Sambgood

Having a subject, or no subject at all, and letting your pen speed through the page, trying to catch as many thoughts as it can with as few pauses as possible—do you free-write? I do. Last year in English class, the teacher sometimes allowed the first fifteen minutes to write freely in a journal or a sheet of paper. He wouldn’t read it, and sharing out loud was optional.

It was my favorite time of day.

But I never shared; I was too shy to speak. I enjoyed listening to the others however: a peek at a boy’s story; a snippet of the day; the worries of a girl; the funny scene in a personal life. Everyone had something to write about. I always smiled.

Half of my own free-write time was spent on my own worries, my own humor, my own record of life. The other half, I brainstormed. With essays to write and stories to dream about, I jotted down outlines and wrote thoughts without pause, all the while hoping to uncover a gem I could work with.

Amidst packing, sneezing, and coughing today, I found one of my brainstorm projects. It had been quickly typed in Psychology class, although it was for another subject. I thought I’d share it–unedited–with you. Perhaps you can find where I tried not to stop and think.

The Topic: Why I Write.

So, why do I write? I write because I like it. I love telling stories, telling stories within stories, telling stories within stories that are within stories. … I love how it’s like an art: a stroke for a comma can mean so many different things or a short sentence that is like a breath of air. Why do I write? I write to express; it’s a challenge to express; and I love challenges. Does this paragraph emit absolute love? Does this chapter engender unbridled fury? Does this whole story suck the reader in, surround him or her completely, entrancing them, enticing them, grasping them? I write so others can know: Do you understand what terrible things child-soldiers go through? Can you feel it under your skin? Do you truly and utterly understand? It’s not only the facts or statistics, it’s the people. Do you understand that what you are only glancing at are living, breathing people people who are just like you with dreams and goals? Can I make you understand that? Can I inspire you to do something about it? Can I inspire you to do what I cannot? I write to alleviate stress, to connect. I too go through those teenager things of arguments, control, etc. But let me put something underneath it. Let me not only put the feelings but what if. Let me make you think. I write so you can cry. With every letter, I want twice the tears. Don’t hold back. In my world, you are free from the chains of life. I want you to experience the sky as I do when I put down words. Experience the wind who whispers into your ear or the the trees that sing. Experience the clouds that tickle your feet and the stars that laugh. Why do I write? Why do I write? I write because I cannot speak. Hear my pronunciation—half the time they are wrong, although I read a lot. People don’t always listen. But when you read, you are focused on those words and those words alone. This is my voice. I have no other.

Why do I read? I read for the same reason why I write. There are worlds that I escape to, worlds that open my eyes. Portals and portals and portals. One step through, and I am no longer me. I am under your skin, in your shoes, wearing your hat, seeing through your eyes. I can understand. Let me understand. I look to understand. But sometimes I forget myself. I get lost. So I experience too much. I stay in the sidelines too long. What shall I do? Reading and writing—I love to do each. Why do I write? Why do I read? I am a writer. I am a reader. I am.

After printing it and not looking at it for a couple of days I penciled in notes, lines, ideas in the margins:

• I write because it’s magic
• After the IC play, girl came up to tell me thank you.
• When I was a little girl, I found…
• Once upon a time
• Once there was a little girl…
• (Arrow) To illustrate: story of I—falling into the magical world of words and wanting to create. As a little girl who, when looking in the mirror, is me now.
• I have a secret.
• When I close my eyes …
• but when I open them, the real fun begins.

I found this brainstorm interesting because I can compare this with the reasons in my journal—thoughts not for an assignment–and because it seems different, yet similar, than the final product

Do you know why you write? Do you have free-write sessions?

[Listening to: Trish Thuy Trang]

My father and sister has been ill for the past week, and it seems my immune system is no match against them. The coughs, the sneezes, the headaches, and groans—I have finally fallen to the bug’s advances.

Now my head aches. A rock pounds the inside in slow, echoing rhythms. Swallowing causes an ocean wave to crash against my throat. My eyes feel burdened and a soreness throbs throughout my body.

