Writing 101: Day 20 – The End (A Poem) 


Prompt: Wrap it all up.

The end has come. Fairwell for now. It’s time to go out on your own now.

Though you’ll be back to learn some more. For now, we say Adieu and Ciao.

You are changed since you first began, with everyday you grew.

And now you return to where you started; your journey has come full circle.

You are stronger after what you’ve been through, and writing everyday you became a mouth piece.

You scribbled and wrote, took. pictures, and typed until your fingers were sore.

This writing journey has not ended, you’ve just touched on a prologue.

Once the ember is ignited you can’t shut out the light.

Light defies darkness, it comes in out worst times to shut out the terrifying pitch black.

Don’t be afraid; your terrors and woes, your happiest times, fretful moments, and memories of all kinds — they will build your power.

One should not often wield a sword in this world, so let us wield a pen and write the rights and wrongs, the haves and have nots.

Let us write of every topic, of every feeling, of the pieces of a broken heart, and hearts sealed with a silver kiss.

But we are done. Fini. Don’t you know that you have a choice; a decision on whether you can do this unaided.

You have the skills to let words fly; to inspire and grow until words form a language that speaks to the entirety.

No word was ever wasted. Edited, but it existed for a reason. You’ll revise endlessly.

And finish with a matter of letting memories collide; as thoughts that you have completed one small journey provide you with satisfaction sublime.

—–

©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

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Writing 101: Day 8 – Dear ” I.”


Prompt: Write a letter. 

Dear I:

It is difficult for me to write this letter. I’m sure to you it doesn’t make sense why I’m writing it. But the reason is you are a piece of my history. You are apart of that point in my life when I was changing from an ignorant and carefree twenty-three-year-old, to a woman who experiences illness everyday. I wanted to apologize for how I acted back then and let myself move on. 

To start with, I did have a thing for you when I first came to work. I just thought you were the hottest guy I’d ever seen and that you were genuinely nice. I think you were aware I harboured a thing for you but I wish you would have just told me you didn’t like me that way, or that it wasn’t appropriate because we worked together. You should have said something. You were older and had more experience. You shouldn’t have led me on. And yes, I should have accepted your uninterested attitude sooner.

In 2008, when you went away on vacation, I finally got over you. And I felt fine in September, October, and most of November. But my situation went awry with my health in November. I didn’t understand it but I was beginning to have a psychotic episode. So, when a person said something, I would hear an echo after their voice, and the echoe was usually mean words about me. I didn’t know what was occurring. I knew something was off in those echoes but I didn’t even know what a psychotic episode was.

So, if at the end of November and December, I was acting abnormally, being inappropriate, and emotional it wasn’t my fault. Because I had liked you earlier, and because your office was right below reception, where I was working some of the time, I thought I was hearing you say mean words about me. I didn’t understand why you were treating me that way. I wasn’t myself.

As December went on, I would have good days where everything was normal and then a bad day. But I couldn’t stop crying or concentrate on work. On December twenty-third I left work for good. I went into hospital shortly after. I was in hospital three weeks and they gave me a medication that stopped my delusions completely. I remember how still and silent everything finally was, the first time I took a certain medication. 

My parents told me later, that our boss was trying to figure out what triggered my episode. You had showed L something I wrote you that was probably hard to understand. My parents said you told L you wanted nothing to do with me. I thought I must have been really sick for you to react so unkindly. I’m better from psychosis, and I have never had a psychotic episode since that time in 2008. If I did, I’d know what to look out for now to get help sooner. 

I do have depression that has caused chronic fatigue. And constant fatigue is the worse part of it. I’m out of shape and can barely work out due to fatigue. I can only concentrate so long and physically I’m always limited for other activities. But I have almost completed a Certificate in Residential Design. I am too sick to work so blogging and taking one class at a time are what I do. I’m applying for an MFA in Creative Writing for 2017. 

 I’m sorry for how I acted back when I was sick. I just wanted to apologize and explain what happened. I hope you don’t think badly of people who have mental illnesses. Often, we just need understanding and a bit of help to get going back in the right direction in life. When I was having psychosis, that was my first experience with mental illness. I wish I could have controlled my actions better, but I didn’t have that control. 

