The Inktober Finale

So, remember my post about Inktober? My rules for myself were to start something new every day. I also hoped to share what I did, but being that I was trying to start things, I am left with a lot of unfinished work. This is by no means a negative thing, but it means that I don’t have too much share-worthy content.

Did I do it every day? Mostly.

On days that I didn’t get to engage in a creative activity, I made sure that it all amounted back up to the day of the month eventually (17 new pieces by the 17^th, 20 by the 20^th, etc.).

Difficulty

In part, I was ambitious in thinking that I’d be posting a lot more, but I did also expect this to be challenging. By only needing to start something, this was a good challenge. It forced me to be creative every day, even if it was only for a few minutes. Challenges like this always remind me that I am able to make time when I initially think I don’t have any. I still (for the most part) found a way to get all of my work done even when I thought I couldn’t—even when I did my “Inktober activity” first and wasn’t sure how much time I’d have left for my schoolwork.

Experience

I really enjoyed this “challenge.” Starting new things got me out of old headspaces. It also prevented me from being “stuck.” I didn’t have to worry about where a piece would be going or how to improve upon it because every day I was starting something new. I did go back and edit, continue, and polish some of the things I wrote, though. That’s one of the purposes of this challenge. Not everything we create will be great, and that’s why it’s necessary to write down every new idea. Some will continue to grow and blossom, and some won’t.

This also forced me to think of new ideas even when I didn’t feel inspired. I’m in a writing club at my college, and one night we did 5 minute prompts. Someone wrote a sentence in the board and we had to use it to inspire a piece of fiction—and we had five minutes to write what we could. This activity helped to propel me into the Inktober challenge because I didn’t like all of the prompts, but I was still able to write from them. Sometimes when I am searching for something to write about, I’m very picky with what prompts I select. This defeats the purpose of prompts in the first place. If I had something to write about, I wouldn’t be looking for them. I don’t think that we are supposed to like every prompt because we use them to help us to explore into different subjects. I often feel like I write about the same things, and when I’m being extremely selective about prompts, I’m not helping myself out.

Do I Recommend?

Yes! This was a very fun and low-stress challenge. By only needing to start something, I was freed from feeling the need to produce something “good” every time. We all know that while we want to write well, the expectations to actually do it are often what limit us and keep us from doing our best work. Plus, after creating something new every day for a month, I now have tons of new material to build upon and work with.

What did I actually do?

Good question.

3 Drawings: the finished one that I posted with “The Wind”

October 2nd. This one is rather silly and in response to "draw something melting."

I don't remember the date of this one, but this is only the start of something that I plan to finish with pen and ink.

4 Blog Posts and 1 YouTube Video: I counted these to actually motivate me to post, which I haven’t done since moving to school.

1 Original Song: hopefully to be finalized and posted? We shall see :)

1 Response to a Memoir Prompt

6 Poem/beginnings/first drafts of them (finished pieces that I post from Inktober will be hyperlinked into this one should I post them in the future)

11 Journal Entries: By this, I do not necessarily mean “this is what I did today.” Most of what I write in my notebook are musings on different ideas and occasionally are recounts and reflections on particularly interesting events.

4 Fiction Beginnings/Attempts

Some excerpts that are by no means final products at all:

This piece started out as a poem then became the beginnings of a story?

October 25^th

She wanted to stop the sun from going down. As pools of water formed around her feet on the sidewalk squares, she looked for a rainbow. She would run until she found it. She tried to taste the clouds, light and fluffy as candy—as dreams in your head before you come to realize that you’re dreaming. Every night she whispered to the moon and embraced the stars. She kept lightning bolts in jars and ice at her fingertips.

I saw her once, and the spell got me. I’m not sure if she cast it on purpose or not. She said that she saw no more light in people or things. She held fast to the songs in the wind and listened to their teachings. When I asked her to share, to show me, her eyes looked at me with pity.

“Maybe someday. But you don’t want to bother. I have already left this world.”

She noticed my confusion, and it seemed to solidify her statement.

“You’re not ready.”

The air seemed to move with her instead of around her. It was as if reality itself was having a conversation with her. And yet, no one else seemed to notice.

“How will I be ready?”

She stopped. “Catch.”

From nowhere, a white ball flew toward me. I held my hands out and felt snow somehow turn to a pile of white flower petals in my palms. I cradled them in my hands and looked up at her surprised face.

“Maybe you are.”

I still really like the format that I originally wrote it in. Maybe this will be one of those stories told in a more poetic, whimsical way.

