Ruthlessly Making Fun of My Past Self (And Her Embarrassing Journal)

Probably one of my biggest fears and nightmares as a thirteen-year-old girl was somebody finding my journal and reading the whole thing and finding out all my secrets, and then making fun of me for it. So, naturally, as I gracefully mature into an adult, I've decided to make that fear come true by exposing all the stupid stuff I wrote in that journal.

Now, to be clear, I didn't have just one journal in eighth grade. I kept several kinds of journals: the "school journal," which I took to school and wrote my everyday activities in; my "home journal," for personal reflections and secrets that I didn't 't want people to accidentally read over my shoulder in math class; my poetry/writing notebooks, where I wrote poetry and creative things; and my miscellaneous notebook, for doodles, to-do lists, etc. I still keep journals, but now all of that stuff is in one horrifying notebook. But back in eighth grade, I needed the different kinds, because OMG, I couldn't write about my deep dark secrets in my SCHOOL journal!

You're not really going to find out any of my deep dark secrets because I was really disgusting and kind of anti-feminist a lot (there's at least five different instances of "I'm pooping right now, I brought my notebook to the bathroom to write about how girls who like Taylor Swift are dumb"). But you will get to read what I'll call an "inside front cover" summary of quotes from my "home journal." You know how in books written by celebrities, it'll say on the inside front cover, "Here's what Famous McFame thinks about... ROMANCE 'Guys are just so silly!'... JOBS IN NEW YORK CITY 'They pay terribly!'" Stuff like that? I'm going to do that with my eighth grade self. Now that I think on it, I would have loved that. I was pretty sure my journal was the kind of writing people would buy as a celebrity memoir at Barnes and Noble.

Here's what Eighth Grade Ariel thought about...

OTHER GIRLS IN MY GRADE

"They have made it their life’s goal to tell me “you need to: straighten your hair, shave your legs, use more makeup, buy designer clothes, stop writing, ‘do my homework for me’”… Every. Five. Minutes. To which I would like to reply with, “I don’t conform to society’s needs, thanks,” and then strangle them. To which I usually reply by trying hard not to crack up at the sincere, Justin-Bieber-adoring looks on their faces."

Wow, you sure were a badass, young me! Imagining such a witty comeback!

MY OWN WRITING

"I wrote this moving memoir. I was going to post it on Teen Ink but I’m not going to lie, it’s REALLY good, and I’m afraid it’ll get published and then people will know my secrets."

"That Jekyll and Hyde essay I wrote for English is worth the Nobel Prize, I tell you. Besides, I’m the best writer in the grade, no question. Not meaning to show off or anything."

 MUSIC

"Ke$ha can sing but her songs are trashy and they’re getting trashier. If she doesn’t reform a little soon, she’s dead. Justin Bieber sucks- wannabe rapper, prepubescent voice, cliché lyrics. Miley Cyrus is looking very promising as aforementioned and Lady Gaga is, plain and simple, the most brilliant thing to hit music since the Beatles."

I made that part bold so you could see what a musical genius I was at age thirteen.

 DRESS SHOPPING

"And then *OH THE HORROR* dress shopping! No God, why me! Why me of all Earth’s creatures… oh never mind. [Mom] better pack chocolate to make up for this. And it better be JUST dress shopping, not “You really need new bras, look at this tee-shirt isn’t it cute, how about some pajamas.” [Mom] tends to forget I’m a nerd writer, not some idiotic Idiot Wannabe Justin Bieber Fan."

Yeah! Only idiots like shopping! But I... I was special. I liked chocolate.

SLANG

"BEAST! Nope, I just do not sound natural using slang. Back to 16th-century nerd-ese."

I know, you were all thinking it while reading these excerpts... this doesn't sound like a regular teenage girl, it sounds like William Shakespeare! (also, LOL, "beast." 2009 was a fun time)

THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE

"16^th-century Rome is like middle school. “OMG Julius, Michelangelo SO does not deserve this tomb job. Just give him the stupid fresco. He has, like, zero experience compared to me.” “Oh, I see how it is now! If you’re gonna be that way, I’m fleeing the city. BTW, Bramante, you suck. Oh! The pope wants me back now? Well tell him I better get about a billion florins if he wants me back in his palace!”"

