An Eager Writer

CHANGE

2010-05-04T17:46:00.000-07:00

OMG. So much has changed since I last wrote! A new country, new job, new apartment, new friends and new love, the unique love, the love of my life! I finally returned home and realized I should 've never left. I belong here! I am happy as hell and in peace with myself. I wrote this poem on December, last year. It is an avaliation of all the changes that have been occurred back then and sumarizes exactely what I have been knowing all my life.

Desejo

Todo cuidado é pouco
Mais dia, menos dia
Ele se realiza

Palavras jogadas ao vento
Vento em movimento
Que sopra de norte a sul
Que volta pra onde partiu

Palavras ouvidas
em forma de prece
em forma de raiva
em forma de gozo
São sempre ouvidas

E por mais que pareçam esquecidas
Mais dia, menos dia
O que pediu bate à porta
Só pra te lembrar
Que a vida continua
E é sua, só sua!

The Reader

2009-07-18T09:42:00.000-07:00

It wasn't by choise. Oportunity met my financial situation and I've decided to buy it. "The Reader", a book I bought at one of my trips to Goodwill. As suprising it must be, Goodwill stores have excellent used books in good shape and excellent prices. That day, I acquired a bunch and concidentely chose another book about the Holocaust to please myself. I was curious to find out about all the fuzz and all the Oscar's nominations, even though I haven't seen the movie yet.

The story is told in three parts by the main character, Michael Berg. Each part takes place in a different time period in the past. It is polemic and good. The writer, not such much, at least not in my opinion. I expected more passion form a Law Professor, I think.

It is a nice book, if you are not looking for something expensive, exciting and long. You can easily finish it in two days. It took me a week, but I haven't had much time to it lately.

Back in Time

2009-06-23T21:06:00.000-07:00

Today, I posted my story on Writer's Digest website. I am proud of it, but trying not to rise any expectations. I don't want to feel disappointed in the end.
The prompt was given by them: "Back in Time. A woman is given the ability to go back in time and change one event in her life."

And that is what I wrote:

In an autumn afternoon of 2000, the streets of Seattle bled with maple leaves all around. The sky was crying and every drop of tears burned my skin. The quietness was intense. The world seemed to stop only to look at me with disappointment.

My decision had been made weeks before…. The room was crowed with cowards and I felt suffocated as inside of a matchbox. All the women in it looked the same and I was one of them. On TV, The American President movie was being played and Annette Bening was everything I wanted to be at that moment; a successful professional who felt in love with the most important man in the world.

The nurse called my name and I was fore ready for the final judgment. I attended to her call. She brings me to this freezing room and I began to strip my clothes off. I lay in paper sheets and tried to cover my shame with them. A doctor entered in the space and questions were answered. Explanations were taken and so as blood. Tests needed to be performed, even though they had nothing to do with my reason there.

I spread my legs wide and gangling fingers were inserted into my reproductive nest. The pain and embarrassment dominated my being. Words of solace were lost in the air. When I finally gave in, the doctor stopped the procedure. A woman had just invaded the room and I knew her. I recognized her smell.

She looked tired and in her fifties, but she was just 33. Her scalp could be seen through spares of hair. She moved her bulimic body, approached my ears and, in a soft voice, told me:

“Everything is going to be all right now. I am here and I won’t let this happen to you. You will have what you deserve and you will be strong. You will go on and everything is going to be ok. You won’t become me.”

She placed her hand on the doctor’s, but all he could feel was just a pinch. He stopped right away and, in an oddly action, told me to get dressed and go home.

“Go and find some peace in your heart, kid.” he says.

Disturbed by all, I did what I was told and was left alone with the woman. I almost couldn't see myself in her. The guilt had just consumed her guts. She fondled my face and I burst into tears. She embraced my bag of bones, rubbed my belly and told me softly:

“I am here to save you and to give the opportunity of your life. It was not easy to come back in time, but I had to do it for my own sake, for our own sake and our baby’s too. I didn’t want you to become what I have. Look at me! I had to travel in time to rescue you. This moment was my only chance of being happy again.”

I closed my eyes for a moment and let the words furnish my cells. When I opened them, her image had disappeared. But, she was close, she was inside, she was with me. I accepted the appraisal and floated home.