October 23^rd

what goes up must come down

I can try to escape, but the cold

feels even colder after taking refuge

sitting by the fire, sleeping peacefully,

drunk on blissful ignorance

like tomorrow won’t come

and by the time the light dies,

and the coals murmur their last breaths,

I wish for tomorrow to never come again

October 10^th

how can I speak of the battles in my in my skin

when there are bodies strewn across front lines

real bodies, real brothers, sisters, sons and daughters

how can I speak of sexism here

when there are still oppressed women out there

raped, abused, beaten, whose lives are threatened

how can I worry about my weight

or indulge in dessert

when there are children whose skin

sticks to their bones like cling wrap

on my leftovers

how can I worry what to wear in the morning

when others worry if they’ll have anything to wear at all

And I’ll finish with something I wrote that reminded me of one of the many joys and wonders of writing:

October 7^th

[…] As I bring myself to acknowledge my fear by writing about it, I feel myself understanding and letting go. I’m allowing myself to feel it and release it. How amazing. After all, as I write this, I do remember writing earlier about music being my calling, therefore I should not fear pursuing it. And I know that the people here—especially in the music department—are so full of love. They are not here to watch me struggle or to set me up to fail, but to help me. It’s crazy how easily I forget about that. People are not out to get me.

“Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you love. It will not lead you astray.”—Rumi

As always, thank you so very much for reading! I hope you were able to find something that made you think, made you smile, or inspired you to create your own works. Feel free to start a conversation in the comments! Did you try Inktober (or some other form of a “—tober” challenge)? Could you see yourself trying something like this in the future?

Irish-Inspired Prose and Musings (from my trip)

As I mentioned two weeks ago, I went to Ireland for almost two weeks in June. While I was there, I wrote every day in my notebook about what we did, among some other ideas. Rather than including everything, and I know I still am including a lot, I’m just including the parts that get thoughtful, maybe even a little prose-y. To me, a simple itinerary of what I did isn’t very interesting or worthy of sharing. These are just thoughts, observations, and reflections that were inspired while in Ireland. As this was done journal-entry-style, there are some jumps, and it’s not all very refined. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy :)

6/14/17

[…]

Then the music started. It was the woman who owns the place, another girl, and a guy. The first woman (respectively) sang, played penny whistle (I think it’s called), and a wooden flute. The second looked a little younger, was absolutely adorable, sang, and completely killed it on the “fiddle.” I think she was actually playing a violin or a viola. The guy, a little younger as well, played a classical guitar, and, man, did he play. The most impressive thing was his right hand. At times he would strum so fast! He really made use of the guitar as a source of rhythm without compromising any of the chordal stuff.

They were all beyond spectacular. They were so tuned in to what they were doing. You could tell they believed in what they were doing, and that made everyone else believe in it, too. The whole place payed attention. I wonder if it would’ve been different if you took the same band, the same audience, and changed the setting to something with less novelty—a place where people aren’t on vacation. I hope not. They played a lot of songs that were instrumental, some that had words, and even some that were in what I assume was Gaelic, though I didn’t know the language had a few phlegmy words the way German does. I guess all of the selections were folk songs. An older lady in the back sung along to every word (regardless of language). I love when that happens. The musicians were just so into it. They almost brought me to tears a few times, but I kept them in (that would have been just a little award)—not the sad kind, though. I was just in awe. It was a lot of fun—amazing energy. Some ladies even got up and danced to a song. The music just filled the place with so much joy.

I think God was there, watching, and I think He was pleased.

[This was in a pub owned by the people who we rented from for the first three days of our trip. We basically lived behind it]

6/17/17

               We left Dingle today. My sister and her fiancé arrived last night and met up with us at a castle. It was kind of cool. The people who worked there were dressed really stupidly—cheesy, and it was all very disorganized. It would’ve been better with a tour guide and a small group. I love getting tour guides who actually find the attraction they work at to be interesting and who give a lot of information. There was none of that at this place. The rest of it was even worse. It was surrounded my buildings that were supposed to replicate a town during the time of the castle. All of them smelled terrible and were so obviously fake. There were donkeys, goats, and chickens in random pens all over the place. Two pigs were in a tiny shelter that was attached to a dreadfully small and dried up enclosure. Two calves were in a pen drinking milk from a fake udder attached to the gait. I asked the guy feeding them where the mom was. He just said, “Oh, she’s miles away.” So either she’s on a dinner plate or she’s suffering through the dairy industry to give humans milk instead of her own babies. The whole thing was just a big touristy production—and a bad one, at that.

              

6/18/17

               We could see the sun set over the water last night. There was a layer of clouds above the horizon. The sun passed behind it at 9:53 pm.

