Famous Lines: Make Them Yours

“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.” 
That's what I spit at the therapist when she tried to pull some answers out of me. Shrinks all wanted the same thing - they wanted you to spill your guts - to be vulnerable. All so that they could hook onto your insecurities, make you trust them when they tell you that you need to swallow a happy pill everyday. They don't really care about fixing you. They need you to stay just broken enough to be grateful for the temporary relief they provide. Every anxiety attack for you is a pay bonus for them. 
I'd managed to stay apathetic during my treatment. I never gave them the hooks to disembowel me. Even when they stuck me and dripped acid into my veins I never shed a tear. I remember the day their masks started to melt. Latex, or maybe silicon, dripping off their heads like steaming tar. Their wigs fried to a crisp under the fluorescent lights of my hospital suite. Their real faces were revealed to me; ugly, furrowed, wrinkly, saggy - monstrous - with teeth like bulldogs (I'm still not sure how they hid them under the dentures). 
I hadn't seen a human face in months. That is, until you came to visit today. These demons are cruel. They cut my arms while I'm sleeping. You have to get me out of here. You have to-
...Wait.
No, something isn't right about this. They never let me say this much. They always knock me out before I can. Why can I talk to you? Who are you? Something isn't right about you.
...Your face.
...Your face is melting. 

(A/N Using the lines we selected from the last post to start and end, we now have been prompted to write our own creative short stories in Creative Writing. This first short story is about a man being treated in a mental institution. At the expedition, the reader naturally roots for the narrator as he seems collected, rebellious, and relatable. However, as the story goes on and the narrator begins to trail off into creepy detail of his hallucinations, the reader is forced to the realization that the narrator is in treatment for good reason.)

I woke up that morning at 7 o'clock.
I drug myself out of my bed, and stretched my arms high above my head, before arriving at myself in the bathroom mirror to tackle my morning routine. 
I made a cup of coffee in my Keurig, and added way too much sugar and cream to it. 
I microwaved a egg and cheese biscuit - leftover from the morning before.
While I ate, I watched the morning cartoons. I swear they get keep getting worse.
My cat, Prisky, greeted me with a needy meow. She stretched the sleep out of her spine while I filled her food bowl. 
We finished our breakfasts together, before I tied my hair back and washed my coffee cup.
I scooped Prisky's litterbox before I pulled on my tennis shoes.
My day really began when I locked the door to my apartment. 
I headed down the many flights of stairs, and finally arrived onto the busy streets of Chitown.
I unchained my bike, and rode it to the university.
Illustration class had a plus size nude model that day.
Lunch was bland. I only had $10 in my wallet, so I went to a sandwich shop and got a six inch. I wish they'd put more cheese on those things.
After lunch I needed to go to work, so I caught a bus to the other side of town. 
People weren't especially nice that night. I didn't make many tips at the restaurant. 
I dropped a tray of glasses. 
I cut my hand cleaning up the mess. 
I finally clocked off at 11:30 - an hour and a half later than I was scheduled.
My feet ached as I walked to the subway.
I caught a train back to the University, and retrieved my bike to finish my journey home.
However, I stopped at the corner store for a bag of powdered donuts and a cheap bottle of wine.
I made sure the cashier double bagged it so it wouldn't fall during the ride.
The flights of stairs back up to my apartment felt like a 90 degree hike. 
Frisky greeted me when I finally forced myself through the door. She was just waking up from her nap.
Cats have such hard lives.
I took off my shoes, and sat on my couch. I watched MTV while I ate my donuts and sipped my wine straight from the bottle.
Exhaustion pulled me in and out of consciousness for some time.
I finally forced myself up, knowing I had things to get done.
Dizziness caused by the wine convinced me that taking a shower the next morning would be better.
I stumbled out of the apartment, and climbed one more flight of stairs. 
The landlord always left the door to the roof open, and I often found myself admiring the skyline from it.
It was the happy place that my mind wandered to when work got too busy.
The sky was introduced to my eyes, and I couldn't help but compare it to a Van Gogh painting. 
Maybe it was my drunkenness that made the stars spin like that.
I sighed contently and took one more sip.
"I closed my eyes, head drooping, like a person drunk for so long she no longer realizes she's drunk, and then, drunk, awoke to the world which lay before me."