I hope your life is going well and I wish you only the best. Thanks for giving me a piece of your time.

Regards,

Amanda

Writing 101: Day 1 – I Write Because…


Prompt: Why do you write? This is a question you can answer again and again, as your response might evolve over time. You may have already addressed it in a previous blog post. Some bloggers also use this question, and variations of it, to shape their bios and About pages. Why am I here? Who am I? Why do I blog?
Sorry, I’m a bit late starting Writing 101, but here is Day 1.

Writing is as breathing. It happens without me being fully aware of it. An idea strikes across my mind, something is triggered. And I go onto my blog and I write. I often write a poem. I think for me that is my most free writing of all. But I like writing about picture or word prompts. I enjoy it when I am prompted by some experience I am having in life, or an idea I read about in the paper or on the Internet, or what I see on the news. I am prompted by other writers and their exquisite pieces or blogs. 

I love that in writing you are always learning. Learning to make connections to your audience, to reach out to them on a subject. I love what you perceive from their responses to your writing, and I love how with time one’s writing improves. I have learnt when to cut my writing to a couple hundred words or less in flash fiction. Often, this is difficult because you have to make every word you write mean what you want it to mean. I have learnt to “show” not “tell” my reader what is going on. I still struggle with that. I have learnt to be descriptive, to widen my vocabulary. And I just love to play with words as if they were puzzle pieces you are desperately trying to make fit into a puzzle. Words are also like chess pieces and only you know how to move your pieces to reach your final masterpiece and take the King. 

Writing is living, it’s a way to see a situation clearly. It’s a method of purging myself of sorrow or frustration. It reminds me of times past when I read over it again. It inspires me to try out things in life because with writing you need experiences to talk about it. Writing has allowed me to meet people all around the world. Writing is how I make it through the day and what keeps me up at night. Writing is truly breathing. If you want to know what’s in my heart, see what I wrote, it’s more apparent then my spoken words. I am the fire, and the written word fuels me. 


Writing or Reading?


Prompt: If you had to choose between being able to write a blog (but not read others’) and being able to read others’ blogs (but not write your own), which would you pick? Why?

I keep going back and forth on this one because I love to both read and write and learn so much from accomplishing both. But If someone held a gun to my head I’d choose writing simply because for me writing is extremely cathartic. I don’t know how many times I have felt so much more light at heart because I was able to write down a bit of prose or poetry. I’d go as far to say that writing is a passion something that is a part of me that I couldn’t live with out. It is an innate part of me, expression. Something that I must express or go crazy otherwise.

This is not to say that I don’t nearly equally love reading other people’s writing such as blogs. I have some absolute favourites I’d be devastated not to see in my inbox during the week but if I had to choose it wouldn’t kill me inside not to read blogs. Somehow I’d manage. The thing is there are so many blogs and some are wonderful and some are not so wonderful. And that’s okay because everyone is at their own place in their writing. But finding blogs that truly speak to you almost all the time is a challenge. Very rarely to I say ” Yep this person gets me completely.” I’m sorry if this is mean but I’m sure others feel this way to.

Writing 101 – Living in Fear


Static. Motionless. Stagnant. Stale. Still. I have a fear of all these words. When it comes to my life I’m afraid of not going anywhere. I’m afraid I will be still and stuck. I’m afraid of wasting away in a stagnant life. I’m terrified of remaining motionless. I’m afraid of being static. I’m terrified I will end up a stale person. I mean I’m afraid of never getting ahead in life. I’m afraid of never having achieved much of anything. I’m guilty of these fears because I have been sick a long time. I have been sick almost 6 years.

Sometimes, honestly, I could do nothing. I was stuck because I was ill. Too ill to think. Too ill to get out of bed. Too ill to concentrate. Too ill to take care of myself barely. Too ill to make myself lunch. Too ill to rise above being ill. But sometimes I feel a bit better and then I’m afraid because I don’t want to be stuck inside all the time. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to live with my parents much longer. I want to work. I don’t want to miss that event my friends are going to. I don’t want to be too fatigued. I don’t want to take so much time to rest. I want my old life back. But instead I get this life.