Can such pain produce writing? Sometimes. When I cannot hold a pen, the point pinching as I concentrate on forming words, or when I cannot look at the computer, the light and letters glaring, all creativity flashes from my mind. But the challenge to describe what I’m feeling at the present moment remains.

I always try to take up that challenge:

Unedited excerpt from my journal (April 16, 2008 )

Waking is a painful process.
The brain groans loudly, and the head, like an extra block of muscle, aches as it pushes against force, against gravity, strenuous and panting heavily. You can feel its tightness, slowly and painfully snapping. Raw. Beating. Your conscience is trying to speak, gasp for air; and sleep tugs at its feet, crying for more. You want to go with him, fall with him, let him claim you. But you still fight for he is not the one providing you oxygen. He cannot breathe. You can. And no one can stand breathing alone for long.

For the past week, my handbag has held the following: my license, my cards, my phone, five single dollars, lip balm, one pen, three books, one notebook, and a water bottle. I don’t find it terribly heavy on my shoulder. It feels comforting actually; I like the weight of words, both my own and others, hanging by my side or resting on my lap, close and ready for whenever I need it.

It would be odd not to have it because, as I told Mikkelina, I have at least one book and one notebook with me everywhere: beside my bed, on my desk, in my purse, and in my car. When a line pops in or inspiration sparks, a way to write will always exist.

Daily Writing Tips had an article a couple days ago about finding ways to write. Their suggestions range from “Write in a boring meeting or lecture” to “Write in the car.” I did the latter a while ago. But not in the way they recommended. Instead of taking advantage of a traffic jam, I wrote while driving—not the smartest thing to do.

I had jumped and squealed when an idea surged through my mind. Forgetting my place, I took one hand off the wheel and dug in my bag. My sister screamed.

“What are you doing!?”

“Let me just—Um…” My hand shook as I flipped through pages. I didn’t want to lose the lines in my head. She really needed to stop screaming.

“Are you crazy?” Of course not. But that didn’t stop her from ripping the notebook from my hand. “Say it and I’ll write! Drive! Just drive!” So I did. Because I think faster than I speak, I had trouble getting the words out of my mouth. I felt like I couldn’t channel without a pen or pencil in hand. I tried my best though. Afterwards, when my creativity was spent, my sister berated me for a while. I deserved it; it had been irresponsible.

But I did learn something from it: if you can’t write it, speak it. My sister and my English teacher introduced me to the voice recording device in my phone. Why didn’t I think of that? Now, when it’s dark or I’m driving or in a position where my hands are tied, I can use my phone. I can record my thoughts.

My mouth needs to keep up with my mind though. I’m working on that.

I miss it already: the salt tickling my nose and the wind brushing my hair. I miss looking down at the white foam trailing behind on a dark black ocean, and I miss watching the whispers of white clouds laze on a bright blue canvas. Gosh, do I miss it.

As you can tell, I enjoyed my cruise to Mexico with my family (and survived the eighteen hour car drive to and back from the port). Not only did I finish one book, read a couple chapters into another one, and have a story idea over four pages long, but I also danced, dined, played, relaxed, and laughed.

I had fun floating on an ocean of inspiration.

Now that summer is fading away, do you have any memorable vacations to share? Was there a place that sparked your imagination? Do you have pictures that may delight the minds of others?

I’m not much of a photographer, but I do love snapping away.  I also took a video of passing scenes. I wish I had pictures of some of the art I saw; I found some sculptures beautiful, ones with longing and ones with passion.  There were broken faces slightly touching and viny figures intertwined.  I saw silver, black, and gold palms reaching for each other.

I do, however, have a couple pictures (taken in Cozumel, Mexico) to share. Perhaps you can find a story in them.

A Market

Street Shot

Through the Window

To the Other Shore

A Good Day. A Long Day

Angle Back

Oh, and who has been watching the Olympics? I watched a bit while on the ship. Now that I home, I watch it with a friend when she’s over.  What do you think so far?

[Listening to: Vienna Teng]

I attended a concert recently, and I saw the usual: girls flirting, men drinking, boys holding their ladies, women flashing for cameras, and people dancing/swaying/jumping. But one scene stood out. One situation boggled and tickled my mind. Three persons read during the concert.

