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Spotlight for November 24th, 2012
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align="center">1. Tell us a bit about yourself and your writing.
telling stories to my brothers to try to get them to sleep. I learned a lot
that way: the proper rhythm of a fairytale, returning to some small details
from the beginning, how to spin a happy ending out of thin air. I usually
started with some vague notion of where I wanted to end, but the trick was in
getting there. I didn’t start actually writing stuff down until middle school.
school. There was some of the typical angsty teen confessional stuff, but I
really started to draw inspiration from these moments I started having when
everything slowed down and I became hyper-focused on one singular thing: the
fluorescent lights’ movement when walking down the hall, the way so many voices
speaking at once in the cafeteria turn into some vague, incomprehensible
bubbling sound, the particular color of a maple leaf held up to the sun. These
moments still happen fairly frequently. I have a notebook full of them. The
next one I’m trying to use is the stringy quality of rain captured in a
spotlight at the edge of a razor-wire topped fence on the corner of a prison I
passed in the car.
align="center">2. How do you feel about dA as a literature
amazing. My writing has improved so much in the time that I’ve been a member of
it! There’s something incredible about such a large, international group of
writers all coming together to help each other. If you find the right niche,
you can get honest critique, general support, or whatever you need. And it’s
awesome how close everyone is, especially considering just how many people
there are on this site. True, literature is only a (relatively) small portion
of dA, but it’s an amazingly strong one. I haven’t found anything else quite
align="center">3. Do you prefer writing poetry or prose? Does one
come easier than the other?
to say if I prefer poetry or prose. I might have to say prose, just because I
find it a little easier to write than poetry. I have more of an idea of what
I’m doing with prose; I’m still very much stumbling in the dark with poetry.
But then, there are different things that I struggle with when writing both.
Length is a huge problem for me with prose, as is dialogue. With poetry (unless
it’s in form), I’m really just guessing at what will work and what won’t.
you let them come as they will? How long do you have to work on a piece before
you can consider it "finished?"
constantly. With the possible exception of Teatime, I don’t think I’ve posted
anything that hasn’t been re-written at least once. Even after I post
something, I’m never quite satisfied with it. I take deviants’ critiques very
seriously, and use them to shape continual edits and re-writes. So, to answer
your question, I don’t think I’ve ever written something that I would consider
influenced your work?
Larkin have been huge influences on my work.
Emma Bull has an incredible gift for world-building and character
development; Philip Larkin’s formal poems show just how powerful a short image
in a formal setting can be. On devArt, I
would have to list cogongrass and archelyxs for demonstrating what a
poem is and should be, SCFrankles for the ability to be concise and still
tell everything, and, of course, GeneratingHype for, well, everything.
Clovelly BeachThere is not any sand
On this beach; it's just stone
In a thick gray-white strand
With a blue undertone,
And an iron-red cliff
That has been overgrown
With thin grasses made stiff
By the sun. The seesaw
Of the surf, like a biff,
Can crush stones in its maw
And then toss them out, fresh,
Having rubbed out each flaw,
With the smoothness of flesh,
Every rock is reborn,
Nested tight in a mesh
Of seaweed, and kept warm
By a sprinkling of dust
Made of silt and the fresh
Taste of salt. Each wave's thrust
Sends a mineral scent
On a sweet exodus
From this beach made of stones
And the smoothness of bones.
Beach" by anapests-and-ink
Empty SidewalksHer caramel complexion
was the perfect companion hue
to the cinnamon-bronze car.
She was hunched, headscarf
paralleling the curve
of the window, shoulders shielding
her infant: a curled
semi-colon wrapped in her arms.
Her eyes were
the color of wet sidewalks,
and as empty
as the night streets.
Sidewalks" by anapests-and-ink
TeatimeIn January, Elsa got new neighbors. She greeted them with apple cinnamon tea.
It gets so cold, here, they told her, shivering in overstuffed parkas. Snow had turned to mud in their front hallan unavoidable side-effect of moving in winter. Elsa nodded along to their complaints and observations, silently brewing the tea in their kitchen. They were young; they had big plans. Allison and Steve, newlyweds, just starting out. They sat on the cold floor together, sipping with chapped lips. The house filled with cinnamon.
In April, Allison knocked on Elsa's door. We're pregnant! White tea in a china teacup; the taste of flower petals and champagne. The last caffeine for the next eight months. Elsa let her keep the cup.
In May, Steve bought a carseat and a crib. Elsa helped him carry it inside. Flat-packed, but heavy. Sturd