I pulled into the luxurious spa parking lot alone.
Ashley and JaQuavis - “The Cartel 2”
Other overused words: feminine, sophisticated, classy, immaculate.
Posts tagged writing
Posted 1 day ago
Carter arose and walked around the immaculate mansion. The gray sweats and white T-shirt he wore were very uncharacteristic of him. The fear of the unknown had him out of his element, and he spent his days confined to the house, his thoughts of Miamor driving him insane. He had everything in the world that a man could want - power, money, luxury, but without her, it all held no value.
Ashley and JaQuavis - “The Cartel 2”
The word luxury is used so much in this book, it’s annoying. Find a new word.
Posted 1 day ago
She had been locked in his basement for the past eight months, and finally got a chance to escape when Ma’tee had gotten comfortable and let her upstairs. The warm rays of the sun felt unfamiliar to her, because her body had become adjusted to the confinement of the luxury basement that she had been trapped in.
Ashley & Jaquavis - “The Cartel 2”
That’s probably the millionth time the word “luxury” was used to describe something in this book. Someone get these kids a thesaurus. Please.
Posted 1 week ago
the praise of my peers
As you may or may not know, I am one of the editors of the creative arts journal for El Camino College, Myriad.
In addition to editing this year, I also submitted my own work for consideration. One common misconception about being an editor on a project such as Myriad is that your work will automatically be included in the finished product. This is not the case for Myriad editors. Our work has to be read and judged by all editors on the project just like any other piece.
Most of us submit our work anonymously, so as to not bias the judging. I was one that did that this year, so I was extremely happy to find out my work made it, and the other editors really liked my poem.
Recently, we had a pow wow to decide what order the selected pieces would go in for this year’s journal. The editors wanted a strong piece to start off the book, and they chose my poem to be that piece.
So not only am I going to be published this year, but my poem is first in the book.
I feel proud. I feel thankful. I feel good.
Posted 1 week ago
Let us return to the moment: one hand covering kitty’s mouth and doing its best to anchor her rather spirited head, the other fumbling with my zipper, which I’m having some trouble depressing, possibly because of the writhing motions of my subject beneath me. What I have no control over, unfortunately, are kitty’s hands, one of which has found its way into her white purse, where a number of items are sequestered: a picture of a horse, a potato chip-sized cell phone, which has been ringing nonstop for the past several minutes, and a canister of something that I’d have to surmise is Mace, or perhaps some form of tear gas, judging by its impact when sprayed directly into my face: a hot, blinding sensation in my eye area accompanied by gushing tears, a strangling sensation in my throat, spastic choking and severe nausea, all of which prompt me to leap to my feet and double over in a swoon of agony (still pinning Kitty to the ground with one foot), at which point she avails herself of yet another item in said purse: a set of keys with a small Swiss Army knife attached, whose diminutive and rather dull blade she nevertheless manages to sink through my khakis and into my calf.
Jennifer Egan - A Visit From The Good Squad
Posted 2 weeks ago
Occasionally, life affords you the time, the repose, the dolce far niente to ask the sorts of questions that go largely unexamined in the brisk course of ordinary life: How well do you recall the mechanics of photosynthesis? Have you ever managed to use the word “ontology” in a conversational sentence? At what precise moment did you tip just slightly out of alignment with the relatively normal life you had been enjoying theretofore, cant infinitesimally to the left or the right and thus embark upon the trajectory that ultimately delivered you to your present whereabouts — in my case, Rikers Island Correctional Facility?
Jennifer Egan — A Visit From the Goon Squad
Posted 2 weeks ago
Bennie’s shoes are off, and I watch his brown heels sink into the white cotton-candy carpet, so thick it muffles every trace of us. Jocelyn and I come last. She leans close to me, and inside her whisper I smell cherry gum covering up the five hundred cigarettes we’ve smoked. I can’t smell the gin we drank from my dad’s hidden supply at the beginning of the night, pouring it into Coke cans so we can drink it on the street.
Jennifer Egan - A Visit From The Goon Squad
Posted 3 weeks ago
It’s Saturday and the 81-year-old Morrison is in a relaxed, informal mood, wearing a gray blouse and slacks and dark slippers, a purple bandanna tied over her gray corn rows, her laugh easy and husky with a pinch of “Can-you-believe-this?” You might mistake her for an ordinary neighbor ready for gardening until you see the pictures of her with James Baldwin, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Elie Wiesel among others, or learn that the low, wooden table by her chair was a prop from the film version of “Beloved,” her Pulitzer Prize-winning novel. Morrison does not need to worry about recognition in her lifetime. Nobel judges have honored her, and so has Oprah Winfrey, whose book club picks have helped Morrison’s novels sell millions. A Toni Morrison Society organizes conferences about her work and sponsors a Toni Morrison Book Prize. She not only has written children’s stories, but has been the subject of one, Douglas Century’s “Toni Morrison.” Two presidential contenders, Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, sought her support in 2008 and Obama will soon present her with a Presidential Medal of Freedom, the country’s highest civilian honor. Her play “Desdemona,” a collaboration with director Peter Sellars and the Malian singer-songwriter Rokia Traore, will be staged in London during the Summer Olympics.
Posted 1 month ago
note to self
writers write. period. no matter what you are going through, you should always be writing. it’s what you do. it’s what you do best. you’ve mastered this. you’ve remastered this. you continue to master this. always. be. writing.
Posted 7 months ago
Sundays
Sundays are made for playing music, burning incense and cleaning your house. Relaxing after a full morning with your sister, you smile repeatedly thinking about all the things that make your life good right now. You are thankful, and you return this gift to the universe by reflecting as much love as possible to as many people as possible; it’s a contagious thing.
You remember that life is precious, and each day is a renewable gift; you vow to use them in a manner befitting their value - infinite.
As “Oh I Think They Like Me” plays on your Pandora station, you find yourself doing a ditty bop as you move about the living room picking up all the things that remind you of this life you’ve built for yourself - library books, textbooks, notebooks, and skein after skein of yarn. You are grateful for the mess to clean and the space within the mess resides; you are happy that you have the mobility and agility to do the ditty bop.
You sip your third cup of coffee of the day, and you are thankful for that too; it is, after all, your drug of choice.
You remember that each of these things, these tiny little moments and secret spurts of joy are possible because you are possible. You remember this and you smile again.
You look forward to tomorrow. Monday - Your longest school day of the week, with classes until the afternoon and then more at night. You are grateful that you have the opportunity to do it all over again, and you smile again because you remember that you are doing it on your terms this time.
Lil Wayne comes on, and as you bop your head, typing on the wireless keyboard to your laptop, you remember that writing is a gift too, and you promise not to squander it.
You are thankful for the friends you have; they continuously inspire you and bolster you, moving you on to bigger and greater things.
All of this, of course, appreciated in the moments you have to yourself on a Sunday afternoon. Beautiful, sunny, music-filled and happy.
Sundays were made for this.