I was one of them.

It didn’t bother me in the beginning. After all, I read with music all the time; what difference does a live band make? So I read, and continued to read my book. Completely engrossed, I let the sounds wash and pass me as I rode the story’s emotional roller coaster; I shrugged off the dimming light and my cousin’s amused smile. I ignored the world.

But I couldn’t ignore my body. When my consciousness emerged out of the water for a few short breaths, I found my foot tapping along with the beat. My head bobbed up and down, and my voice shouted the lyrics. Soon, the energy and excitement of hundreds of people filled me.

And I thought: I am so silly.

Read, writers advise. I have read, I have read for years and loved it. Sometimes I read too much, letting experiences escape me. Write what you know, writers say. With moments untouched and gone, how am I supposed to follow that counsel? My book will be with me for a very long time; a night of music and people will vanish at the stroke of midnight. Is it worth ignoring that magic?

By the time the third and main band came on, me and two others finally tore away from our books and flashlights, tucking them under the blanket and onto the chair. We stood on our feet, the stamp fresh on the grass, and cheered.

Do you think people shouldn’t read during a concert? There were a couple people who shook their heads when seeing us read. It also would be a waste of our money if we read and not watched the bands. Have you seen people read during odd times or in odd places? What did you see? Where and when have you read?  Perhaps this is a silly question:  Where (and when) should we not read?

Here’s a few times and places in which I read and received looks:

• Breaks during softball practice
• While walking
• In the rain with only my hair and jacket to protect the book

As you can tell, I am back home. However, I’ll be leaving tomorrow night. This time, I am not only going out of state but also out of country. Since I’ll be on the ocean the whole time, I don’t know how or when I’ll have internet access. I am very sorry. I will be back next week. Until then, I’ll post as much as I can.

[Listening to: Journey]

Do you outline before you write a draft?

I do—sort of. Writing topics come to me in little lines and words; everything is vague, but I write it down. The topics then transform into non-linear scenes. I keep those in my head. After a while though, I can see a relationship between the scenes, understanding and forming what leads and exits. These thinly connected scenes make up my outline.

I usually write out a summary of each scene scattered around the page(s) then have details underneath with no specific order. Afterwards, I draw arrows to know the order and mark important scenes. On or around the lines, I begin to note smaller scenes and transitions with dialogue and description. Most times, however, I write out my scenes instead of summarizing it with the actual words, crossing out what I don’t like, connecting those that work, and color-coding according to the time I wrote it. (For example: 7/2 = red ink; 7/3 = black ink; 7/4 = pencil. I like dating everything.) When I feel like I have, at least, the backbone of the story, I begin writing my first draft.

Sometimes, I write as it comes to me. Some writers write it like that; some don’t. That method may take a long time and the story may be bogged down with unnecessary information.

Outlines can be beneficial because it’s a blueprint. It’s a map that will be sure to lead you logically from beginning to end. You can catch plot and character mistakes more easily, and having an outline may speed up the writing process for your drafts. Three interesting ways to outline are:

• use colored index cards to map out their story and characters.
• Use Spreadsheets
• use Post-It notes

Do you outline? If so, what format/ how do you outline? How many methods have you tried? Why or why not outline? What are your thoughts on them?

As you think of your answers, I thought I’d share a few pictures of my writing outlines:

 This is an outline I did for an essay.  You can see the arrows connecting each section, and the alternating colors. Messy, I know.  But writing it in different angles and with spaces allowed me to add and remove lines and information. The outline began turning into an unorganized draft.

This essay outline has a mixture of arrows, colors, and “bullets.” The traditional form with bullets can be seen in the top margin in blue.  Underneath, I begin my usual way of jotting lines and connecting them.  Sometimes, I don’t even connect the scenes: I’ll either write it in a different color or leave space in between, indicating my “holes.” Such a method helps me get past writer’s block.

This outline is not supposed to read sideways like this.  It should be vertical, but I didn’t understand how to upload the picture that way. I apologize.

Another unfortunate sideway outline.

Last summer, 2007, I went to a youth writing workshop for four days and three nights. I loved it there. 