Yeah, I had a summer assignment about Michelangelo.

MY LONG AGO YOUTH

"“What is Love” is on the radio. Love that song. Reminds me of sixth grade… the days of innocence."

"In gym today, we returned the locks from our lockers. It was sad, saying goodbye to the lock I’ve had for three years. I never imagined, when I got that lock in sixth grade…"

I didn't say what I never imagined, I just started talking about all the plastic bags I had left in my gym locker.

MY FRIEND GROUP AND ME

"The only real, non-wannabe girls in the school!"

NOT SURE WHY I SAID THIS

"I deserve one of those Medals of Courage they give out in the army."

I think that's a good place to stop. I could have gone on for a while- there are a lot of hilariously awful parts- but I've decided to spare you that. I also skipped huge sections where I talked about boys (so much, dear God, why) and angsted about the woes of my life, because those parts involved specific people and I don't want to drag them into this. But they were really terrible and funny and it is a shame you don't get to read them.

So, I know this stuff makes thirteen-year-old me sound pretty terrible. But actually, I was pretty great. Sure, I was annoying, I thought I was the best person on the earth, and I shamed other girls for doing pretty much anything. But I was unique and kind of daring and smart. Eighth grade was the year I finished my first novel. It was about as terrible as this journal was. But I still wrote it. Not that many other thirteen-year-olds can say that (OK, I know that some of you reading this blog can say that, but shush). I guess what I'm saying is that people go through embarrassing, ridiculous phases in their lives, especially when they're in middle school, but that doesn't mean those parts of your life are useless. You just have to be willing to do things that sound crazy, whether that means saying that Lady Gaga is the best thing ever, or writing a novel in three months.

Anyway. Yeah, yeah, you didn't want to read something sappy, you wanted to read embarrassing quotes. Well, you got both of them. Thus is the nature of a post about the wonders of puberty.

Hope you somewhat enjoyed this. I'll see you on Saturday to talk about my new experience of the week.

-Ariel

Slam Poets Showcase

Hey! So, sorry again that this post is so late at night. I spent the whole day celebrating Pi Day with my best friend by eating pizza and apple pie and generally acting ridiculous. (also I then spent an hour wasting time and watching the "Uptown Funk" music video a lot)

This week was very busy with schoolwork and other things, but the most exciting thing (and my official new experience) happened on Wednesday. My Slam Poets group at my school had our first showcase!

The Slam Poets: Reclaim Your Space group is a club I joined at the beginning of the school year. We write poems, then we read them to each other, then we get critique. We also work on perfecting our performance abilities, because slam poetry is poetry you perform for an audience. We've all been working on different poems all year, but recently we decided to perform our poems for an actual audience, and the showcase was this Wednesday.

As a lame first-year, I wasn't super involved in planning or organizing the event. I just sort of nodded that I agreed with stuff at the meetings and received emails informing me of changes. But I picked out a poem I wrote called "Privilege Is" and practiced it in my dorm until I had it memorized.

At 7:30 pm on Wednesday, I headed over to the Black Squirrel (one of the student hangouts on our campus) and nervously walked around. We were holding the event at 8 in the Black Squirrel, and a surprisingly big crowd was forming. (Everyone in the group had been annoying their friends and classmates to show up, in addition to advertising on Facebook). I was beginning to get nervous, even though I had the poem memorized. It was more worrying that people were going to get offended by it or something. I don't know why; I just imagine that people will get offended by things I do. And I was nervous, so.

Finally, at 8, the two co-chairs of Slam Poets came in and got onto a little makeshift stage in front of the couches and chairs that had been set up, underneath a little spotlight, with the microphone and speakers they had managed to get, and introduced everyone. They basically did all the work of organizing and they each read several poems which were really good.

After the introductions, the poems began. There were ten different performances but only seven performers (plus somebody who wasn't in the club) so some people went more than once. Each of the co-chairs read amazing poems- one of them got a dance student to do interpretative dance while she read; the other got another club member to sing in intervals between her stanzas.

