I'm more of a poet than a story writer. And that sentence is a gross understatement. When I sit down to write a story, all I have are images in my mind. Like silent films. Abstract thought. And phrases. Concepts. Metaphors. And it's my responsibility to put it all together for it to make sense and for it to have an underlying extended metaphor. So different than when I write poetry.
Stories of only a few paragraphs take me hours and headaches and cups and cups of coffee and trays and trays of cigarettes while I can write five poems in half an hour if I really wanted to.
But the stories I've been writing lately are so much more than what's there. The Execution of Light from a Lamp. Just the title alone is symbolic. There is this one outlet in my kitchen. And in it is always plugged in the microwave and this useless lamp. The lamp doesn't put out much light but my mother always has it on. So when I go to do dishes or cook, I have to unplug the lamp and plug the stereo in. I want music, not light. It's an execution for the light. And the characters in the story represent people, loved ones... "lights" in the main character's life. I'd continue but you'd have to read it for yourself. =]
Stories of only a few paragraphs take me hours and headaches and cups and cups of coffee and trays and trays of cigarettes while I can write five poems in half an hour if I really wanted to.
But the stories I've been writing lately are so much more than what's there. The Execution of Light from a Lamp. Just the title alone is symbolic. There is this one outlet in my kitchen. And in it is always plugged in the microwave and this useless lamp. The lamp doesn't put out much light but my mother always has it on. So when I go to do dishes or cook, I have to unplug the lamp and plug the stereo in. I want music, not light. It's an execution for the light. And the characters in the story represent people, loved ones... "lights" in the main character's life. I'd continue but you'd have to read it for yourself. =]
- Member since March 25, 2006.
- I am a girl from Indiana (United States)
- When I'm not writing, I'm playing bass and singing.
- I have 6 comments, 360 poems, 14 stories, 2 philosophies, 5 journals
My Stories
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All was still as the ghostly tones faded from the eerie hallway. Davis sat still, as though the air were made of thick sheets of parchment
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It was June, early June. School had let out a few weeks ago and my friends and I were looking forward to a few days out of town. The big ev
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She had been anorexic for years. There wasn't a time she could remember eating guiltlessly. She was also bulimic, for a little less time. It got to the point that the only time she could remember what chocolate ice-cream tast
My Poetry
1 - 3 of 360
Show all at allpoetry
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Thanks for the reminder! =O I have terrible memory *o*
I'm severely underslept at the moment or I'd write something, I'll come back to this later =]<100 words, December 31, 2009
My other items
1 - 3 of 240
Show all
- Carrier Pigeons at allpoetry
If I could only write a note and
Tie to a pigeon, - A Window isn't all you need to Reflect at allpoetry
A cigarette in my heart -
I dream. - My Favourite Drug (Just Like Heaven) at allpoetry
Lying in the quiet,
The peache is overwhelming -
My journal entries
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You know how everyone likes to toss around the light insult of "Get a life!"? Well, I find that I've needed one for a while. And guess what? I'm doing just that! =] With my bipolar disorder and my eating disorders, it's easy for me to get wrapped up in my neat little world of chaos and I forget that there's a worldDecember 14, 2009, In Diary, First person, My life, Nonfiction, Personal, School. 300 words. → 1 comment, Add one?
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I was sitting quietly in the garage. Two thin fingers held a cigarette like they wouldn't mind being lazy and burning a hole in the jeans below. My listless gaze was only matched by the carefree, yet impeccable way the smoke turned this way and that. I'd been fighting a headache all day; malnutrition's fault. It cameDecember 7, 2009, In Life, My own personal thoughts, Other, Pain, Personal, Spur of the moment, Thoughts. 100 words. → Make first comment?
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Everything fell apart a year ago. At the time, my two best friends, me, and my boyfriend at the time were living in an apartment in Terre Haute. We worked at Sony. My mind was failing me. It was a bad combination of lack of medication, stress with roommates, and 12 hour exhausting shifts. I almost killed myself a gDecember 4, 2009, In Angst, Depression, Nonfiction, Pain, Personal, Sad, Spur of the moment, Thoughts. 1,000 words. → Make first comment?
