Description

After reading Professor Quinlan's post on the art of blogging and description, I have decided to write a post on my thoughts of the ladder.

I believe that description is a huge part of the art of creative writing. To be able to get lost in your imagination and then produce those imaginings on paper for others to see and experience is truly phenomenal. To be honest, that is one of my favorite aspects of writing--writing down what I see in my mind. Ironically, it gives me the most challenge as it is sometimes difficult to formulate the right words for what I am experiencing. Nevertheless, when I close my mind and allow my vivid imagination to take over, I am sometimes shocked at what is generated and accomplished--a lot of the times from just mere nothingness.

Alternately, when I read an authors writing that has depth and passion, I feel that I am being taken on a journey into that authors psyche--partaking anything and everything that is written descriptively. Through his/hers sensory detail, I am able to see, hear, smell, taste, and feel what the author is conveying for his/her reader. That is the beauty--that is the art of description.

Therefore, for those two reasons, I feel that description is needed and required for clarity and realism. I have attached the beginning of a short story that is soon to be finished. I feel that this short story beginning illustrates my thoughts on description.

Fields of Green

They laid in fields of soft deep green, surrounded by assorted countless shades of yellows, pinks, purples, blues, reds, and oranges that protruded from the upper most depths of the earth reaching toward heaven for nourishment. Enchanting insects like that of the ladybug, red winged with black spots that bared resemblance to a Dalmatian, flew radiantly from color to color in tranquility while in the distance sounds of fantastic music sang from small beautiful winged creatures of the sky.

Lying on their backs, they steered up at puffballs of white that streamed across the light turquoise atmosphere altering its form with every intricate movement. The sun luminously shone degrees of light onto the earth that reflected off the river nearby whose clear waters flowed calmly across smooth yet hard broken particles of earth. Indeed, it was the beginning of spring and the smell in the air was of roses and tulips, fresh grass and lavender—truly, it was nature awakening from the deep slumber of a cold scentless winter.

Ocean's Parkway: Chronicles of a Prince

This week I would like to talk a little about a story that I've been working on--Ocean's Parkway: Chronicles of a Prince or just Ocean's Parkway for short. I plan to present a couple recent stories or chronicles of Ocean's Parkway today in class as a short story.

The plot of Ocean's Parkway takes us into the world of a young man--surrounded by wealth, popularity, and status--in other words, high society. His life can somewhat be compared to the "heiress" Paris Hilton, just exceedingly smarter and more interesting. Because of this, I refer to him as a "Prince"--not in the literal sense the word however. He encounters various obstacles (love, friendship, murder, etc.) in his journey to find who he really is--a prince or a man.

The inspiration came from a girl that I was dating a while back who decided that it would be a good idea, since both her and I appreciated the art of writing, to write a drama based on actual events in our lives. The characters, however fictionalized, would be based on people that we knew--including ourselves. As her name was Tamika, the central female character's name became Tanya--taking the first letter of her name (T) and formulating a new name beginning with that letter. Accordingly, as my name is Brandon, the central male character's name became Bobby.

Tamika started the first segment of the Ocean's Parkway and emailed it to me and my job was to, from what she wrote, reply to that email with a new story. We sent and replied to each others emails for a few short stories but as our relationship died so did the interest. In taking my advance writing class, I've decided to delve back into Ocean's Parkway--this time alone and changing the direction in which the story was originally going into something that fit the person I am today, as the story is based loosely on actual events.

I really enjoy writing Ocean's Parkway because of the rich characters and the real and dynamic world in which I placed them. Following is a paragraph of the first chronicle of Ocean's Parkway entitled "Samantha." Keep in mind that this event actually happened, however fictionalized it may sound. Hope you enjoy!

Chronicle I
Samantha

It’s a rainy Friday night in NYC. It’s about 8pm and Bobby is driving to his apartment in his 2009 Land cruiser. Samantha is by his side in the passenger seat, not really knowing what to think of the present situation; a situation that may or may not be what she desires. Bobby pulls up in front of his building, which seems to resemble a modern castle adorned with marble and supported with steel, he puts his car in park, and looks at Samantha in bewilderment.

“Is this the girl of my dreams? Maybe! Is this girl hot as hell? Undoubtedly! Does either of these two questions have anything to do with the present state of affairs? Nope!” pondered Bobby.

