Not Enough Time

To anyone who’ll read this,

I’m sitting here next to my bookcase full of unread books, looking up and down at it while the inevitable looms in the back of my mind. It’s no wonder I have anxiety. There’s not enough time.

Not enough time to play all of the video games all the way through, finish all of the puzzles that surround my room, to finish writing that book that’s in my drafts, or to read all of the books that are piling up. The end is inevitable, but I choose to fill it with mind-numbing hours on my phone and in my laptop doing homework.

Graduation is in December, maybe May 2020, but that’ll be a year (or year and a half) until I can have all the free time I need (barring any part time job of course). Yet, I can’t help but feel like that year is just going to fly by and I would’ve wasted it.

Having ADD is a lot of work, my mind is always in overdrive and I can’t sit still. The only things that’ll turn off my thoughts are puzzles and sleep. Yet, here I am. Typing up a blog on my phone, when I could be journaling or reading. Oh well, at least this is an entry! So, my time wasn’t wasted.

2019 is going to be the year of creativity whether I realize it or not, I just have to keep fighting and focus on the right things. No longer will I wait around for replies or notifications on anything. I need to focus on me, and me alone.

So, I’ll continue to date myself this year. Figure out who I am. The creative person is inside me, I just have to meet her again.

Thanks for reading,

Love, Danielle

Podcast: Fiction

From the time I learned how to read, I’ve always read fiction. I could get lost in Wonderland or Hogwarts, just by opening up a book. The simple stumble into a couple hundred pages could result in many hours, or even days, spent entwined in the content between the cover pages. Yet, one of the best parts is the smell. Oh, the smell of a book. If you’re an avid book reader who’s in love with printed literature, describing the smell is almost impossible. It’s easy to get lost in it. Just picking up a book and sniffing the pages, old or new, it’s enticing. A digitally printed book doesn’t even compare to a hard copy, especially since a hard copy could be placed on a shelf. Personally, I love having my books on display.

Ah, the display. IKEA really has some fantastic bookcases even though they’re cheap. Alphabetically organized and divided between read and unread, the books give off a floor-to-ceiling library effect. Now, let’s not forget about the people responsible for my aesthetically pleasing case.

There are currently 266 books, or rather 178 authors that are alphabetically aligned on my shelves, but let’s get down to the authors I have the most books from. Off the top of my head, there’s JK Rowling (who we all know and love), Danielle Rollins (a, as she puts it, candy-coated horror novelist), and Chuck Palahniuk (who you might know as the man behind Fight Club).

These three authors have the most books on my shelves, and here’s why:

For one, all three authors write in some form of fiction. Whether it’s considered fantasy, horror, or transgressional, fiction is always my go-to.

Joanne Rowling, or JK Rowling, is the writer behind the entire Harry Potter franchise. Naturally, I have more books of hers than I do anyone else’s (besides Chuck’s) and I’ve been reading and rereading her books since 2006.

The Harry Potter series has had such a big impact in my life. Right from the start, my mom read me 60 pages a night so I could get through them before the big AR tests we had. Now, for those of you who don’t know what AR tests are, they’re Advanced Reading tests we used to have to take in elementary school. We got points for each one depending on our grade and I was number 2 in all of the fourth-grade class of Martin Walker Elementary, all thanks to JK Rowling and her magical books. Immediately, I got hooked on Severus Snape (RIP Alan Rickman), Mad-Eye Moody (may he rest in peace, as well), and all of the mythical creatures throughout the books. While the series may be finished, Rowling still continues to produce widely-loved novels even to this day. I’ll always appreciate the boy who lived under the stairs, and I’ll always appreciate the woman behind it.

Danielle Rollins is a different story. She’s a fireball with her words. One minute I’d connect with a character and the next I’ll start feeling queasy due to some gory scene she slipped in. Her books are like roller coasters and if you go under her pseudonym, “Vega,” they just get gorier. Now, I’m not talking Saw-gory, because she is technically candy-coating some of the scenes and the books are for young adults. Yet, somehow, someway, I can’t read them all the way through without taking a few breaks. Rollins, or Vega, has published a total of six books, and I barreled through them in a matter of weeks. Now, let’s get into my all-time favorite author, Chuck Palahniuk.

From this point forward, for the sake of not mispronouncing his last name, I’m going to refer to him as Chuck. Chuck is a trangressional fiction novelist who refers to his fans as Chuckleheads. All of his books plotlines were written so that the main character broke out of societal norms. For instance, in Fight Club, the main character got tired of working a nine-to-five job, so he started doing illegal activities after hours. Which, coincidentally, I can’t talk about due to the number one rule: “Don’t talk about fight club.”

Chuck has published a total of 21 books and I have 17. Alphabetically, by book title, there’s Beautiful You, Choke, Damned, Diary, Doomed, two copies of Fight Club, Fight Club 2, Haunted, Invisible Monsters, Invisible Monsters Remix, Lullaby, Make Something Up, Phoenix, Pygmy, Rant, Snuff, Survivor, and Tell-All.

