NaNoWriMo


So, I participated in this event called National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo for short), which takes place every November, every year. You are supposed to write at least 50,000 words in the adult program, and you can set your word count with the youth program (which is what I did). I set my word count goal to 32,500, and you know what? I completed it! I got 33,062 words by the time I submitted what I had to submit to “win” NaNoWriMo. This youth program really helped me focus writing and as well discover new things about my book/characters that I never thought about before.

Of course, my book isn’t done. I still have a long way to go, but I am confident that I will finish this thing. In the meantime, check out this program at http://nanowrimo.org/ if you want to learn more! It really gives you a challenge that you thought could not have been done.

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“Where I’m From” – A Poem


I am from creativity
for I was created in a unique way.
I am from the writer inside me
who likes to spread his wings and fly away.
I am from the music
where my heart drums a song,
with the fingers that pick and strum
and my voice sings along.

I am from the Lamb.
For He sacrificed Himself for me,
with love and blood,
and peace and humility.

I am from Love.
For Love came down
and rescued me.
For Love came down
and set me free.

I came into this world with Love.
And Love come with me when I leave.

 

This poem is actually my most recent English assignment. We had to read the poem, “Where I’m From,” by George Ella Lyon, and make our own version of that poem.

You Make Beautiful Things


You make beautiful things. You make beautiful things out of us, no matter if we are weak or strong. We shine through you, and we live through you. Even after many struggles, after all this pain. Even if we never can find our way. We wonder that sometimes, don’t we? Whenever it feels like we are on a long, endless road. The endless road of pain, struggles, and suffering. We wonder if we can ever find our way; our way through the thorns and spikes that our enemies have laid down on our paths’, forcing us to take routes where we become lost and hope to be found. We wonder if our life can really change from that at all, for the rugged path is all we see, We seem to forget about all the good things that could set us on the right path, even if we try really hard.

But then we remember. We remember that you make beautiful things. Even after everything that has happened, even after everything that we have been through. We remember that with you we can step over the thorns and spikes, we can find our way to the right path, for you do not fail. We remember that you make beautiful things out of the dust where we came from, the dust where you made us from. The dust that shines and created a beautiful life for us. The dust that made us who we are. The dust that lives through all the amazing things you have done. The dust that remembers that you make beautiful things out of us.

All around we see hope. Hope that is springing up from the old earth, hope that destroys the chaos and makes us the beautiful things we are meant to be. But in the chaos there again is pain and struggling, but out of the chaos life is being found in you, where you make beautiful things.

Then again, we remember. You make beautiful things. Things that watch over us and take care of us. You make beautiful things out of the dust. The dust that surrounds us. The dust that began our life. You make beautiful things out of us. The beautiful things that we were meant to be.

Then we boast about you making us new, and are continuing to make us even newer. Newer after all the challenges and hardships. Newer after all the pain and struggle, because through the pain and struggle is where we learn and remember.

Always. Always we will remember. And forever we will remember that you make beautiful things. You make beautiful things out of us.

The Mystery Man in the Blue Car


In the local streets of London there was a man. This man, like any other man in this world, was different. Oh, different in many ways just like the other’s I can tell you, but there was something with this man that made him… well… different. Although nobody noticed it at first, instead of going “home” after his day at work, he would disappear like he was hiding something, just to reappear the next morning for work. When people wanted to go and see him, they would go to his supposed house just to say hello, but they left after they found that he wasn’t there. Of course, he has only lived here for about a month, so maybe he just wrote the address down or something, right?

Well somebody wasn’t so convinced. One day, a fellow employee – Gary – noticed the man’s daily disappearances, and decided to follow this mysterious man after work the following day to see where he goes to. So then comes the next day, and the two men worked like they usually did. When both of their shifts were over, the mysterious man came up to Gary in his brown suit and red bow tie and asked,

“Hey Gary, can you help me bring some stuff down to my car? I have a lot more to carry than I usually do.”