The other club members read amazing poems. One girl read two poems- one about her niece, and the other about her race and religion, both of which were absurdly good. Another girl (who has too much talent, sorry, too much) read a hilarious poem called "How to Be a Writer at Sarah Lawrence" satirizing the whole artsy writing community here. Another girl (I don't want to put any of their names in case they're not cool with it) read a funny poem about writer's block, and another girl read this powerful piece about her dad and how they moved from Egypt. They were all so good, I'm not even exaggerating, you should have been there to hear those poems.

The audience was really cool too- some of my classmates were there, and a lot of the older Sarah Lawrence community. They all got super into it, snapping and calling stuff out and whatever. It was fun.

When it was my turn to read, after aforementioned way-too-talented girl, I climbed up awkwardly onto the "stage" and looked out onto the audience. It was totally different from my performance at the Open Mic- everyone was paying attention and it was more serious, and I had memorized this poem. Plus it wasn't about Harry Potter; it was about serious issues of race and privilege.

I didn't screw up at all and I liked the way I performed it. I even did the thing I had practiced where I closed my eyes when I said the line "close my eyes" and then opened them when I transitioned to "Under the bridge/ Red brake lights reflected in the water." I'm not sure if it worked or I just looked stupid, but whatever. Anyway, I think it went over well. People snapped on different lines (which is a slam poetry thing, evidently) to show that they liked them, which was nice. I'm worried that I was a little too serious, probably because I was focused on remembering my lines (a lot of the others read off pieces of paper, so they were more laid-back and cool). But whatever, I guess. It was really fun and it was a good environment to begin performing poetry in.

After the event, I headed back to my apartment, because I had had a looong day. (Two meetings with professors, one class, a freaking yoga class, a translation lecture by a cool British guy, and that slam poetry showcase.) I was exhausted. But it was good.

Anyway. Sorry again that this is so late. I'm going to try to put posts up earlier now that I'm slightly less busy for spring break. See you on Wednesday for a regular post!

-Ariel

TCWT Blog Chain: Not Just Novels

Hi! So once again this month I am participating in the TCWT Blog Chain. The topic this month is: "What are your thoughts on reading or writing books in non-novel formats? Are there any you've particularly enjoyed?"

Well, this is an interesting question. At first my gut instinct was like, "ugh, no, only novels, please," because for most of my life I have really only enjoyed novels. I'm cool with weird formats of novels but I just want fiction with a nice good plot, and a beginning and end (even if the middle is squiggly).

But since starting college, my three different classes have forced me to try out new forms of books, and I've found that I actually like them. I still am not a big fan of analytical essays (read: if one more person says the word "postcolonial" I will toss them out a window) but I have learned to actually like collections of short stories, poetry, and certain types of nonfiction.

I always disliked short story collections because I like getting involved in a plot and watching it carry through to the end. Plus, a lot of short stories that I've read have been pretentious and not really fun to read. In my cultures of India class, however, we recently had to read a collection of short stories called Mirrorwork. It gathered together a lot of short stories and short excerpts from novels that had been written in the 50 years after independence. The stories gave me a new look into each author's perspective and gave me the option to slip in and out of different stories within a few pages of each other, even though they all somewhat related to similar topics. I also read, a while ago, a collection of short stories by Neil Gaiman called Smoke and Mirrors. Neil Gaiman's talent to spin twisted, strange and fantastical stories was somehow able to be contained into tiny slices and every one was good. So I guess my conclusion for short stories are: they have to be really good, and they have to bring me into a world I like. Short stories are hard. I don't want to read something artsy and literary in them, generally, especially not if I have to read a whole collection of them. But if you're talented, you can make it work, even for someone as picky as me.