Today, toddler Isabella fills my days. Runs around the house and repeats every word that I say. She is bright and has a smile that penetrates my heart. She brings tears to my eyes, tears of joy.

And looking at her I thank God. I thank Him everyday for the opportunity to migrate back in time and interrupt the procedure that has completely changed the course of my life.

Contest #2

2009-06-20T10:16:00.000-07:00

This one is a little more ambitious, but I will try it anyway. I am already doing my research, since I have no idea what men want to read in a magazine, besides money, women and sports.

ESQUIRE FICTION CONTEST
www.esquire.com/fiction/fiction-contest

Open to all
Tittle to choose from: "Twenty-Ten", "An Insurrection"or " Never, Ever Bring This Up Again"
Can not exceed 4,000 words
Only one story per contestant
Due by midnight, August 1st. 2009
It is free
1st Prize: Publication plus $2,500
Submissions @ esquiresubmissions.com

Good luck to all who dare to try it!

Fight

2009-06-18T19:22:00.000-07:00

Well, days sometimes are not the way we plan. Nothing really goes the way we want. But, often we manage to have a good day. Yesterday was a good day with a fight in the end. I woke up sad and melancholic, not feeling like being at work at all. As I learned, I put my feelings down on paper and a poem came out of it. Sorry for the language. It is in Portuguese, so was the fight.

QUERER....

Eu nao QUERO mais ouvir a sua voz.

Cada nota me corta, me rasga....

So o som ja me apunhala o coracao.

Sangro com suas palavras

Que me desidrata.

QUERO sair sem culpa,

Ir embora com calma,

E refazer minha alma

Que dilacerada esta.

QUERO nascer de novo,

Conhecer meu gosto,

Descobrir a vida

E faze-la valer a pena!

QUERO respirar o ar poluido,

Queimar sob o sol ardido,

Salgar na agua do mar,

E sentir a brisa de um domingo

No meu rosto sofrido e envelhecido

QUERO estar no colo da mae

Engasgar com a fumaca do cigarro do pai

Ouvir choramingo de irmao

E me irritar com o choro do menino

Que ainda nao nasceu.

QUERO voltar pra casa!

Writing Contest #1

2009-06-17T20:21:00.000-07:00

I dare. Do you?

I am writing a story for the WRITER'S DIGEST ANNUAL WRITING COMPETITION

judging criteria: creativity/humor/inventiveness
one entry per person
top 5 entries will be published - readers will vote.
short story with 750 words or fewer, depending on the prompt.
it is free, no prize, though.
Deadline: 07/10/2009

PROMPT: A woman is given the ability to go back in time and change one event in her life.
After submiting my story, I will post here as well. Good luck to all of us!
For more rules and submission: http://http://www.writersdigest.com/yourstory

Tips

2009-06-17T20:04:00.000-07:00

OK. As I said before, the only way to improve my writing is to keep writing. Thus, I have been doing everything in my power to realize that.

I have subscribed to a "writing group", only for women. We are going to be meeting once a month to write for a few minutes and discuss our work afterwards. You, my fellow writer, can do that, too. Look for it at your local library. You can also do as I did, looking out at this website: http://www.meetup.com
Additionally, I keep a journal with entries at least three times a week, which I do before bed time, considering that I need to reserve some time for my reading as well.
I became addicted to this great website that helps me with vocabulary: http://www.thesaurus.com/
And have been preparing for two writing contests. (more information on the following post.)
Almost forgot, this blog is also a tool that I use for my creativity.

And you? What have you been doing to keep your writing alive?

Facebook

2009-06-17T19:51:00.000-07:00

What a wonderful tool! Taking an online class seems to be very impersonal, but in this case, it was not. Everyone was very kind and supportive to each other, adding their inputs and comments, which were very helpful. After the course conclusion, attachments were unavoidable.

Admiration and respect for other's work let us thirsty for more. Then, I facebook page was created to put faces and names with the people we have shared our talent! So far, 33 people have become members and some have even shared their last works. Good job, Kristin. Together we can keep going!

