Procrastinating

As I procrastinate my assigned text, East of Eden, I've been practicing some of my own writing (usually in the form of prose) while watching videos and browsing online resources on creative writing. I'm both surprised and not surprised at all the complexities within creative writing. 

I like to draft up contemporary fiction short stories for nobody to read but myself. They are flawed, horrible, and probably embarrassing, but it's a good way to see how the things I learned can manifest themselves on the page. Like a bit of a caveman, I'm writing them with pen and paper. To be honest, this isn't something new that I'm trying now––I've actually been doing this for a while since I first tried my hand (get it?) at creative writing. I have an entire folder on my computer titled "Creative Writing Projects" where most of the drafts and copies are handwritten at first. I vowed that the folder should never see the light of day, but I doubt that anyone will be able to read my shitty handwriting anyway.

Frequently I hear the argument that handwritten slows down the process significantly so that you can think more about what you compose on the page, and that by not using a computer, you're less tempted by all the distractions that can pull you away from staring at a boring looking Google Doc. For me, though, physical writing allows me to easily share my work with the one of friend at school who I'm comfortable sharing my shit with. Plus, I feel more accomplished having a few sheets of written paper that I made organically versus a screen that has no tangibility or sense of "realness"(?) of the work. 

Some online say that writing by hand caused them to refrain from erasing or changing work too much while drafting, but even when I write by hand, I still find myself crossing out words, sentences, and sometimes paragraphs as I draft. By the time I reach the bottom of a page, it looks like a chaotic mess of ink. I don't find this troubling, though. Other manuscripts from famous authors like F. Scott Fitzgerald show intensive crossing out and erasing, which is basically the same as if you're pressing delete or ctrl+x on a computer. But again, it's more intentional and permanent; you will forever see the points in which you are doubting your self or where you significantly reworked a scene. 

None of it's bad. Part of the creative process, I think, is fucking up a lot and fixing it and fucking up even worse than what you did before and realizing you should've left it...etc. Whatever method of writing or drafting of a creative project that works best for you is the best.

"There was no possibility of taking a walk that day"

Except that there was a possibility.

It's been sort of warm where I live during the day (In February!), so to escape the gradual stuffiness that builds in the house I've been taking walks at night. By around eight to nine o'clock, the air feels thoroughly fresh and chilly. It wouldn't normally be that nice to walk during the night in shorts, but after being irritated by the warm weather for the entire day, the cold weather is extremely refreshing. I know it's a little mundane and cliche to talk about the weather, but the heat creeping up this early in the year has definitely raised some alarms for me and others. Regardless, I move on and brush it off like most things. 

There is no rhyme or reason for suddenly going out at night for walks; I guess I felt compelled to wind down looking at the houses and the neighborhood and wondering who lives there and what they're like. I prefer it this way. There's practically nobody out, especially since my neighborhood has a lot of families with young children. Why in the world would they be out at nine o'clock at night anyway? 

So it's me with my thoughts and some music as I let my body drift aimlessly and languidly throughout the streets. I relish in pure solitude that lets me think and think and think. About anything, really. Think about life. Think about school. Think about my friends. Think about the music. Think about writing. Think about the books. 

For those that love to be with their thoughts in a cool breeze, evening walks may be for you.

The March Challenge

In honor of March 2025 being the most active month in this blog (containing the most posts out of any month), I wanted to do a challenge in March of this year that attempts to relive that month as best as I can remember it. The blog posts, videos, photos, and writings obsessing over AP Lang is unable to throw me back into last year. 

This time, I want to try and make a meaningful, mid-length post every single day of the month to break that record again. March is such a weird month. The stress of AP classes is starting to creep up, Track and Field is in full bloom (stressful as ever), and the weather is generally not too cold or hot (since it's spring). 

I highly doubt that this March will come close to last year, but maybe just trying can help me cheer up a bit.

Warmth

Entering the house provided little relief from the outside air. Tired from my exercise, I was eager to hop in a steaming, pleasant little shower. My eagerness rose even greater as I gazed at the water spewing from the faucet. Then, ahhhh...the feeling of the hot water on my skin was incredible. I guess when it’s cold, scalding water feels pretty normal. By the time my shower was over, the room was nearly a sauna. Unfortunately, stepping out was painful. As soon as the water stops, it feels like all the cold air suddenly rushes you at once and leaves you feeling more frigid than before. The breeze from the bathroom window nipped at my still wet hair. Maybe it was a sign that my grasp for warmth hadn’t been fully met. The shower was merely like when you desperately put a car’s heater to full blast to spread the warmth faster, to no avail. The real warming is sort of a slow process. 

Self-Inflicted

I was walk walk walk 

walking along with path, when

suddenly I stopped. OW!

Burn baby burn, it burns! 

The hot stuff bled through my thin,

 black, long sleeved shirt that stretches slightly when you pull on it.

I remember my cousin commenting: 

"You're wearing all black!",

and ever since then I treasure it.

But not now. It let some scalding stuff slide through and burn me,

spread throughout and oh, oh, oh, it hurts.

And now it feels like my head is feeling lighter.

But when I looked down 

at the damage,

There was a tiny, star-shaped hole in my chest.

Now I won't get to see the rest.

Now why you wanna go and do that, love, huh?

 Yo,

Lemme just fuck wit' it for a minute

--- Q-Tip 

Beside the Car - A Poem

Quick—

Hide!

They caught us

kissing beside the car.

Your lips taste like heaven,

like pink champagne and strawberry cake—

sweet and fizzy and dangerous.

Your face red with infatuation,

Wearing sweatpants and snug boots in this freezing wind.

My back is pressed against the metal,

heart knocking so loud.

Stop smiling,

you’re making it worse.

But we have to stop,

escape this awkward spotlight.

You slip behind the passenger side,

and I duck toward the driver’s door.

I dart to it,

nearly tripping over the curb,

trying to look casual

like I’ve never kissed anyone.

HONK! HONK! 

Hey, who’s she?

Who?

That.

Oh, just a friend.

You sure?

Yeah, a friendly friend.

Uh-huh.

What brings you?

Going home, obviously.

Okay, bye. 

They roll away.

Silence. 

We stay frozen.

One.

And two.
Then your head pops over the side,

hair falling into your eyes,

Grinning.

Coast clear, sweety.

You can stop hiding

and get back over here.

I want every part of my skin to touch every part of your skin.

Please, honey, throw your sleeved arms around my neck. 

I wasn’t done kissing you!

If another car comes,

Let them look.

(This is a work of fiction, obviously)