As for poetry... I've always liked poetry. But I've never really been the type to sit down and read a bunch of poetry at once. I'd read one poem here or there, if I saw it, but not whole collections. Then last summer I got a bunch of Poetry magazines and read them in my spare time, and found that I loved reading collections of poetry. The thing to remember when reading poetry collections is NOT to get caught up in feeling like you have to perfectly analyze each one. As a poet myself, I can say that at least from my perspective, I don't want readers of my poetry to pull out their pens and start pointing out literary devices and trying to glean some meaning. I should hope my poetry makes its meaning obvious to you, or at least subconsciously gives you some sort of feeling. That's just me- maybe the poets I read want me to dissect their writing. But, since it's a bit stressful to analyze as you read, I would suggest just enjoying the poems. Poetry is very enjoyable to read once you allow yourself to enjoy it. And in poetry class this year, we've read a few collections that were just awesome to read. Render: An Apocalypse by Rebecca Gayle Howell is confusing, then dark, then confusing, then you read it again and you think you get it, and then it's confusing. But it's so great and when you read it you feel chills down your spine. My personal favorite that we read was The Wild Iris, by Louise Gluck, a collection of poems from the point of view of flowers in a gardening catalogue that Gluck was reading. Just stunning words and imagery.

Nonfiction has always been kind of a love-hate relationship for me. It's easy for nonfiction to get dull because it doesn't have any of the riveting plot stuff that fiction is required to have. At the same time, sometimes reality makes its own good plotlines. In the case of I Am Malala, which I read recently, a nonfiction book told a story of a girl whose life was more admirable and whose character was better developed than a lot of fictional heroes. But sometimes, it's just someone's good writing abilities. In my French class, we read a book called Journal du dehors by Annie Ernaux. The book was a collection of basically people-watching notes. At first I thought, "are you kidding me? A book full of random stuff this lady saw?" But the way she arranged the stories, told them, and commented on them told a great story both about herself and the world she lived in. It wasn't a fast-paced, edge-of-your-seat read, but I liked it.

These types of books aren't the stuff I normally read, but they can be done well, and I've enjoyed many of them. It just goes to show that sometimes it pays off to read outside your comfort zone.

Sorry this post was so late- I had such a busy day, you have no idea. This Saturday you'll read all about it in my new experience post.

Thanks for reading!
-Ariel

P.S. Check out the rest of the blog chain posts:

6^th – http://www.ch1con.tumblr.com (Post will be published at night on 3/6!)

7^th – http://www.kirabudge.weebly.com/

8^th – http://irisbloomsblog.wordpress.com/

9^th – http://rcubedreadsreviews.blogspot.com/

10^th – http://ramblingsofaravis.wordpress.com/

11^th – http://arielkalati.blogspot.com/

12^th – http://semilegacy.blogspot.com/

13^th – http://musingsfromnevillesnavel.wordpress.com/

14^th – http://abookishflower.wordpress.com/

15^th – https://erinkenobi2893.wordpress.com/

16^th – http://theedfiles.blogspot.com/

17^th – http://butterfliesoftheimagination.wordpress.com/

18^th – http://whileishouldbedoingprecal.weebly.com/

19^th – http://jasperlindell.blogspot.com.au/

20^th – http://allisonthewriter.wordpress.com/

21^st – http://unikkelyfe.wordpress.com/

22^nd – http://from-stacy.blogspot.com/

23^rd – http://miriamjoywrites.com/

24^th – https://introspectioncreative.wordpress.com/

25^th – http://nasrielsfanfics.wordpress.com/

26^th – http://stayandwatchthestars.wordpress.com/

27^th – https://teenscanwritetoo.wordpress.com/ (We’ll announce the topic for next month’s chain.)

Phobias and Poems

This week's new experience is a little weird. It's sort of a class assignment, so I don't know if it counts, but whatever, I'm making up the rules. So I count it as a new experience.
In my poetry class this week, our homework was to write a poem based on one of five different poems that we'd analyzed in class: Often I am permitted to return to a meadow, Corsons Inlet, St. Roach, Two Trees, or What Did I Love. They were all very good poems, but the prompts our teacher gave us just didn't inspire me. Still, I needed to do the assignment, so I spent time turning them all over in my head, brainstorming ideas. None of them sounded like they were going to make a good poem.