Book Recomendation

2009-06-15T20:58:00.000-07:00

Besides my new activity of writing I love reading. That is what really gave me the idea of writing. I love good stories, but the way they are told even more. It took me 15 days to finish the book, since I just have time when I am in the gym or in bed before sleep. It is an amazing story so well written and told, that in the end, I couldn't stop myself from crying my eyes out. I know I am a woman with crazy hormones and in these last few days the situation inside was critical, but I very much recommend "THE BOOK THIEF", by MARKUS ZUSAK.

"it's just a small story really, about, among other things: a girl, some words, an accordionist, some fanatical Germans, a Jewish Fist Fighter, and quite a lot of thievery...."

Narrated by the Death, Markus Zusak's groundbreaking new novel is the story of Liesel Meminger, a young foster girl living outside Munich in Nazi Germany. Liesel scratches out a meager existence for herself by stealing when she discovers something she can't resist - books. Soon she is stealing books from Nazy bookburnings, the mayor's wife's library; wherever they are to be found.

With the help of her accordion-playing foster father, Liesel learns to read and shares her stolen books with her neighbors during bomb raids, as well as with the Jewish man hidden in her basement.

It is a novel about the ability of books to feed the soul.

The Final Product: Mr. Alzy

2009-06-14T20:33:00.000-07:00

As I said earlier, I chose to write about a scene that a friend of mine told me about her father who has Alzheimers. After, rethinking, rereading and rewriting it, as many times as I could, I finally could finish and be proud of it. Below it, will be my teacher's comments. She and some classmates all seemed to like it, and I hope you would like it, too.

Claudia,

I like to comment right in the piece as I read, giving you a running commentary on my reactions as a typical reader and also as your instructor. It's a good way for you to see the effect of your words on readers as the piece unfolds. It allows me to make suggestions too.

It's been a pleasure working with you. Keep writing!

All my best, Ann

Mr. Alzy

The situation at this point has become unsustainable. He wanders around the house without pants on. Some sense needs to be brought to this man, I think. Cute is when a child runs around the house trying to flee from an unwanted bath. However, when a 65-year-old man exposes his business as if it needs to breathe.... (wish I knew your relation to him)

"What is going on with you? Don't you have shame? Why are you not wearing you pants?" I said.

He looks at me intrigued with my question and slowly goes to the closest bathroom. Seeing his reflection in the mirror, he fixes his few chunks of hair left, unbuttons down his shirt, and buttons it up again. Still can't define what is wrong.

"It is a hot day today, woman! Don't you see?" he screams impatiently.

I give him the pair that I have set so neatly on the bed an hour before. He grabs it from my hand, but motionless, stares at me. I help him to get dressed thinking that he was still there with me. Needless to say, I lose him while struggling for some dignity. (not clear who is struggling for dignity, and that's quite touching, so make it clear)

I shake my head and cry, even though crying makes me tired and doesn't offer me a solution.(well put) After six years since the diagnosis, a smile is not seen on my face any longer. I have turned into this unrecognizable and bitter wife. (fine paragraph reflecting harsh realities)

Has he become a stranger to me, or have I become a stranger to him? His presence is noticeable at some moments of the day. At others, he goes so away from me, from everybody, from everything, that he forgets his way back.

He keeps calling me "darling," which is a substitute for my forgotten name. He continues talking about the girl he married forty years ago and about how much he misses her. He still can not see that she is the one taking care of him on a daily basis.

He enlightens me with stories about our past. After the (pants) incident, I sit him in his favorite spot and search for a book to release the air.(not sure what the book is for) He calls for me, tries to get close to my ears, and confesses.

"She was beautiful and pure, but she was reluctant to marry me. She was engaged to her ballet classes and dreamed of having an affair with Baryshnikov, with no eyes or time for a Marine."

Fragments of the beginning of our life together are revealed to me little by little. His perspective of me as a young ballerina amazes me. That girl died a long time ago. She (has) wrinkled and has headaches--those kinds that (only) just a mother with a daughter living abroad can have.

She metamorphosed from a butterfly to a bug, no longer allowed to spread her wings. (well put!) As if he knows about her inside secrets, he says:

"I love you, my darling. I will always do." And kisses me on the cheek.