               [I talk about walking around a town, nothing very interesting]

               When we got back to the house, Mom and I walked over the rocks to the ocean. There were all kinds of puddles left over from high tide with little baby shrimpies, little crabs in swirly shells, minnows, etc. The rocks had barnacles, muscles, and some other shelled life attached to them. That was really cool. I probably seemed like a little kid, but I couldn’t help that I was fascinated. Of course I stopped to look at all of the tiny creatures.

6/20/17

               Yesterday we took a ferry to the Inis Oírr Island (one of the Aran Islands). We rented bikes there and rode through a maze of rock-walled pastures, up to the rocky coast, and to ruins of a church, a cemetery with another church, a castle, and a shipwreck.

               I love the rocky beaches and the way that the waves rush against the rocks, sometimes splashing up or running between them, washing over everything. It’s crazy to look down and see this shallow area of waves and rocks, then look out and see that it continues over the horizon. Touching that water is touching the same water that’s washing up on the shores of California, or Africa, or Japan. It’s the water that whales, sharks, and giant squids live in and that glaciers float on. It looks so barren and lonely, but even the smallest puddles from high tide are filled with life.

               I wasn’t a fan of the cemetery. Can you imagine your grave being a tourist attraction? Every now and then as I walked through I’d whisper, “I’m sorry,” just in case any of the dead could hear me or were offended. I heard someone say she saw graves of a family—with children. I passed the grave of a 19 year old boy—Thomas, I’m pretty sure. It was chilling. And of course all the while people are taking pictures and such. In the middle of it was an old church that had been dug up. The tour guide that we stumbled upon told his group that, as the cemetery expanded, it began to bury the church, which was why it was in the ground to far. He said a lot of cool stuff about it, actually, that I can’t quite fully recall today. He said that weddings, funerals, and mass are still held there. “Whether you’re religious or not,” he said about the service, “it’s an experience.” I’d like to know more about that church. He made it sound very influential. I’d also like to go to a service there. I’m all about “experiences.” It’s on the bucket list.

               He said some things about the castle, too, when he led his group there (and we followed), but not as much as he did about the church. It was half gone with the second and third floors missing. The first floor had three rooms. I think it was more of a tower than a castle. The guide said it was for intimidation. If people think they’re being watched, they’ll behave better.

               [On the boat ride back from the island, we were taken past the Cliffs of Moher. I saw a lot of sea birds and jellyfish in the water. I also got horribly sunburnt that day. The sun was actually out in Ireland! That wasn’t what I signed up for! I ended up sun-sick and everything.]

               The sun made it completely behind the water last night at 10:08! [I keep writing the time of the sunset because it’s so much later than what I’m used to in Pennsylvania]

               Today I stayed home. I’m exhausted, my face hurts, and I have a headache. The backyard of this house is rocks and ocean, so it’s still a beautiful place to be.

6/21/2017

               Mom and Dad took me where they went yesterday. They were right in thinking I’d love it. It was a trail that went along the water, passing the cliffs, rocks, and small caves that hold the ocean at bay. The land on the other side of the trail was pasture, holding a herd of cows and three horses.

               It’s a beautiful place. It’s one of those places where I just sigh and think, this is poetry. I stood atop tall rocks that dropped straight down to inky-black water, heart pounding as I said a silent hello to Death, who had no-doubt taken his fair share of lives there. I walked down to lower spots and watched the waves crash over and consume the rocks. The ocean has never really captivated me the way it does some people. Today it did. I don’t care for the plainness of its blue horizon and the blonde, sandy beaches. The rough water slamming itself against the harsh rocks is what seduces me. I love watching the dark blue water swell up, surging forward, then stretching its limbs over the low flat rocks, embracing it with long fingers and icy passion. To the right was more abrupt shoreline, part of which vaguely resembled a wave. I thought of how we often pick up the mannerisms of those we love and admire.

               The rocks were beautiful. All of them were flat, running parallel to the ground in rough layers haphazardly stacked upon each other. Some had straight lines cutting across the tops of them (so did the rocks on the shore of Inis Oírr). How could such straight and thin lines have been formed? It looked as if someone had taken a razor to the thick thighs of the land as it hangs its legs into the water. Maybe the land resents itself, looking out over the ocean and longing for that kind of fluidity, and the water tries to calm it. It soothes the land with words of love and songs of strength, reflecting as best it can, the land’s beauty so it can see itself for its worth.

               I wish to engulf and to be engulfed as the ocean does with the rocky coast, with reckless passion. I wish to understand and be understood so well that we sink into each other’s pores. I want to melt without any fear, insecurities, or apprehensions. I don’t know with whom—if it’s even a person at all—or when, or how or why.

an example of those lines across the rocks

cows, then ocean

me and my dad

7/12/17

               Wrap-up, after the fact.