But yesterday, in the car with my dad, I told him about the five different prompts, including the one based on "St. Roach." I copied the text of the poem, which is by Muriel Rukeyser, below:

St. Roach
(by Muriel Rukeyser)

For that I never knew you, I only learned to dread you,
for that I never touched you, they told me you are filth,
they showed me by every action to despise your kind;
for that I saw my people making war on you,
I could not tell you apart, one from another,
for that in childhood I lived in places clear of you,
for that all the people I knew met you by
crushing you, stamping you to death, they poured boiling
   water on you, they flushed you down,
for that I could not tell one from another
only that you were dark, fast on your feet, and slender.
   Not like me.
For that I did not know your poems
And that I do not know any of your sayings
And that I cannot speak or read your language
And that I do not sing your songs
And that I do not teach our children
          to eat your food
          or know your poems
          or sing your songs
But that we say you are filthing our food
But that we know you not at all.

Yesterday I looked at one of you for the first time.
You were lighter than the others in color, that was
     neither good nor bad.

I was really looking for the first time.
You seemed troubled and witty.

Today I touched one of you for the first time.
You were startled, you ran, you fled away
Fast as a dancer, light, strange and lovely to the touch.
I reach, I touch, I begin to know you.

After reading this poem in class, we were given the prompt to pick something in nature that filled us with disgust or fear and to approach it and try to understand it, just as Rukeyser had approached and tried to understand the roach. When my dad heard this, he said, "Why don't you write a poem about the time I took you to the pet store to look at birds?"

For those of you who don't know, I have a terrible phobia of birds. I know, stupid, right? Birds are cute and tiny and cheep harmlessly and flutter about. But phobias don't make sense. For most of my life I've been unable to even come close to a wren or sparrow. Now it's a little bit easier, as I've learned to control my fears better, but I still shudder when I get too near a bird. It's odd- I've never feared spiders or snakes, and even if I were to see poisonous ones, I would only have rational caution, not horrible fear. But birds are terrifying.

My dad, in his infinite wisdom, decided to try and get me to Conquer My Fears when I was twelve, and took me to the pet store to look at the birds. The parakeets, the cockatiels, the finches, the doves. I could barely stand in front of the glass containers and watch them. It was pretty much useless at the time- I stood there freaking out and we eventually left. (Later my dad surprised our entire family by purchasing four little finches. We returned them when my parents got sick of cleaning up, and I could once again sleep at night.)

But now, I decided it was time again to go to the pet store and check out the birds, for the sake of my poetry assignment. We drove there and I walked in. It was much easier than when I was twelve. This time, having learned techniques for calming my other anxieties, I could stand in front of the cages, secure in the knowledge that the birds could not break through the glass walls. I observed them, commenting to my dad that they were cute, how interesting their intelligence is, how curious their behaviors. Despite it all, I still shuddered, and had the glass wall not been there, I probably would have been hiding on the other end of the store.

I stood there for a while, watching the birds, fluctuating between my curious mind and irrational heart, and trying to explain to myself what exactly about them sparked my fear. Would it ever be possible for me to not be afraid of them, or would it even be possible for me to control it enough that I could hold a bird in my hand? For now, it doesn't seem possible, but it has gotten better.

Today, thinking about all these things, I sat down and wrote my poem:

Ornithophobia
(by me)

Why am I afraid of you?

 

Nobody taught me to fear you-

but here I am,

cowering behind the shelves of cat food,

shuddering at the twitters floating towards me.

I am twelve years old.

I have to be led around the corner,

over the dirty pet store floor,

to walk past the glass walls encasing

parakeets and finches.

There is no part of my mind, now,

that wants to consider them anything but shadowy,

malicious,

beady eyes, cocking heads,

sharp beaks and sudden movements.

I mirror them,

hide my head beneath my arm and rustle like wings.

 

Why am I afraid of you?

 

I am eighteen years old.

I breathe in and out.

I have control over my blinding, jerking fear.

In front of me is the glass wall.

Behind the glass wall are the finches,

tiny, utterly harmless, beautiful and fascinating.

I am still, scientific, observing them

like I do my squirrels and trees in the woods.

One has a length of nettle in his beak,

is fluttering up and down, trying to string it through a nest,

frustrated wing muscles snapping, strategic.

So intelligent, so sentient.