Gary sighs, “Sure I can help John. I got a lot more done today than I thought I did, so I have nothing to carry.”

John smiled, “Thanks man, that will help a lot.”

So, as you probably have guessed, the two men walked down the flight of stairs to the underground garage and up to John’s car. The car was an old blue Mercedes with tinted windows so you couldn’t see the inside. When they reach the vehicle, they pop the trunk and put the stuff in the car, just as you have guessed.  Hey, you in the back, the story isn’t over yet, so sit back down and continue listening please! This is the interesting part.

John thank’s Gary as he walked to his car a few parking spaces down. When Gary starts his car, though, he found that his car battery has died. So Gary pops out of his car, walks over to John and asks,

“Hey can you give me a ride home? My car battery died and I don’t think you have anything to start it up again.”

John looked at him with a little worried look in his face. “Um… I don’t know if I will be able-”

“Please? You’re my only way back to my house. Besides, you pass my house before you get to your’s.”

John sighed, “Alright fine. Don’t freak out about my driving though, please. And don’t tell anyone about this.”

“Yes, of course.” Although the part about being asked not to tell anyone was a little weird.

So John and Gary get in the car, but in all weirdness it didn’t start. Instead, a loud noise that sounded sort of like metal being scratched on metal strings filled the garage (Gary played piano, so he would know), and the blue car just vanished slowly in thin air, never to return again.

Not so boring now, is it?

What Should I Write? – The Inspiration


Finding inspiration to write is difficult. You think as hard as you can, but can’t get the words that your brain desperately wants to let out. You look so hard to find what you want to write, and you end up leaving the blank page that sits in front of you. Looking for inspiration in itself is difficult. But after thinking about it, you learn that inspiration isn’t something you can find. Inspiration for writing is something that finds you. It may come from a person, a thing, or an event. It can come from anything really. All it takes from you is to be patient. You must take back all of your thoughts that you wasted on finding the inspiration. When you wait, you will find the gift God has given you; the gift to write and share your thoughts and opinions to others. But inspiration for writing doesn’t come quick enough for you, doesn’t it? You stress yourself out instead, making writing harder for you. But that is why you should wait. Someday, the light-bulb that sits in your head will click.

New Series – What should I Write?


This is a common question I come to every single time I pull up my blog or a Word document so that I can just… you know… write. I usually can write short stories just by looking at something – like a word, phrase, or picture. An idea pops into my head every single time. I then clumsily press my fingers onto the keyboard, throwing the words onto my computer screen. But as I write, I find it harder and harder to keep with the original idea, and eventually I get off course. I lose control of the story and it becomes nothing.
But of course, writing is writing. No matter how stupid it sounds, it comes from my imagination, and crazy can be good at times. But what happens if I want to write something decent? What if I don’t want it to sound stupid or crazy? How do I solve these problems that come to my writing? I know it has nothing to do with Writer’s Block – cause it doesn’t exist. Writer’s Block is just something our minds make up, making us incapable of writing any further. So what should I write? What should I write that can make a difference? Can I write something that can do that?

I am going to make a “series” of blog posts that will pretty much add onto or be related to this one. I need to be more active with my blog, as I haven’t posted much of anything lately.

Penmen Project


So, a few weeks ago I decided to join this project on this other blog, http://thepenmenworld.wordpress.com/. The point of it was to make a story; the owner of the blog started off with two sentences, people sent in paragraphs related to the sentences (which was the first two sentences of the paragraph), and people voted on the best paragraph. After the paragraph is chosen, everyone starts to send in paragraphs again, except that they continue the paragraph that won. Round one finished, and I decided to send in a paragraph for round two. Check out this project, it’s interesting! My part of the story is the second paragraph. Hope you guys like it!