Surprisingly, there’s actually a story behind one of the copies of Fight Club. On Black Friday, my fiancé and I woke up at 7am to go and get a signed copy of it. Now, we didn’t meet Chuck because he wasn’t there, but we now own a signed first-edition copy of Fight Club and we’re planning on putting it in a shadow box. It’s become one of our prized possessions and we don’t let anyone touch it, which sounds obsessive, I know, but the Chucklehead in me can’t resist.

Anyway, I think that’ll be enough for this podcast. I hope each and every one of you go out there and find a good book, get lost in the pages, and have the same experience I do when I find a new favorite. Make sure to keep up with me to find out more about the vast world of literature, multimedia topics and the study of writing.

Reflection

My composition process changed by switching to a more audio approach because I had to think about how I’d say it while I typed it. I included commas where I’d usually take a breath.  On Microsoft Word, I typed up the blog so I could read it easier. That way, I could double-space the text and increase the readability. Overall, this was an interesting and fun experience and I’m glad I finally did a podcast.

Writing as a Metaphor

Writing is an art. 208cf27b2e80467fb7fed0b834ee564f

As Lakoff and Johnson state in Metaphors We  Live By, life, in general, is a concept. It’s a concept that we cannot understand because it is not obvious (Lakoff). However, it’s up to us on how we choose to live that concept. Sure, it’s easy to dissect and evaluate your own life, but there always seems to be an underlying meaning behind it all. The simple four-word sentence I wrote above could be dissected in a number of ways, so here I am to do just that with help from the aforementioned book.

When anyone asks what I do, the first word that comes to mind is “writer.” Yet, it used to be “artist.” I often wonder why it can’t be both. Writing is an art. It’s a form of expression and it leads to a result you’re proud of; even though you’ll always be your worst critic. After all, writing is never perfect and neither is art.

secrets-of-short-story-writingIn Metaphors We Live By, they used the metaphor “argument is war” as an example. They said that if we were to change “war” to “dance” we would view arguments differently (Lakoff).  When I think about war, the first words that come to mind are strategies, defense techniques, artillery, military, treaties, and foreign countries (unless it’s a civil war). When I think about arguments, the first words to come to mind are defensive,  close-minded, social media, debating, and a resolution. By combining the two, it makes the word argument out to be this horrid thing when in fact, it can be eye-opening. However, would comparing an argument to a dance make arguing come off as any less evasive? Yes, yes it would, but would it make the statement about an argument being similar to war any less true? No, it would only lighten the load a little. paint-brushes-jar-over-wooden-aqua-blue-background-51063951

Well, let’s get back to the original metaphor at hand. “Writing is an art.” When we take the two contents of the metaphor; writing and art, what do you get?

Personally, when I think about writing, I think about pens, pencils, laptops, BlueTooth keyboards, and notebooks. Coincidentally, art involves most of those things too. When you write, the whole point is to put your voice on a page. When you draw you’re putting your personal view of things on a page. No artists are the same, they merely contain different mediums or styles, just like writers do. Except in the writing world, we call our styles our, well, styles and we call our mediums fonts.

Putting a pen to paper, a brush to a canvas, or your fingers on a keyboard are all similar. They all do one thing: express the style of the person behind it.

download (4)As a writer, I feel it’s important to consider writing as an art. It’s not just a task you set out to do just because you’re assigned a paper or have to write a resume for a job. Writing is another form of expressing yourself, as I stated several times above, therefore, it is an art regardless. While you read you can create your own versions of the stories you read in your head. You create the images, but the writer creates the imagery. The mind is such a crazy, imaginative, and wonderful thing and when you express yourself, it’s even better.

 

 

 

Reference

Lakoff, George, and Mark Johnson. Metaphors We Live By. Univ. of Chicago Press, 2011.

Baby Blue Eyes

Baby blue eyes,

sitting on my lap,

how do you stay,

when I move my legs?

I’ll set you on the floor,

because my limbs fall asleep,

but you still come back.

Is it love?

Do you just,

want my chair?

Mama cat,

Oh,

Mama cat,

I don’t understand.

I’ll always appreciate,

your little claws.

Especially since this is,

a rare occurrence.

Or rather,

it used to be.

Do you miss my brother?

Is this just you,

being a sad little cat?

I know you hate,

your bratty kids.

I know you love,

to be squished and held.

But mama cat,

Oh,

Mama cat.

with your,

baby blue eyes,

what’s going on,

in that little head?

I See You

I see you,

 With your green slitted eyes,

And your long pointy nails.


The way you move,

through the mulch,

and the way you eat,

I see you.


Scales,

Tails,

Nails and all,

I see you.


And even though,

Others are intimidated by you,

I want to hold you,

And the anticipation,

 is killing me.


I watch you through,

The glass cage,

 that confines you.


I watch as you scurry,

When people take photos of you.


I’m one of those people.


It’s been almost six

years.

Since I’ve found

my love and

fascination towards you.


