Category: Writing

Emotive Language Runs in the Family

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Does a strong imagination run in the family? What about emotive language? Or is it simply a product of a love for reading that builds the ability to weave a fiery tale?

You be the judge.

Below is a Viber conversation between my sister and I, after someone she met had treated her horribly (and inappropriately). I won’t go into details.

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Me I am cocking my eyebrow right now and being all ”oh no you did-t!” Waving my finger in the air
Sister Haha! I am all snarly with burning eyes
Sister In my mind screaming ”how dare you!” With fire and rage
Sister Standing in lava
Me Slowly starting to hover above the ground while your hair whips about your face?
Me And lightning strikes?
Sister And whipping up a fire storm
Me And the ground starts shaking and splitting
Sister While an inferno streams out of my mouth
Sister Cackling madly
Me With a low guttural roar that gets louder until glass shatters?
Sister Until the crescendo and everything is razed to the ground and nothing is left
Me Except ashes…
Sister A vast wasteland. Then I can pull my hood up and walk slowly away amidst the falling ash
Me HAHAHAHAHA I am holding back to urge to lol while at my desk
Me We just concocted an amazing tale just then. I saw it all.
Sister Same! I lived it
Me The hood thing really pulled it together
Sister Haha. I feel better now that I have had my imaginary fire-storm

Reflecting on Reflecting

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I like to ask a lot of questions, and sometimes I annoy people with my random bursts of curiosity. In particular, I like to ask how people think they would react to an unusual situation. I don’t know why I’m so curious about it, but I guess I’ve always wondered  what kind of person I’d be if my security blanket was ripped away from me. What I don’t often question is things that pass by in a blink, or something that happened yesterday that I’m already starting to forget, or why I chose to do what I did at the time.

I started reading ‘Wild’ by Cheryl Strayed recently and I was amazed by the intricate details that wrapped the story together. Not only does she recount her harrowing experiences hiking for 100 days along the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) of America – solo, I might add – but unlike my attempts at reflection, Cheryl details her hardships and her revelations along the way in minute detail. She talks about her failing marriage and the death of her mother in the lead up to her ‘spirit walk’ and how they have shaped her every thought and decision. She revels at the beauty of nature along her journey and realises she hasn’t cried once, until she finds herself ‘full’ of the world. Not full of sorrow or regret, just full of wonder at the world around her – the trees, the sunsets and the silence. Her journey really put life in perspective and I realise now that maybe I should pay more attention?

Reflecting on Cheryl’s ability to voice her thoughts on paper, I am a little more motivated to follow suit and apply her style to my own writing. In my university studies I am encouraged to reflect on my experiences and so far it is not something I fully excel at. My tutor’s feedback is usually on the lines of: “but HOW did you come to this decision? WHY do you feel this way? Have you QUESTIONED your conclusions?” And no, I don’t question myself. I don’t even think about why I feel the way I do about my studies, or anything I deem unimportant.

I am going to take some advice given to me over the weekend by a friend of my parents: “write everything down, even if it doesn’t seem important to you. When you’re my age, you’ll regret letting those memories go.”

The endless search for inspiration

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Finding inspiration in a storm

Finding inspiration in a storm

I have been writing my first novel for what feels like forever. In actual fact, I smashed out 40,000 words in a few months, my tongue between my teeth and my stomach buzzing with excitement. This is happening, I kept thinking to myself. And then all of a sudden, I reached the middle and drew a complete blank. An absolute, stop where you are, blank. That was 6 months ago and I haven’t written since.

I often describe writing at the moment like wading through mud. Every word is a struggle. No matter what I do, I cannot, for the life of me, think of any way to continue the story. It’s like staring into a haze, where the characters don’t really know what they’re doing or who they are. And do I even care?

I’ve read here and there (when tirelessly Googling ‘how to combat writers block’) to put the story down and let it sit. Forget about it even. Supposedly, when I open up my 100-page word document again, it will all come flooding back to me and I will have a renewed sense of motivation and my mind will be teeming with ideas and inspiration.

Like I said, I stopped writing 6 months ago…so things weren’t looking good. I’ve opened that document, read the last chapter, and closed it again.

I recently found, whilst driving home from work, the beginnings of inspiration stir within me. It was windy and the sky was darkening with an oncoming storm. I slipped into a daze as a slow and melodic song came on the radio. Leaves began to fall from the overhead trees and batter my windscreen and before my eyes, my characters manifested. As drizzling rain blurred my vision, I imagined them standing in an open field, wondering about the dangerous future ahead of them. I could see their faces, their creased foreheads from anguish.

Then I turned onto the highway into heavy traffic and the image melted.

Maybe all I needed was a storm after all.