It’s not so bad. You get use to your own situation in life. But then I get terribly ill sometimes and I hate life. I’m afraid of disappearing. I’m afraid of never getting to be independent. I’m afraid of being independent. I’m afraid of too much. I’m afraid of of being forgotten. I’m afraid of having high hopes. I’m afraid of that fire within that wants to achieve. I’m afraid of being goal-oriented. I’m afraid of not getting what I most desire — I don’t want to hide the best parts of me.

I don’t want to hide behind manners and trying to fit in. I don’t want to hide behind polite conversation. I don’t want to hide behind false pretences. I want to believe that I can do most anything. I need to believe I have potential. My potential is what hides away. My dreams stay hidden. And every now and then I find a purpose. I want to believe that I can fulfill that purpose. I want to believe I have a purpose. I am potential. But I’m afraid to step into the light the place where creative energy thrives.

I want to write. I want to create. I want recognition. I want a career. I want people to see me not as that person who is sick but as that person who is capable despite sickness. I am plane afraid of not accomplishing my calling. I’m afraid of what people think. I’m afraid of what people say. I want to be capable again. I want so badly to just not be sick. I need so badly God’s grace. And need to achieve something I dream. Is that too much to ask? Or am I just living in fear?

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Only A Shop and The Words


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As you all know I am very interested in getting into a Creative Writing Masters. But I have needed some inspiration and some pushing to create the way I want to create; the way I need to create. These poems are a beginning. I always used to write my feelings out in poetry such as this when I was a teenager and I haven’t for awhile. So please enjoy, comment if you like, it really does help me edit and refine my work. I am taking a couple Creative Writing classes, now, and in the next year to build a portfolio for my Master’s. These poems I will hopefully submit for class when we get to poetry. Currently, we have just started fiction. I wrote my first fiction story ever, which I will fix up a bit and submit to you at a later date. It has been awhile since I posted, sorry I have been so busy finishing up Architectural Design and my boyfriend was down from up North last week 🙂 I am taking Google Sketch Up after or while this course finishes off so will be quite busy with that but I hope to have some Flurt articles for you all soon as the magazine has undergone some editorial staffing changes lately.

Take care,

Amanda

Only a Shop 2013-02-13

It’s only a shop, only a store;
But these are the places from which I buy,
more, and more, and more.
C’est le maison, c’est le magasine
but even in Quebec I’d find something,
that I would need to own.
It’s just some compulsion, some want from within,
that makes me buy jackets, skirts, jewelry, and design.
And if I had it my way I could buy as much as my credit card would clear.
But debt is a load that’s hard to bear.
And I’ve a closet that’s full, with nothing to wear.
Full of fashion, what’s chic, that which only fits.
But there’s not enough room in there,
and the clothes they are pouring right out the door
And I want to look stylish I want to look hip.
I want to wear what I want, I want to wear it well.
But my closet is built on the guilt of no savings account.
On money tightly saved, spent once to clear the debt away.
Spent twice, now I’m trapped until I can clear some room,
In closet and on card.
I love the purchases I made in there,
I’d love them more if I had somewhere to wear that swank.
Not just some evening out, once a month.
Not just to a class one evening or two.
I’d love to wear and wear proudly to somewhere it mattered,
to look good, where people cared,
and they out-lawed old sweats and pajama pants’
to nights you had your clothes to wash at home.
My closet is a beast, it reflects the need within;
because what I wear is never enough,
I’m not 155 lbs slim anymore.
And even though I’ve grown a bit,
though I never had the money to dress myself slim back then,
today I’ll buy and buy online and in store.
I love it when I gets that feeling,
It feels like nothing else but…
endorphins from hard workouts in the gym, and dancing, late nights out…
I couldn’t do that for along time you see;
still can’t make my blood pump without passing out.
So I buy and buy myself some happiness,
filling a hole that’s been dug so deep,
like a bandage uncovering a wound,
Heals the shopping, if only brief;
the wounds of disease, the wounds that gape,
every time I get that feeling to just buy a little more.
And I’m so tired of buying, to fill in holes,
to be reprimanded by my conscience’s defiance.
It’s the only place I’m ever free, the place that I most need.
What I’d give for an empty bill and a drug that healed the soul

