Emily Bounds Writing 110 Honors Dr.

Keri Franklin 28 August 2012 When emotion is strong, the ivory pages feel every sting of pain, every burst of joy. Slowly, its presence has become a necessity, as I often crave it when Im away. Alone, but surrounded by the constant, droning hum of everyday life, I write. No matter whos watching. No matter what guesses they may have as to whats being engraved in black ink. And when all feeling has been translated into a flurry of scribbles, I sigh with satisfaction and gently lay it down in that blank, white rectangle until life begs another release.

I missed writing. I havent fully journaled since senior year ended, havent written a decent song since the whole experience with the band. Havent blogged all of my whole thoughts because now my parents read it. Or my grandparents do, and call and discuss with my parents, Im sure. Like a little book club.

Really, there isnt a time when I wouldnt write. I dont care if my body needs sleep, or if my homework is due in an hour. If my soul needs to write, I do it. I dont ask questions. Dealing with your soul is a very powerful thing, we dont do it often enough and we ask too many questions. I learned, when its a question of writing, not to ask questions. Because what shows up in the end is an honest portrayal of an event, an emotion, or a moment of thinking. And thats all writing honestly is, isnt it? You wouldnt want to ruin that raw creation by asking questions in a human manner. Like how should I end this? or whats my central idea? I bet that this piece wont have a conclusion and probably wont have an ideal structure for an assignment because Im not technically in the right setting.

And I think that writing is more free then, if youre able to do it just because. If youre able to do it in an instant, without making the hot tea, lighting the candle, and turning down the lights. I think the less preparation, the less analysis of the circumstances, the better.

I had so much time like this when I was being brainwashed last summer and part of me has to wonder if it was the real me or all the music, the constant inspiration that kept me writing like this. That would explain why my writing dwindled back when my soulmate and I fell back into our places. Maybe I didnt have the same crave and need to write because I was talking to God again. And I could hear Him reassuring me that I was home again. That whole time I was wrestling with God, struggling with my identity and my relationships, I had to write. There were too many emotions and situations not to spit them out on to paper. And after we started the rest of our journey I didnt feel like I needed to spew so many words. I was equally as emotional. But I had found my friendship with Christ again, plus I had a partner in it. And I had no idea how much I missed being free here. At the same time, I wonder if Ill ever be as free as I was when I was writing then, musically. It was by far the best music I have ever written and the most honest but simple lyrics. And its crap that they couldnt have been created at the same time when I was inspired by my soulmate. He inspires me most now. But now over a year later, the songwriter in me still lays on the ground, bruised and convinced she might not get back up.

I plopped down on my down comforter and my wet eyes soaked the pillow. The click of the phone still echoed in my head. I turned over on my side and my notebook caught my eye. No, I thought, Im too unstable. I cant write a song worth anything in the mess of tears that

surrounds me now. But I knew I needed to let go and find release, so reluctantly, I began to write. The page started out as a jumbled mess of thoughts and questions, but the angrier I became, the more eloquently the words flowed. My train of thought rolled down the tracks, from anger and doubt, to sorrow and self-pity. Outside my window, drops of rain began to descend from their gray, fluffy homes, and the neighborhood children sulked inside to steaming cups of hot cocoa. On the other side of the pane, the atmosphere was quite the opposite. There was steam, but it seemed to be coming from the point of my pencil. As I ended the last sentence on the page, a thought occurred to me; what I had just written out of pain and struggle was beautiful. It was no longer the ramblings of my mind, but a song my heart was singing onto paper. I sprinted to the piano and began to play recklessly, searching for notes to match my words perfectly. I glanced up shortly from my fingers and was shocked to see that only a few minutes had passed. A sigh escaped me and before I had the chance to think, a melody flowed from my lips, cutting the air and echoing off of the walls. It kept spinning, like a spiral of sounds, forming harmonies and transforming my soul. I exuded confidence; by the end of the song, a smile had crept onto my face, and I couldnt recall what had inspired the song to begin with. I didnt care anymore; my emotions had been captured flawlessly by the ebb and flow of music. Tears again ran down my face, but this time in recognition of the beauty of my composition. I knew from an early age that music was in my soul.

Chanson juste pour toi, (A song just for you) Chanson un peu triste je crois, (A little sad song, I believe) Trois temps de mots froisses, (Hardly any crumpled words)

Quelques notes et tous mes regrets, (Some notes and all my regrets) Tous mes regrets de nous deux, (All my regrets of the two of us) Sont au bout de mes doigts, (At the tips of my fingers) Comme do, r, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do. (Like do, re mi, fa, sol, la, ti do) C'est une chanson d'amour fan, (Its a song of wilted love) Comme celle que tu fredonnais, (Like the one you used to hum) Trois fois rien de nos vies, (Hardly anything at all like our lives) Trois fois rien comme cette mlodie, (Hardly anything at all like this melody) Ce qu'il reste de nous deux, (What stays with the two of us) Est au creux de ma voix, (Is in the deep crevice of my voice) Comme do, r, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do. (Like do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do) C'est une chanson en souvenir (Its a remembering song) pour ne pas s'oublier sans rien dire (Without saying anything, but so that we dont forget) S'oublier sans rien dire (To forget without saying anything) (Chanson Triste, Carla Bruni)