They both found themselves looking at each other with thoughts of fornication in their minds. At that moment, whatever Bobby was thinking vanished as Samantha gripped his t-shirt and pulled at it, bringing his body closer to hers. Unfortunately their warm bodies weren’t able to connect as their awkwardness made them forget to unbuckle their seatbelts. They gave each other a half smile as they simultaneously unbuckled their straps. Samantha continued to be aggressive—pulling again at his t-shirt. As their faces made contact, they looked at each other for a moment—gazing in each others eyes for a reason not to proceed.

No reason? Guess not!

They let passion overtake them as they kissed for the first time. Samantha, being the aggressor, took charge and bit Bobby’s bottom lip.

“Wow, that hurt!” thought Bobby, as he was indeed surprised that Samantha was such a violent lover....

My Conflict (Poetry vs. Short Story)

Over the years, my endeavors in writing has taught me many lessons. Lessons that range from grammar and punctuation to style and the fundamentals of building a story. In many of the writing classes that I have taken, professors have required me to write a short story and/or poetry at any given time. I wish, on many occasions, that my professor would give me the choice between the two, because if I was to choose between poetry and a short story, without a doubt, I would choose the ladder.

It has come to my conclusion that my strong point, when it comes to fiction writing, is stories. Conversely, my weak point is poetry. Now, my difficulties in poetry are only weak in the sense that I don't really get the understanding of most peoples poetry. On the other hand, I can definitely write and understand my own work. I believe I can be rather good at it at times also, but it doesn't come to me as natural as writing a story would--that's where my problem arises.

I don't think my feelings on the subject will change anytime soon, if it changes at all, but I do hope I can find more of an understanding and appreciation for the art of poetry.

In any case, I chose to post a poem of mine that I wrote recently. I also plan to share it in class.

Hopefully you will enjoy what's in The Mind of Eldon.

The Darkness

A child cries retched screams of pain
Abandoned by a soulless mother
Sitting deadly alone in a corner of a room
Four walls erased by everlasting darkness
Shivers bring no warmth
Coldness breaks the body’s natural ability to heat
Locking tightly; closely
No hope of a key; a savior for release from bondage
Unending floods of desolation plummets
Fear increasingly eradicates the senses
Breathing becomes heavy, light, heavy, light
No air—just despair, agony, turmoil, hurt
Eyes are open or closed? No, open; no, must be closed
Sense of sight is unequivocally paralyzed
The void is intense
A continuation of endless screams brings forth no resolution
Screams go unanswered

Walls begin to move
A steady push on all sides showing no signs of end
Forced slowly by four great hands; one on each wall
Immense pressure on the sum of the back
A chilling panic
Closing fascinatingly tighter
Visions of a dove, purest of white
Soaring high and swooping low
Long magnificent wings of glory
Feathers smooth; beak hard
Eyes fiery; legs unseen in its descent to rescue its child
The walls begin to squeeze punishment
The child is small, weak, and fragile
The dove draws close, ever closer
Nearer—the dove, the key, the savior, the mother

But wait! Can I be saved?

Deafening screams
Pain, tears, loneliness, cold, the blackness
Is there any means to salvation out of the destruction of my self-inflicted pain?
My mind is deceptive; it plays cruel tricks on me
I can’t find tranquility within it
I am trapped within its four walls and the endless darkness of misery
No light
Mother, please help me

Poetry Prompts

After searching around for poetry prompts I came across more than the amount needed. I really couldn't choose just three, so I picked six. I think these prompts are useful, especially if your having brain freeze and you just can't figure out what to write about.

Personally, I have never used prompts or found the need to. Music usually prompts me to write poetry. I put my headphones on, take out my paper and pen, and whatever comes to mind as I listen to the melodies is what I write about. Music never fails to be my prompt but if at any time it does, and I'm finding it impossible to write, then I know what to do--find poetry prompts.

Here are the six that were most interesting to me:

• Write a series of questions and answers to compose a poem.


• Write a poem that describes a walk through a house from the perspective of a child


• Write a poem that starts with a one word title, two words in the first line, three in the next, and continues by adding one word per line. (Variation: use as a prose exercise.)


• Write a poem using the following start: "What good is a day..."


• Write a poem with a seasonal theme.


• Write a poem about a very small object.

OK professor so I am not quite sure of what "project" by James Joyce you are referring to. I'm a little confused on the assignment, however I have posted a link to the right for Ulysses, a book by James Joyce that I am very interested in reading. Since I love mythology and enjoyed reading The Odyssey, a modernized version of the Homer classic definitely sparks my curiosity and I'm sure it would hold my attention.

James Joyce definitely has a unique way of writing which is why his works are listed as classic literature. Hopefully I have done the assignment at least half correctly, if not I will surely correct myself. In any case, I will certainly enjoy reading James Joyce's Ulysses.