I had fun being with other young writers and learning from the seminars; and because we stayed on a campus by the beach, the morning ocean air refreshed our minds. I even enjoyed most of the exercises.  As I was cleaning, I found some of them tucked away in my shelves:

“Write the worst poem,” one instructed. Since my strength does not lie in poetry, I thought this would be easy. The following is my answer:

Rattle, clink, and clank
coins noise in my pocket
like the silver collar of cat.

When I wrote that, I certainly thought it was a bad poem with its lack of rhythm and meaning. It was shallow with no direction. But then I started liking the first line, which seemed to reflect the coins’ sounds. Do you think it was a bad poem? What makes a bad poem?

Another exercise consisted of copying lines from multiple magazines for an unknown reason during an allotted time. We later found out we had to make a poem using the lines we copied, picking and arranging each line with as little changes as possible. I had fun with this. Here’s what I came up with:

—-
We started with an empty canvas
color it coastal
Morning dawns passionately
The howler monkeys start the show
intoxicated by the salty scent
deafened by the clapping surf

Remember the promise you made yourself?
Everything is beginning to just blend in
—-

I found most of these lines in traveling and retirement advertisements. Can you tell?

My most favorite exercise, however, consists of re-writing the beginning or at least the first few sentences of a story I didn’t like or thought could be better.  If I found the story’s start too passive, for example, I would write it in an active way. This exercise did not come from the workshop; I began this exercise after reading stories online. I found it fun. Perhaps you will too.

If you’d like, why not try these exercises? They’re fairly easy to do and they are stimulating. If you do, please tell me what you thought of them. You can also suggest other writing exercises you find helpful.

Must a writer’s space always be stationary?

I’ve been asking myself this question all day. In light of Colby’s comment in yesterday’s post and the coming University year, I realized that, for months at a time, I won’t be able to look at my lovely notes on the wall or tap away on my five year old desk or wheel to shelves in an orange chair. Starting August, my whole environment will change.

Does my writing corner have to change too?

No. It doesn’t.

Most of what my space contains can remain. The essentials, though, come with me; I need a few favorite books that can be both helpful and enjoyable. Notebooks, both empty and in use, are portable but I won’t need to take everything. I place my files in an already portable box; folders, utensils, index cards, and desk organizers won’t be a problem to transport or buy.

Although, I won’t have my familiar surroundings, I can still transform the basics—desk, chair, and walls—into a new writing corner. Gradually, the blank wall will be covered with Post-Its and other tidbits. New places mean new bookstores (and a closer library). Posters will be taped up, and my computer situated.

The important thing is to make some place, be it small or large, comfortable to write in. But this is not limited to traditional rooms.

No matter where I am, I’ll create a space that breathes Write. I believe we all do: in a hotel room or in a cafe or in the library, we angle our computer a certain way, place our pens on a certain side, position our paper sideways, and place our cups a distance away. In little actions, we create our writer’s space.

We create our own writing atmosphere.

However, I also believe having a drawer or corner where you can put files or folders can be helpful when you’re looking to be published.

So can a writer’s space be portable? I think it can be created.

What’s your thoughts? Am I defining and relating “space” and “atmosphere” incorrectly?  Do you think your writing space can be transported?

Perhaps next time, I’ll show you a picture of another favorite writing haunt, though it may not have Post-Its on the wall or files under the desk. Would you like to show me pictures of and/or tell about your writing spaces?  As I said yesterday, I think it would be fun, and perhaps even helpful, to see what a writer considers his or her space.

When it comes to writing, I’m a perfectionist: a line written down would have to go through at least five revisions in my head then another five once on paper or screen; more ink scratches than legible words cover a sheet of paper and the backspace button looks to be most worn. Yes. Perfection is a flaw I accept and hope to tone down.

Being strict on my writing, my writing space must look equally so. And it does—sometimes.

I’ve been cleaning, organizing, and shelving for the past four days, so my work area looks neater. No papers litter my desk or floor, and I finally put all my notebooks back into its designated cubbies. Instead of hiding them between pages and sticking on my TV, I placed some of my Post-Its on my wall, along with other reminders or interesting things. While I was shopping last week, I bought a spinning desk organizer; now all my highlighters, pens, pencils, erasers, paper-clips, and other little lovely gadgets have a fun home. Unfortunately, the home is too small. So I have other (handmade or previously bought) organizers in use. (Personally, I think I need more.)