               Yes, Ireland was amazing. It was a very good vacation—very peaceful. My favorite part was the rocky coastline [if you couldn’t tell], the landscapes, and the scenery. It would have been great to just sit for a while in some of the spots we were in, taking it in, listening, meditating, almost. It’s strange how cameras are the central part of a vacation. Every destination is a place for Mom to pretend she’s a photographer (nothing against her, someone in our family has to do it, I suppose). At times I began to feel like the vacation was a glorified photoshoot.

How would our interactions with nature be different without the camera? It amazes me how many pictures people do take, given that you can find a photo of anything on Google. I’ll admit, I take a few when really inspired—often of things that are rarely captured (like the fog) or a specific image that I think can be useful for later writings. I think it’s a bragging tool for most, without realizing it. A photo is taken as proof that one was able to take it. The remarkable thing is the image, the real thing, and it doesn’t need anyone’s comment or attention to be so. Nature will still be beautiful and enjoyable regardless of how we react to it. Honestly, I think that pictures are a little greedy. We want. We want to be able to keep something, as if the experience isn’t good enough on its own, or isn’t valid as just a memory. Taking pictures becomes the focus. It diminishes, even replaces, the experience for a lot of people. It saddens me. [This little rant/reflection on behavior is not meant to be an insult or to target anyone, and I do think that real photographers are very much artists and do amazing work.]

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.” ― Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad/Roughing It 

As always, thank you so much for reading, and feel free to share your own thoughts or stories in the comments! 

Finishing Things and Learning Lessons

Recently I finished an entire notebook that I started using as a journal about two years ago. I’m not much of a journal-er, as is evident in the fact that it took me two years to fill it. However it was really fun, and it feels pretty good to have covered every page with my own words. Since this was the first time I had finished a notebook, and the first time that I used a notebook for one purpose the whole way through, my last entry was a bit of a conclusion to the whole thing, and it’s something that I want to share.

Last page in my notebook!

"End of an Era (I sometimes titled my entries)

    " Well, it looks like this is the last entry in this book. What a journey. I guess it’s been two years. I feel very different and like nothing has changed all at the same time. Anyway, I just wanted to note some lessons along the way.

1. My intuition was right. There was something wrong with my brain (Dythemia).*
2. I am a-okay on my own—don’t need to have a group/clique, don’t need to be afraid to ditch the kids I had been stuck with in classes for so long.
3. Don’t underestimate love. Yes, it’s wonderful, but—even if you know it will end eventually and think you’re prepared for that—breakups hurt like hell.
4.  Even if you don’t care about appearance, chopping off all your hair seriously changes your life—for the better, in my case.
5.  Just be nice. Be nice to everybody. A friend can be found in anyone, even the people you least expect.
6. Don’t be lazy (still working on that one). I always feel better on days when I make myself do something that I should do.
7. Addicts are just like anybody else. They don’t want to be addicted, and they need help just like any other sick person.
8. I’m VERY fortunate.
9. God answers. My boyfriend was an answer to a prayer. Knowing when to leave was an answer to prayer. I got accepted into the school that I prayed to get into even after I realized it wasn’t for me. And the list goes on.
10. Try new things. Writer’s camp in particular proves this point best.
11. Don’t feel bad for not doing something that would make you miserable—it’s okay to be an introvert.
12. I’m not too young to get published (thanks, Kate), just too lazy.
13. Be genuine. I’m always very honest and simple with my stage presence while performing, and I think people pick up on that and seem to enjoy it.
14. Spread love—not hate."

*I originally started this notebook for two purposes. 1, I thought something was wrong with me and wanted to write in it every day. I only did that for a week, though, and eventually gave up on that notion. And 2, to get practice writing because I wanted to start a blog. Some of the entries were even blog-style. And look where we are now—I’m doing it!

So there you have it. Since finishing this one, I’ve begun another journal but am keeping it less strict—not limiting it to “journal entries.” I usually start new notebooks before finishing an old one, and then they just pile up as I switch back and forth between writing in them. Honestly, that can get a bit overwhelming, and flipping through them kept me stuck on old ideas.

Working through one—functionally, and not just a journal—is helping me to be more prolific. It also helps that I’m excited about the feeling I’ll get when I’m finished and will have another full book. As I’ve said before, just getting words and ideas onto paper is half of the battle with writing, and often one of the hardest parts. So, in some ways, being excited over filling a notebook or journal can be very helpful and I definitely recommend trying to anyone interested.

I've been trying my hand at lettering lately

“If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.”― Margaret Atwood

As always, feel free to start up a conversation in the comments with any questions, similar stories, or a simple hello!