Hello, I’ve been nominated for the Sisterhood of the World Award by Ashleigh (ashleighanne) so now I have some questions to answer:
1 – Favorite author?
I’m the worst at picking a favorite anything so I’m going to list a couple if that’s alright. Some of my favorite authors are Margaret Atwood, Philip K. Dick, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Charles Bukowski, and Roddy Doyle.
I still haven’t found enough time or inspiration to write anything worth being proud enough of to post but I’m eager to participate in the Zero to Hero blogging school so I thought I would at least try to write up a little introduction.
I’m an eighteen year old university student in my first year of engineering. I’ve always enjoyed writing and used it as a form of therapy. I’m naturally quite shy so my writing provides me a way to express myself and address the many conflicting emotions I experience throughout the day but are unable to share with others. Writing also provides me a distraction from my stress and worry. I mostly write personal poetry with an occasional short story.
By blogging publicly I’m hoping to write more frequently then I have been in the last year. I’m also hoping I will be able to improve my writing by reading others pieces and by receiving constructive criticism from other bloggers. Thank you for reading.
I’m sorry I haven’t been posting much lately but I’ve just started my final exams for university and I have zero energy and zero inspiration. I’m hoping to post soon but if not I hope you can all understand. Thanks a lot for your patience.
“I’ve eaten more bars of soap than you” she cries like a little girl who has lost her toys. Her voice is shrill and desperate; she isn’t seven anymore. The crowd cheers, thinking her a horrible joke. Their applause draws the air from the room but she continues to scream. “I can tell you what I do at night.” Her hands swing around the stage away from her body like swan wings as she speaks. “There isn’t any rouge!” she hollers, tears starting to stream now like little rivers of purity across her cheekbones. The audience is blind to it.
“Buy more!” the crowd responds with feverous gaiety. They think themselves so wise and clever in their buttons and ties. Laughter erupts, bringing with it a flood. The satin curtains on the stage waver in their motion. The fabrics shadow obscures her face but it cannot hide the terror and disgust.
I feel timid in the presence of unexpected vowels and consonants especially when molded from inside of the cavernous expanse of a stranger’s mouth. And he is very odd. Especially, with how he can determine unprovoked, unstartled, unnoticed to being a conversation with a mess of seventeen year old fears and anxieties. Then, odder, to seamlessly knot more letters together and continue my stumbling over and around the syrupy responses coating the underside of my cotton tongue. Worst, then, to watch him listen as though I was carving marble slabs instead of clumsily gluing macaroni pieces into the shape of celestial bodies. His connotation seems to be implying he would like to see my stars but I know what reality sounds like and I know what he sounds like. But what have I been hearing?
Oddest is how he stops so symmetrically to how he starts: with no outer tug or breeze or changing of tides. Just stops. His eyes find other beds to rest on as my sheets get chilled at night. His words find other ears to sneak into while mine are still contemplating his perfection and searching the yellow pages for a forger adequate enough to create a fair mockery. “On” seems to lack scenery but maybe it is where I need to be moving now. I could abstain from watching predictable orbits of the sun as it sinks down to kiss the horizon goodbye each night. I could stop burning scenes of foggy red dripping down to lighter shades of yellow and orange which eventually subside to bed time blues into my eyes. I could stop pretending to be the tiny pin pricks of grass that support my feet then gleefully run up the hill, away from me, to it. I could but it gets so cold this time of year.