But when my writing corner isn’t as pretty and clean, I still find it workable. I don’t mind looking for small pieces of paper in a pile of who knows what, and I like seeing notebooks flipped open on my floor. I find it fun shifting through folders or files because I always discover something new or lost.

Sometimes, I like to work in chaos. The disarray reflects life or my mind or the progress of a story. It reminds me to never forget that with planners, clocks, and labels, the world is built on a wickedly packed mess.

But I digress.

I like organization; I like having a place for everything. Accomplishment surges through me every time I find things easily. So even when I’m in a state of disarray, a little bit of order still exist: no shelves have fallen or labels erased or accessories broken. As long as I have these and more, I embrace the chaos and try to arrange all over again—even if perfection calls for a week-long cleaning.

I found, or should I say re-discovered, a lot in my cleaning, so I now have a treasure chest of ideas. Since I’m not done, I’ll probably fill the chest with more. Until then, I thought I’d show you my writing space.

(Scroll down to see what the letters point to.)

Being in a corner of my room, it’s pretty simple, but I remember reading somewhere that it’s good for a writer to have their own place—be it an office or a rented studio or a room or the attic. Having a designated spot allows the writer to focus on writing; it brings you into a mindset similar to those who work in a corporate office: “You’re there to work and finish by the deadline.”

You don’t always have to write there, though. Goodness knows I don’t sit in my room everyday tapping away on my computer. I like working in other rooms, and, when I have my handy-dandy notebook, I like writing outside or in cafes or bookstores. I can write anywhere and everywhere.

But my writing corner allows me to be serious and motivated. The environment breathes “write,” and write is what I do.

Do you have a writing space? How much time do you spend there? Do you keep it organized? How long does it stay organized? =)

Oh! How about sending a picture of your writing space? Every week (Monday), I’ll post a picture of someone’s writing/working space. You can send it with comments, and I’ll make sure to put that up too.  Oh, what an idea! I like it! Would you like to participate?

————–

• A: this shelf contains folders of blank or ”paused” paper (i.e. lined, construction, other) and notebooks
• B: projects, paper, notebooks in progress
• C: my new nifty desk organizer. It spins!
• D: my wall of notes, quotes, and what-nots
• E: my computer. You can see WordPress!
• F: magazine rack.  It holds Time, The Writer, Newsweek, USnews, and Creative Screenwriting
• G: magical box of files.
• H: boxes of folders, envelopes, and other essentials

What you also see:

• my aunt’s laptop which I’m trying to fix
• a full trashcan
• my chair

What you don’t see that’s part of my writer’s space:

• the 3 bookcases in my room
• my books
• my references
• my binders

Flow: a completely involved, focused state of consciousness, with diminished awareness of self and time, resulting from optimal engagement of one’s skill.

I learned this term in my psychology class, and I find it fascinating. Everyone experiences it at one point—students, artists, and workers; they “lose themselves” for a time, so focused. When they come back, the product is astounding and wonderful to all, including the one who was lost in it. It’s a great feeling of accomplishment.

Once, I fell into a flow during softball practice back in freshman year of high school; the JV team was racing against the Varsity girls in the rain. When my turn came up, I fell into the water’s rhythm, running like my favorite wild animal. And suddenly, I wasn’t an animal. No rain fell. No cheers sounded. For a few moments, nothing existed, including me. It felt great.

But I love being in the flow as a writer the most. I love having words appear in my mind, imagining myself in the world I created, and trying to have my hands keep up with my thoughts. To me, as a writer, there is no better feeling than falling into myself then standing back up to admire my work.

I surfed a wave last night; I wrote from eleven to three this morning, stopping only to catch my breath and picture the scenes. It seems my flow usually comes around that time. Perhaps the silence or the peaceful atmosphere spurs it.

When do you usually experience your flow as a writer?

[Listening to: Goo Goo Dolls]