(A/N I wanted to connect this second story more to myself. I didn't want it to seem as serious as some of my other pieces. The story follows the events of the narrator's day. I can never remember my own days, so I thought it would be fun to try and recollect a fictional person's day in a convincing manner.)

Famous First and Last Lines

(A/N We selected random, famous first and last lines of novels in my Creative Writing class. We then had to research their origin, some about the author of the novel, and then write a short explanation of the plot and why or why not we'd be interested in reading the novel.)

Famous First Line:

“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”
-JD Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

JD Salinger was born January 1, 1919 in Manhattan. He lived a reclusive lifestyle, produced his first work in 1965 and gave his last public interview in 1980.

The story is recounted by Holden Caulfield and the events of his trip to New York following his expulsion from school and a fight with his roommate. He interacts with many interesting characters, from nuns to ladies of the night, as he deals with his own internal struggles of growing up and mourning. 

Based on the synopsis of this book, I would be very interested in reading it. It has a lot of dark, yet realistic themes, that intrigue me. 

Famous Last Line:
"I closed my eyes, head drooping, like a person drunk for so long she no longer realizes she's drunk, and then, drunk, awoke to the world which lay before me."
-Kathy Acker, Don Quixote, which was a dream

American novelist Kathy Acker was born in New York City in 1947. She identified herself as a playwright, experimental novelist, punk poet, and a sex-positive feminist writer. She gave credit to the influences of French critical theory, philosophy, and pornography. She died in Tijuana, Mexico in 1997.

A twist on the folklore classic, whereas Don Quixote is portrayed as a woman on the quest to be knighted all the while fighting the enchanters of Modern America. 

I'd be interested in reading this book, because the edgy personality of the author really draws me in. I'm interested to see what she had to say. 

Quotes

“If there's a bright center to the universe, you're on the planet that it's farthest from.” - Luke Skywalker in Star Wars A New Hope.

"Everything works in Circles" - Darby Crash in What We Do is Secret

Writers as Readers Response

When you read, what do you need to be comfortable (environment, snacks, lighting)?

When I read I like to be relaxed. Relaxed to me means to be lounged out on my bed or a couch, in loose fitting clothes, with my Spotify playing at a low volume in the background noise. I like having a drink to sip on and a snack. I also love to read in the evening more than any other time of day, because that is the time that I feel I can relax with the least guilt on my productivity. 

What genres (types of writing) interest you? What specifically about this genre interests you? 

Historical fiction, fantasy/nonfiction, and sci-fi has always interested me in literature genres. Historical fiction draws me in, because I love the feeling of being transported to another time. Fantasy has a similar impact on me, as it not only can change the time, but also the rules of the universe we live in. I think there is a true art in being able to bend the rules of reality in a way that still makes sense to an audience. 

Who was your first reading teacher? Why do you remember her/him?  Was it a “teacher” or someone else (a family member?) who “taught” you?

I don't recall a specific person necessarily teaching me how to read, but if I were to credit anyone I think it would have to be my older brother. I would sit in his room when we were kids, watching him play video games, and usually he'd put on funny voices to narrate the texts as they popped up on the screen. However, sometimes he just wouldn't be in the mood to put on the act, and he'd zoom through the dialogue without so much as muttering it out loud. Not always being able to follow the story frustrated me so much that I think it forced me to begin decoding the meaning of the words, and before I knew it I was able to understand what street signs said and of course the stories that books held in those tiny, inked letters. 

When you write, do you continually envision the “reader” of your piece?  Who do you think would be interested in reading your work?  Does having a reader in mind affect how you choose your words, themes, ideas?  What’s different if you just write for yourself knowing no one else will ever read what you come up with?

I think it is incredibly important to envision the reader while writing. Doing so helps you decide exactly what you need to say and with how much detail. You never want to drown someone in descriptions of something that they can already clearly envision on their own. Likewise, it is never a great hook to mention something that has never been discussed, and not offer an explanation for it (Imagine if you were to tell an inside joke to a stranger).

Do you think that someone who reads a lot might become a stronger writer?  Do you think we pick up vocabulary, sentence structures, themes, etc. from the books we read that come out directly or indirectly in our own writing?

I believe that writing can certainly help a writer grow. Much like a scholar who absorbs information from textbooks, authors can broaden their vocabulary and grammatical structure by studying the styles of other writers. We should not be ashamed of being influenced. Inspired by is not the same as plagiarized. Just make sure that while you're writing, your ideas are unique enough for you to sleep well at night if you were to publish them with your name on the cover.

