nineteen-year-old self can be given control; I'm sure that guy can do some seriously good writing (I hope).