I woke up this morning with a strange feeling. I think I had a lucid dream last night or maybe not. I don’t remember everything exactly but I began my normal morning routine still half asleep; take a piss, feed the cat, make coffee and toast. I sat down to partake in my morning coffee ritual when suddenly a cold sweat came over me, the taste of metal… I ran to the toilet and threw up. Except there was something strange… Something metal floating in the bowl… I stood there staring at it, just floating there in the vomit. Trying to remember what I ate. Trying to remember where I was last night, who I was with. Was the dream really just a dream? Then with a quick swoop I grabbed the metal object and rinsed it in the sink. What the hell was it? How’d it get in my body? Then suddenly jolting me out my trance, the phone rang the same time someone urgently starting banging on the door.

I picked up the phone and looked at the contact. Unknown number. The person banged on the door again. A loud voice came out of nowhere, “Police! Come out with your hands in the air where I can see them!” I panicked. What did I do? Should I run or should I stay? The policeman banged on the door again. I picked up my backpack and started going for the back door. Suddenly, the front door was kicked down and then there was footsteps. No time to find out. I grabbed the handle and ran out the back door. A police officer jumped at me but missed by that much. Leaping over the fence, I started running. Running like I never had before. I don’t remember what I did, but I don’t feel like I should stick around to find out. A few seconds later, police sirens filled the air and I still ran. But I never stopped. There were things I didn’t know, or at least thought I didn’t know. I had to find out what was going on.

Six Word Short Story


This is one of the most powerful pieces of writing I have ever read. And it is only six words! Apparently, Ernest Hemingway and his friends were at a bar, drinking one night. Hemingway, as great of a writer he was (and drunk at that moment), made a bet with his friends. He told them that he could write an entire story in only six words. They laughed at him and told him that it wasn’t possible, but they accepted the bet anyway (probably because they wanted the money). So Hemingway gets a piece of paper, writes down six words, and shows his friends this:

“For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.”

His friends were shocked, and I am pretty sure it was hard not to cry. So Hemingway (I assume) won the bet.

The reason why this is so powerful is because you can read it and imagine an entire backstory in your head. You don’t know exactly what happened, but you can probably make up an idea. Now, I challenge YOU to write your own six word short story. It can be anything. Below is my own “story.”

“The people screamed. Everyone ran away.”

Good luck!

Green Dress and Tears


Bennie ran down the street. Barefoot, green dress and black hair caught in the wind, never had anyone said anything like that to her. Tears flooded down her eyes, washing the makeup out of her face. The words repeated themselves over many times, “I don’t want to marry you. I don’t want to live with you. And most importantly, I don’t love you.” The tragic event a week before her wedding forced a knife into her soul. Her heart, as it fell into the pit of her stomach, felt beaten and bruised.
She ran and ran and ran, vividly remembering the day he proposed to her. They were on a ferry riding up the river; watching the beautiful city brightening up the night sky, the lights reflecting off the clear water. They were leaning against the rail, pointing out strange things that stood out of the normal crowd. Of course, they were in a foreign country, so everything looked strange to them. Then suddenly, he turned to look at him, but then he wasn’t there. Looking down, she gasped at him on one knee and saying, “Bennie, will you marry me?”
Then came today, almost six months later. They were at a party, and her and her fiancé started to argue in the backroom… it was then he said those awful things. When he showed his true colors. She ran out the door, running with her heals in her hand.
A loud honk filled her ears, and she suddenly came back from the past and looked up to see where the noise came from. Light instantly flooded her eyes and she fell into the cold abyss, floating away from the world and the pain it gives.

The Door


Today in my Creative Writing class, we looked at pictures, wrote stories about them, and shared with the class. This particular one was requested (by my teacher) to be a poem, and I thought it interesting enough to share.

Door, oh door.
How you open to thee
you seem to adore
The hand that’s on me

When I try to open you
To see what’s inside
All I see is the blue
And clouds in the sky

So when I looked down
To walk on the floor
There is nothing around
But you door

Can anyone guess what the ending suggests?