I lean in to watch him closer-

I startle backwards, heart radiating with fear,

at the dinosaur’s descendant lurching its head at me.

Breathe in, breathe out. It grooms itself, not even seeing me.

 

Why can’t I find you unconditionally beautiful?

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Thanks for reading this week! I'll be back on Wednesday with a TCWT blog chain post.

-Ariel

I Can't Think of Anything to Write

First of all, sorry that I didn't post yesterday. And that this post is also so late. I had a huge headache yesterday and today I was suffering from my usual issue, laziness. But not writing this blog post made me think about how lately I haven't been writing much of anything. My poetry teacher gave us no less than five possible prompts to choose from for this week's assignment, and none of them are striking me. I haven't worked on my novel in ages, and I totally put off a TCWT blog post I was supposed to write. (Whoops... sorry about that, too.)

Some of it can be chalked up to me just being a really lazy person. But some of it is because I haven't been feeling inspired. I haven't had any good ideas. And I know what some of you must be thinking: "oh, nice excuse! Do you think the great writers were always inspired? No! But they sat themselves down and worked anyway! You can't just wait for inspiration; then you'll never get anything done!" Yes, thank you, I know that. I know that any good writer knows that when you're not feeling inspired, you sit down and write anyway.

But what does that mean? I mean, it's all well and good to say "you sit down and write anyway" but when you actually sit down, with absolutely no idea what to write... what exactly are you going to do? Just write nonsense? If you don't know where to go next in your book, just write the most ridiculous scene you can think of? If you're having trouble thinking of a blog post, just be like, "uh... I guess I'll write about whatever pops into my head?" (And if you think this blog post is the first thing that popped into my head, it's not. I came up with at least twenty terrible ideas before deciding to write about not having any ideas.)

No. Of course not. As nice as it would be for writing to consist entirely of sticking your fingers onto the keyboard and having words come out, it's a lot more complicated than that. That's why the advice "just write," while being kind of true, is not enough to help someone with writer's block. Because writer's block is a very good name, despite some people denying that it exists: you're blocked. You sit at the keyboard and it's like you're pushing against a wall where you expected there to be a swinging door.

What "just sit down and write" advice fails to acknowledge is that writing isn't just pushing against the wall when you're blocked and running through doors when you're inspired. So much of writing is building yourself a door. There's research, and outlining your plot, and figuring out character arcs, if you're writing (and often when you're editing) a novel. There's figuring out what exactly your audience wants to read, if you're writing a blog post or something that's immediately going to be put in public. There's getting yourself into a poetic flow, if you're writing a poem.

So I'm going to amend the typical advice for those suffering with writer's block. Do not just sit down and write. If you're feeling a lack of inspiration, go build yourself some inspiration. Now sometimes that actually does mean forcing yourself to write nonsense or ridiculous scenes. That can be a good exercise for your brain to get out of its rut and, when you're writing a first draft, it can help unstick stuck plotlines. But a lot of the time, that's not what it means. Sometimes it means researching that country your characters are going to. Sometimes it means going for a walk where you'll see something that inspires a poem. It means whatever it takes to suddenly make you go "oh! Yeah, that works. I know what to write now!"

And building inspiration is not lazy. It's not an excuse to get out of "real work." Because it is hard work. You need to identify what the problem is, why you feel so stuck, and then do something about it. It's hard to do that sometimes when you feel like the problem is "ugh! writing is hard! screw this, I'm just going to eat an entire carton of ice cream!" But you have to tell yourself, "No. What's the real problem? Why don't I want to write? Is my plot too tangled up in this scene and it sounds hard to write through the entanglements? How do I fix that? Do some outline work, right? OK, let's go." And let me tell you, that sort of thinking helps a lot more than sitting at a keyboard and staring at the screen until you give up.

I hope that gave you some inspiration to figure out some inspiration of your own. I should use this on my own novel (though, considering the fact that I know exactly where I'm going with my plot, I think the problem is more the allures of Tumblr than any lack of inspiration). Sorry again that this post was so late- I'll try not to let it happen again.

See you on Saturday for my new experience post!

-Ariel