(A powerful piece, Claudia. You combine events with your narrator's reactions in such a way that we get to experience what it's like to live with Mr. Alzy. You've selected two strong events to illustrate this—the pants episode and the recollections of the younger wife. You have a unique way of capturing and expressing things, so I hope you have gained the confidence to keep writing while you've gone through these lessons. Do keep going! –Ann)

The Reasons I Write

2009-06-14T20:05:00.000-07:00

I could have chosen other kinds of media to express myself, such as painting, drawing, dancing, singing, etc. Instead, I ended up choosing WRITING. But, what is my goal? What are my plans to the future? How much do I know myself to keep writing? I know already what a harsh critic I am, that's for sure, but can't I stop being a critic and let my writing flow? Making choices is very risky, even though they need to be made. As I have learned through this course, keeping a journal and writing down all my frustrations, moments, thoughts, everything, is the best way to answer these questions. And for this lesson, I wrote this:

It is my life, my future…..
And it will be changed, every day it has been.
I am not the woman I desired to be,
nor in the place did I wish to live.
As says Obama, yes we can.
We can grow much more,
Much more than we plan.
Meanwhile, my plan has been drawn,
My destiny traced by the divine.
But, my fate won't stop me to give it a try.

It is my life, my future…..
I begin by contemplating my surrounds alone,
And appreciating every drop of rain.
I will be grateful for what I have
And stop complaining about what I don't.

It is my life, my future…..
So, I will do like any other mortal
I will have a big house by the beach
With a ceiling that no one will be able to reach
Have a book published some day,
And hair that will never go gray.
A husband that will love me forever
And parents who will never say never,
Be happy like a mannequin in display
And write a story without any cliche.
Hope is what I will never lose.
My life will be like a cruise.

Editing

2009-06-14T19:10:00.000-07:00

So, you think writing is simple and what you just need are some creativity and a good story. How could I be so wrong? The complicated part, that now I am enjoying more, is editing. We can't write whatever comes to our mind! We need to select special words, strong nouns and verbs, to make an impact to the readers. Also, we have to analise the sequence of facts, read our story over and over again, until we get it right and are satisfied with the results.

RETHINK, REREAD, REWRITE

Since the beginning of the course, I knew that the final product, the final exam, would be to write a short story, not longer than 500 words. I had no idea what to write about, until I had Easter brunch with my best friends. One of them has a father with Alzheimer's and told us the recent episode that had happened to him. I don't know why, that scene got stuck on me, for a long time. After a few drafts, that is what I posted. (not the final product, though)

The situation is indeed getting unsustainable. Now he is wandering around the house without his pants on. Some sense needs to be brought to this man. Cute is when a child runs around the house trying to flee from an unwanted bath. However, when a 65 year old man exposes his business as if it needs to breathe… Not funny at all. I must act at this moment –What is going on with you? Don't you have shame? Why are you not wearing you pants? He looks at me as if with a question mark on his forehead and slowly goes to the closest bedroom, probably to check out why I am yelling at him. He looks for the mirror behind the door. Seeing his reflection, he fixes his few chunks of hair left, unbuttons down his shirt, and buttons it up again. Can't still define what is wrong. My impression is that he is embarrassed and still perplexed, but doesn't know why. Then, he opens his mouth to say: -It is a hot today, woman! Don't you see? Impatiently, I give him the pair that I have set so neatly on the bed an hour before. He grabs it from my hand, but motionless stares at me. I help him to get dressed thinking that he was there with me, but I loose him while I struggle to give him some dignity.

Practicing Creativity

2009-06-14T18:28:00.000-07:00

Two techniques were present to help us develop and induce our creativity in writing. One is called Galumphing, which is based on three words that you pick aleatory, usually not related to each other and create a story. The other is called Bricolage, that consists in choosing a mundane item and write a creative story about it. I have chosen Bricolage to be post on the forum.

Who am I?

What a funny thing I am. Everybody knows how necessary and essential I am, but nobody seems to care. They break me into pieces anyway. What for? Don't tell me you have never done that! I hold papers together all the time. Big papers, important papers, awful papers, newspapers. Nobody notices my presence until they are out of me. And even though I am very cheap, I am the first one to be cut out of the supplies lists in time of crisis. Why? Why do they hate me that much?

Points of View

2009-06-14T01:17:00.000-07:00

What a difficult lesson that definitely needs to be reviewed. What point of view am I going to use to tell my story? I had no idea there were so many and so confusing. Besides, would I write in first or third person? Now I know that I need to wear somebody else's shoes to write better. I have to write as I was a reader and make decisions based on how close I want he/she to be to the characters.