The Words 2013-03-20

I watched the words snap into place,
An epiphany that I’d never seen.
The words were formless fading things;
she said, redo it, I liked it how it was.
The letters they formed into words once more,
adding new thoughts to paper and rollerball pen.
I was not sure, if the new words fit,
pieces of glass in an open wound,
a story once told and soon replaced.
Do it again, or here I’ll just change it,
alter the words until my voice is unclear.
As you read it to yourself,
you won’t hear me anymore.
I am the voice silenced by anger.
Don’t change my story, isn’t it the same?
You just said it differently,
my clarity, those words aren’t mine anymore.
I watched and I waited, painted the world with emotion.
Anger, disloyalty, loathing – those words are mine.
Stop cutting, stop characterizing, stop changing.
But then I’d never learn if you didn’t comment once or twice.
I’ll never get back to the place where I know it all,
because I don’t know it anymore.
So I allow you to print half the story,
you don’t like how I say it, but this is my voice.
How dare you change my story!
Everyone wonders what the writer meant,
they see what they see, I see what I see.
Look it over and leave it,
your so young you have yet to see,
you like me know nothing.
It’s the curse of this world, there is no control,
you fight for control when you say it your way,
But neither of us knows it
And few people older know; we are small in this world.
We can dream big, but eventually we need come down to earth.
Control is an illusion, so don’t alter the words,
that splash and soak into my paper.
Leave the peace be, and leave my piece alone.
But the words once more came crashing down.
Who knows if their mine, or if they are yours.

Criticism Maybe Good for You, Just Write Anyways


I have struggled with my writing the last few days. Maybe it is because I have jumped down from that Cloud where I think ” I was an English Major with a 3.7 average so there! “The truth is in the real world your not the only one who gets to critique your work and sometimes constructive criticism hurts. It is not the fact that I am getting criticized, I know in writing it is great to have friends or editors look at your work and I know from critiquing others when writing is not sounding right. But sometimes it still hurts, you’ve done all this work only to find that this has to be changed and so does this, and do not look now, someone has a different insight into your writing then you did when you were writing it etc.

Mostly, I do not mind but expect people to be clear to me on what I am writing for or about and what format or style of writing they are wanting to see. And I really get tired of talking about my mental illness at times. My situation is pretty unique but I guess every mentally ill person would say that. I want people to treat people who are mentally ill better and to be more understanding to them; one of the ways people can do this is by knowing that mental illnesses are physical problems in disguise. Some synapses in your brain or chemicals become imbalanced and this is purely a physical reaction on your brain with mental symptoms. But I have said this before in articles and to people it is just that when it comes to going deeper inside someone’s experience with mental illness it is difficult and right now I am tired of it; it was a very personal time for me. But I say yes to giving a mentally ill person’s view point because I want other people to become aware of what I just told you, to share knowledge, not because I want to tell all most of the time.

As a writer I want to get as far away from this topic as possible right now. I will write about a lot of things but not that. But I have learned a lot that I have forgotten in writing such as saying things more concisely and simply, playing with sentences until they are perfect, proof reading many times not just a few, and reading aloud your writing to listen for mistakes. I forget how many times a writer must revise and sometimes I am so sick of writing something I do not care to fix it. i think let editors do what they want, or I’ll fix it in a few days. But that’s a problem because it’s my work and I set high standards for myself which I have to learn to keep but also sometimes to lower. My work is imperfect and sometimes needs to be left a day before I turn it in to reword, edit- out, revise, and catch mistakes. This does not make me a bad writer, only a human one and I suppose an inexperienced one.

But what has really become clear to me is that to be a writer you just have to write, good or bad days, or any day really. The point is just write. And then you start to learn to do all these things instinctively and perhaps if you are lucky you will be able to reach your own expectations or adjust accordingly. I think those of us who write are born with the talent to write and that we are self-made people; however much we write and what we write about determines our success; that and the people, our audience, that we are trying to appeal to. So maybe we are not self made, maybe we are just lucky? But I think either way we continue to write because it is a need, it is like breathing, something that does not stop inside of us, until we are dead. That my friends, is a certainty.