But before the wise old stars offered an answer, I suddenly realized I had been moving, slowly propelling myself away from the company of small-town conversations. To the very outskirts of the fairgrounds, where there were fewer people and more places to hide: sweet grass up to my knees and the slight beginnings of a forest made of willow trees. Turning over my shoulder, I could still hear the faint cheers of the crowds and innocent voices of children calling out, living up to the very name of small-town entertainment. Still, the warm and glowing lights

were a soft canopy over the jutting tips of each tent, over the bustling of conversation, emanating their warmth to everyone who stood too close. I reached out my fingertips.

Before, a good writer to me was an honest, free spirit. Thats the kind of material I take joy in reading. And that still stands, but to add to that, I think a good writer has to relate to your mind. Stephen King compares writing to telepathy. He describes a few objects with very little detail then says, I sent you a table with a red cloth on it, a cage, a rabbit, and the number eight in blue ink. You got them all, especially that blue eight. Weve engaged in an act of telepathy (King 307). To read something someone else wrote and potentially see the same mental image, because not even just words, but word combinations are that powerful, able to connect two minds who have never met nor are they even in the same time... he wrote that in 1997, it's 15 years later and my mind and his are seeing essentially the same picture. So cool. Do i have that potential with my writing? I don't intend to be more than a girl with a love for writing, i don't want to attempt to spend years working on a novel or anything close. But there's so many ways in which i write. Besides blogging, there's songwriting, journaling, listmaking when i'm stressed, love letters, texting, and writing assignments. And most important to me, prayer. I consider my conversations with my Father a form of writing too, because it's free, it's candid and honest. Do any of my quirky forms of writing have potential to share images with someone else's artistic mind??

When I write negatively, pages in black ink about how stressful school was, I can see without looking in a mirror, my lips pressing together and my eyes welling up. Or when I send a

sweet reply to my boyfriends good morning text, I know exactly the face hell make when he reads it, his crooked smile and nose scrunched up like a little kid. I know it sounds silly, almost childish to compare such a wide subject to something so peculiar and kind of random. But its just one way I can try to explain the crazy reaction that happens when my pencil hits some paper.

When she blinked them away, her heart weighed heavy in her chest. Scarlet wasnt really scarlet; it was gray. Lavender was soft white, smoky blue was smoky gray, crimson was charcoal, emerald and gold, deep shades of black. And her own name was a muddy dark gray, endlessly mocking her whenever she thought of it; Olive was gray. Not a beautiful or intriguing shade of green. Just gray. She needed her morning coffee (Bounds 4). Maybe it was the sudden change in weather or a quiet, encouraging voice in my head, but I asked her name. As soon as the question mark slipped through my teeth, I felt uneasy; I shouldnt have said anything at all. But she stared at me, a mix of curiosity and surprise on her face, and replied, Olive. Youre an artist, I stated after I introduced myself. And youre the coffee boy. Our words came easily, and I dont think she realized we had slid into a booth toward the back of the store. I asked why she drinks so much coffee; she asked why I make so much coffee. We talked about school, the fear of life after graduate work, about my lack of ambition and her constant drive to be ambitious. She said she brings subjects emotions to innocent passersby, plain and simple. Strangely, I forgot where we were, what I should have been doing, and only heard her voice, now trailing off into thoughts about her dreams. She craved a life of nothing but

art, something she couldnt quite reach. And something I couldnt quite imagine. All of sudden, a glance at her wristwatch made her jump. Im late for Fletchers portrait class, she told me, as she took a last swig of her latte. Her smoky blue eyes were the last feature to leave my thoughts, as she stepped out into the street (Bounds 4). Then she remembered the coffee boy. The swirls of brown in his eyes and in the ceramic mugs that had sat on the table between them, listening to every word. She shut her eyes and the lines began to reappear, the slenderness of his cheekbones and his wide forehead. But they were inseparable: the girl and her painting. Or rather, the girl and the boy. (Bounds 6).

I know its hard to wrap our head around the idea of pain & struggle being a blessing, because in everyday terms, yeah, pain is not a good thing. Were taught here on earth that good grades and healthy friends & family are really good things, and when we fail math tests or a family member becomes terminally ill, those are bad things, and we get upset. Hear me, none of that is wrong. Im not suggesting that you jump for joy and get all excited when your best friend stabs you in the back. BUT, the pain that were enduring is really for our own good, and we dont know the full story like God does.

We can write our full story. Yes, there are hidden parts, certain plot twists and aspects of characters we wont expect but we can still write it. What we cant do is waste pages and pages trying to edit it. There are no red pens when youre writing your life story. There are only more lines and more black ink.