Children don't understand (Angelou Prompt Poem)

I don't know why my mom left,
Dad explained to us that mom is depressed,
Except children don't understand depressed.

Mom thinks another baby would make her better,
But dad thought that on top of raising her first son,
Four was enough,
So he went out and got a quick snip.

When mom found out,
She was very unhappy,
Eventually she stopped fighting with dad,
And stopped coming home every night.

Dad found out she was pregnant with another man's kid,
So dad filed for divorce,
Except children don't understand divorce,
And they certainly don't understand,
When mom backs the van out of the driveway,
With your brother in the back seat,
Why she wouldn't come back for six years.

(A/N This poem was prompted by a line in Maya Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.)

Maya Angelou Questions

1.    A caged bird sings, because performing is a distraction. Performing keeps the mind numb from the longing. As it looks beyond the thin, metal bars holding it in its tiny heart breaks, but it sings another long note in hopes that one day it will perform for only itself. The caged bird sings, because singing is better than screaming.

3.   Dreams tell us things that even we may not know about our selves. When you stare in the mirror of your bedroom vanity, and watch your teeth fall out of your head... It means you're stressed. When you find a dead crow on your porch step... It means that you're afraid of change coming in your life. Listen to your dreams. Write them down and keep them in the back of your thoughts in your day to day life. Dreams could be key components in unlocking our destinies.

7.   My mother has claimed for as long as I can remember, and that is not very long, that I must have holes in my brain. Maya Angelou, the famous writer and poet, claimed to have something she referred to as "total recall". To her, this meant that she could clearly remember every memory she'd every experienced. I believe that I am on the opposite end of the memory capability spectrum.
     Sometimes it's so bad that I couldn't tell you what I had for breakfast yesterday. I'll forget watching full length films (which can be a perk in some instances, since I'm always surprised by the endings). My dad can call me while I'm out with friends to pick something up for him on my way home, but by the time I'm pulling into my garage it'd been an hour so of course I'd forgotten about the conversation entirely. I more often than not walk into a room and then immediately forget why I gone there.
     I don't know why I have these holes in my head. I've never done hard drugs or experienced any head trauma. I still manage to pull good grades in school despite it all; I've just learned to take really detailed notes to reference back on later. I guess I just have to accept that fact that every morning is going to include a frantic search for my keys, because I won't be able to remember where I sat them the night before.

8.   "There's a world of difference between truth and fact," is a quote from Maya Angelou. My interpretation of this links back to her belief in kindness for all people. I think that facts are cynical - they spit venom with every word - and they feel no remorse for telling you how it is. However, the truth holds compassion. The truth is reality, but explained in a way that is aimed at not causing harm.

Dream Threads

(This short story was prompted by an activity in my Creative Writing Class. Each student recalled a dream that they'd once had, and then selected their favorite sentence from that recollection. Afterwards we each chose two of the sentences - one to start our stories with, and one to end it - the challenge comes from filling in the body with details to connect the thoughts in a way that makes sense. Word Count: 278.)

Family Tradition
The faint sound of people breaking into the strange house. A group of exploratory teenagers looking for a thrill.
"This is illegal... We shouldn't be here. It's trespassing." One of the boys mumbled.
"Yeah, and super creepy..." A girl added, clinging to the arm of her boyfriend, "Haven't you heard what they say about this place? About what they found? All the... Bodies..." Her voice trailed off with fear.
"You two need to quit being such scaredy-cats!" Said the group leader as he smirked at his friends. "Those are just rumors that homeless people made up so that no one would bother them when they sleep here at night. Just imagine what cool, old stuff could be stashed in here!" He reassured the group.
I watched my brother's face twist into a devilish grin as the teenagers' dialogue dragged on. He clutched a crusty, blood caked bat to his chest as his fingers fidgeted with anticipation. I looked down at the shiny, new machete in my hands. My knuckles were white with fear...
My stomach churned when I looked back up at my brother. He was no longer smiling. Judging by his expression, I guess it had become obvious to him that I was going to back out again.
"Don't be such a scaredy-cat." He mouthed in a mocking manner.
Before I could do anything to reply, he sprinted around the corner.
I heard the teens' screams cut short, one blunt whack at a time, and the guilt overcame me yet again. My father was going to be so disappointed in me...
Maybe one day I'll become what my family wants me to be.