The characters were John and Martha. The scene was presented and we had to take our minds to the world of imagination and create our story. Mine was so simple, so full of mistakes that I even made up a name for John for not being more attent to the exercise. I don't even want to talk about the other mistakes. You will see for yourself.

Martha could not believe in her eyes. She looked like a hungry duck after diving in the lake, unsuccessfully trying to catch its precious lunch. Her hair melted on her shoulders. Her make up thawed on her face. – "Would be this the perfect moment I was waiting for?" – She thought.

Julio, her ex-husband, had just gotten off the 174 bus and hadn't even noticed her. She didn't want to be seen that way anyway. Not by him, who she had seek desperately to impress and to get back to by any mean.

By the way, John and Martha situation is still unknown, but many of my classmates had written really good things about them. At the end of the course, I will post my favorite.

Second lesson

2009-06-14T01:04:00.000-07:00

Again, another childish poem. Our next assignment was to write about the reasons we wanted to write and everything else about it. I couldn't come up with anything better. I think I wouldn't know the real reasons and hid behind the poem, which by the way, explained very well the kind of writer I was at that time. (just a toddler, taking the first steps).

I wanna write about the stars in the skies
I wanna write about a soul that not dies
I wanna write about one love and many songs
And explain to whom my heart belongs
Because I feel
Because I know
Because I see
Because I roll.

First lesson

2009-06-14T00:46:00.000-07:00

Posterior presentations, my first exercise was a description. I had to describe a candle. Since I didn't have any that I wanted, I procrastinated my assignment for at least a week. But, as any writer knows, insights come to your mind when you least expect. This came to me, when I was working and had to stop what I was doing to write it down, only looking at the candle in my mind.

Candle

I light this candle and all I can see is your face.
The flame is intense and reminds me of how much you've changed.
I try not to look, but the brightness catches my eyes.
As I try not to see that this world is full of lies.
Oh God! Help me to understand why!
It burns so deep….
That all I can think
Is why he is not mine!

(so childish!)

The Workshop

2009-06-14T00:05:00.000-07:00

After four months since my NY's Resolution, I finally set some time aside to take classes about writing. I started looking everywhere in the city for a course that could fit my budget and my expectations. I couldn't find any. At a Community College, very popular among arty people, I found a Creative Writing Workshop, online though. Could I be able to take classes online? Of course! It was the best decision ever made in my life. The teacher was incredible, giving feedback after every exercise. The classmates also were amazing, always posting their inputs and words of encouragement. I felt that my writing mattered. I matter.

Here, more information about the course:

http://www.ed2go.com/
Writer's Workshop Beginning

Ann Liquist is a popular continuing education instructor on college campuses, at corporations, and with non-profit organizations. She has helped thousand of adults learn to tackle their writing tasks with enthusiasm. Having written everything from novel to newsletters, articles to ad copy, and poetry to proposals, Linquist is able to address the writing needs of each individual. the breadth of her background ensures a powerful, involving learning experience that builds on the strengths of each participant. (yes, she does. She definitely did!)

My First Poem

2009-06-13T23:33:00.000-07:00

Before I was even thinking about writing, I wrote a poem. It was when I decided, as one of my New Year's Resolution, to create a blog to share personal feelings. On January, 1st, a day very much celebrated among Brazilians, my inspiration became a realization. As any NYR, mine also got lost in time. Busy with my life I have forgotten to keep it alive. But here is the poem, in portuguese, of course.

O comeco....
2009.... Entao, ele acabou de chegar.
Ja assim, meio sem jeito, cheio de sonhos a realizar.
Sera que ele vai ser suficiente para tanto?
Sao sonhos novos e sonhos velhos....
Sonhos de anos passados.
Sonhos meus e de outros.
Sonhos criados, sonhos emprestados e sonhos roubados.
Sonhos....
Sao eles que fazem a vida fazer sentido.
As vezes sao ate esquecidos
nessa busca incessante a felicidade.
Mas estao sempre em nossas mentes,
nos fazendo andar para frente.
Que fique aqui registrado
todos os passos dessa busca sem fim,
dessa vida assim,
que eu escolhi pra mim.