I have a list of names

in my phone

already ready for you.


So,

blue iguana,

sitting on top of your house,

made of logs,

in the middle of Petco.

I see you.


And I’m almost ready,

to bring you home.

My Happy Place

Open the vast wooden doors,

the smell of grounds fills the air,

velvety green carpet beneath my feet,

maroons and yellows give the space more flair.

With the thermostat perfectly set to unfreeze,

look outside and you can see,

colored autumn leaves,

fallen from a Quaking Aspen tree.

Shelves lined with expired sycamores,

the irony isn’t forgotten.

as the bundles of paper sit upon,

treated wood and chopped up branches.

The smell of parchment is soothing,

it brings a smile to my face,

I can’t believe an inanimate object,

could bring my thoughts back in place.

Sitting in the cushy chairs,

watching others pass by,

carrying their array of volumes,

that’ll prevent them from using all the Wi-Fi.

While this setting is perfect,

the bundle in my arms,

will cost a fortune.

How could this possibly harm,

the savings I’ve collected,

for this very hour?

Indecisive I will stay

until my common sense decides to flower.

No, screw it!

This bundle of joy,

is worth all this hassle,

but I’ll put back the Tolstoy.

because I’ll never read it.

Who has the time to explore,

the views of marriage,

through the eyes of some whore?

Except.

She wasn’t a whore,

Tolstoy just wanted her,

to be exposed as such!

What deplore!

Let’s get back to the point.

Where were we?

Alas!

Right before checkout,

I feel like an ass.

Ranting and raving,

about fictional labels,

when really this bundle,

needs to be paid for.

The total adds up,

to no less than fifty,

I don’t even care,

this price sure is thrifty!

Ten volumes for that price?

You’ll never beat.

This bookstore is fantastic!

Now time for a treat.

We grab some crème brulee,

from a bistro nearby,

then get in our car,

but before we drive home,

we don’t make it far.

We turn in our seats,

to look at the place we adore,

we drive in front and take photos,

the modern way to say:

“I’ll miss you my love,

with your comfy chairs,

and nice patrons,

I’ll move here one day!

So, we can be closer,

Until then my sweet,

I’ll visit you shortly,

for I can’t help the defeat,

my pocketbook brought me.

So long,

farewell,

goodbye,

Tattered Cover!

I’ll be back soon,

because I’m a book lover!”

You

The other day..

I cried.

Not for the sake of a mental breakdown,

but because of my love for you.


The curves of your face,

the smell of “you”,

the way your lips look,

when you smile.


From your head,

to your toes.

You’re mine,

just like you’ll always be.


For better,

for worse,

til death do us part.


The vows haven’t been exchanged,

just yet.

But the piece of paper required,

isn’t that far,

from being signed.

I just hope you realize,
that I’ll always be there.


AllBee there for you,

during the rough times,

and during the bad.


AllBee there for you,

during the happy times,

and during the sad.


Just know that even though,

we aren’t where we wanna be,

just yet.

I’ll always be with you.

No matter what.


Simply because I love you,

oh so much.

Favorite(s) Nack

Crunching in

every bite.

The chewing masks,

the noise emitting

from the screen.

But,

I don’t care.


The oil coating my fingers,

makes this even better.

It adds more flavor,

to every handful.


Savoring each

and every bite.

As the plot progresses,

the outside of my jeans,

become textured.

From the wiping of the grainy,

specks of this sent-from-god snack.


I go to lick my fingers,

and the taste of butter fills my taste buds.


I need,

to ask for a refill.


Could you guess what delicious
morsel I’m describing?

If you didn’t see,

the original picture?


 popcorn

Short and Not-So-Sweet

hy·poc·ri·sy
/həˈpäkrəsē/
noun
1. the practice of claiming to have moral standards or beliefs to which one’s own behavior does not conform; pretense.

I type this with,
a reeling mind.
My thoughts try,
to deceive me.

Merriam-Webster defines,
hypocrisy with the meaning,
above.
So why is it so hard,
to avoid?

You can’t scream cultural,
appropriation,
because they’re all mixed.

You can’t expect money,
and material possessions,
if you don’t help in return.

You can’t tell others,
how to live their lives,
when you live yours,
in sin.

I’m not entirely religious,
but I’ve studied enough
to realize that,
the Seven Deadly Sins,
are things you should not,
gorge yourself in.

Lust.
Gluttony.
Anger.
Pride.
Covetousness.
Envy.
Sloth.

I’m guilty,
of most of these.
But at least,
I can own up to it.
Unlike others.

Mountain Mama, Colorado

Snowy caps surround us,

without the nonpareil sprinkles,

or dark chocolate.

We’re cruising winding roads,

with John Denver on the radio.

The Rocky Mountains have popped,
my ears more than twice.

My family is singing to,

an all too relevant song,

about my fiancés life.

Inexperienced ears,

listen while we travel through,

the unknown scenery.

It’s not long before,

the roads come,

to a grinding halt.