The Writer’s Urge

I can say without shame that the “writer’s urge” is one of the best feelings I’ve ever experienced. “The urge” is totally different from “the block”: the urge calls forth words and forms cohesive thoughts with ease, while “the block” puts a kind of intellectual embargo on my mind, where any kind of spark is mysteriously smote. With the writer’s urge, I feel powerful and independent as my back arches over my paper, my eyes focusing intently on it.

It’s the kind of itch that needs scratching. It’s also the kind of scratched itch that gives a lasting satisfaction: unless I strike my own words out, they are there to represent me and what makes me tick. I feel like I become some sort of divine being that rules over my own individuality, all-powerful in the creation and destruction in my own ideas. However, there’s a compromise for this power: in allowing my ideas to live, they take on their own struggle for existence, where they will inevitably meet their own challenges. They’ll be met with criticism, which can be ruthless and oppressive, where complaints of numerous fallacies  erode the very fabric of what you thought was artistic and intelligent.

In receiving a critique of my writing, I try not to become offended. My thoughts represent me. You attack my words, you attack my sense of individuality. I wonder if that was how Tennessee Williams felt when critics put down his later works. Williams only wanted to try something new and thus expressed his self in a novel way. Alas, his creations were smothered by negativity, and he was lead into believing that he was a failure. It’s a tragedy when somebody thought that their own expression was a failure because somebody else thought that their expression lacked taste or left something to be desired.

An idea’s conception really is like childbirth: you painfully toil away at your craft for what seems like forever and then you make the final contraction, delivering your message to the world. The courage, the power to formulate these words is what I feel during “the urge.” An idea is planted inside my mind, and with growing excitement, I let it free as a part of me for you to see. I surrender any kind of protections I might have for my writing and this vulnerability allows it to be human, instead of being simple scratches on paper. I believe that writing will always be relevant for this reason: with the white flag that the author raises, we can see them in a way that we can’t in person, and we can appreciate all of their strengths and weaknesses without a face-to-face interaction.

The Real Bonds of a Friendship

I remember a time when I was weak. I felt unable to express myself. Suppressed and trapped, my feelings sat inside me like a gagged canary in a cage. I didn’t think that anybody cared for my weakness. I figured that people were happy as they were without me because all I could see were people smiling and laughing with their friends. To the human mind, appearances can be everything. Apparently people were able to perceive me as a warm person, even when I felt empty and cold, but I felt no bond to help close the gap.

People might say that this is strength, to be able to conceal such pain. I believe in the value of stoicism as well, but I didn’t have the strength to release my humanity, my anger, my love. That’s why I say that I was weak. I sacrificed part of my being, part of my depth, in order to be seen as a more comforting component of my community. I found out that without the occasional release however, we’re condemned to stagnation; if we can never catch a glimpse of what may actually dwell within our hearts, then we could never hope to understand each other and earn a more solidified peace.

I feel that when I decided to try to feel the real bonds of a friendship, I was able to gain something more out of my life. This “something more” is often what I use nowadays to keep strong under pressure. I learned more about what was in my friends’ hearts and I forever gained an invaluable resource and a new understanding of how upsetting it could be to lose people such as them. Yeah, just these past couple of days I’ve been really upset upon realizing how little time I have left with some of them. It’s how it goes.

But friendships don’t have to rely on space and time, I believe. I think that as long as we have the will of those closest to us within our hearts, we can still be friends with each other and still accomplish great things with one another. Because then, we still carry the bonds of friendship and love to keep strong together.

“A spirit doesn’t need a body to connect with others of its kind.” — Anonymous

The Damn Hard Yarn

Light was present within the room. A student sat in a chair and looked at the computer screen and examined it and thought about what he was going to write about. “I have to be a man and write this up,” he said to himself. A tree rustled outside. The student turned his head and paused. Nothing. He turned back to the computer screen. “Spinning a yarn is damn hard,” he said. His mother came into the room. “Hey, you can write, how do I spin a yarn?” he asks.

“A story is all about a protagonist’s obstacles and what they do to overcome them.”

“That’s kind of dumb, sometimes you get stories with nothing at all in them.”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” his mother conceded. She walked away.

“Wow, this really is bad,” the student said, “I have to grow a pair to write a story. Writer’s block sucks.”

Eye brows folded together and eyelids slitted downwards without a sound. The corners of his mouth curled. If I can’t be a man, I’ll have nothing but pain, he thought, I won’t experience real love and real dreams and real security. The light in the room withdraws its presence and shadows lengthen. “Bah,” he said, “Why do I care? A man could be anything, anyone.” He got up and paced and grabbed the container of water. He drank it and smacked his lips. He walked back to his chair and settled himself and smiled. I could be anything, he thought. He started moving his fingers across the keyboard and his eyes followed everything. Any mistake that was made was immediately corrected, along with a succeeding exclamation. “Bah,” he said, “Being a man is so pointless.” The shadows became full and the TV in the next room over was turned to a different channel. He turned his head. Nothing. He let out a sigh and continued to clack away at the keyboard.

“How’s that yarn coming?” his mother asked after stepping into the room.

“Eh, it’s all kind of dry, ya know?”

“Well, I’m sure you know what that’s like.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know, I’m proud that you put so much work into this stuff.”

“Yeah, well. Sometimes I wonder.”

She left the room. The scents of dinner started filling the air. “Bah, why is being a kid so great and mystical and being a man so straightforward and tough?” the student said. He got up to earn his prize of food. A tree rustled outside.

A History Lesson

Trey Soundz and MacDre are on their ultimate ratchet Great Depression adventure. After the horror of the dust storms, the shame of losing their once-fertile land, the two are now companions in the hobo thug life. They embark on an epic quest towards a new life of balling mansions and oversized stereo sets. First though, they must conquer the uncertain, dusty road towards California by boarding a low-ridin’ freight train filled with some products of the depressed economy.

Upon arriving in California, they must test their original gangsta skills against competing cholo farmers. These tensions magnify into a great race war that eventually leads to the cholos to repatriate to Mexico with honor, instead of getting merked by the combined might of Soundz, Dre, and the white farmers. Soundz and Dre then forge forward as great farmers, but alas, how the mighty fall. Falling into the trap of tenant farming, they get screwed by a rigged deal. Soundz and Dre have no choice; they ragequit on the ratchet system that society puts in place, and as true original gangstas, they continue with the hobo thug life. YOLO.