tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72343339474674204242024-03-05T19:40:59.267-05:00Miranda Lynn Hajduknovels, poems, ramblingsMiranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-18818526294582482522014-04-18T16:55:00.000-04:002014-04-18T16:55:43.794-04:00Vermont Meditation (tentative title)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Beneath
a notched sycamore<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">the
grass catches scars of autumn<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">falling
as notched pages, torn from a book,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">would
fall – (aptly) swaying like pendulums<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">ticking
away the days until December.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
pages traipse towards the water’s edge – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">towards
the lake, the cobblestoned rut,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">and
crowd against the limestone breccia<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">like
scrawled marginalia too cramped and blurred to read.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Empty
spaces, lattice-like against the sky, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">left
by the pages peeled away,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">are
gaps among the leaves – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">now,
and now – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">like
missed beats in a symphony,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">gaps
on a staff – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">a
brazen emptiness,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">now,
and now – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">the
notes unfurl, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">rests
crescendo<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">into
the penultimate silence<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">still
falling, still to fall –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">the unheard played beneath the
heard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-31511090592132034162014-03-25T18:53:00.003-04:002014-03-25T18:53:24.661-04:00Traffic Laws<div class="MsoNormal">
Rain and asphalt embrace</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
like a slap across the face,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
repeatedly – <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
it can be heard for miles, I
should guess;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the glass cries,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
wipes its eyes,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and cries again,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the rivulets of water trickling
like ants across the soil,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with no apparent place to go,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
just down, diagonally.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The red streaks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and a massive game of Tetris – <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the gaps that open and fill<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(if you know where you fit, then
get there <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
faster) – <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
blur into an impressionist
painting:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Starry Night, plus Traffic.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Arms wave, back and forth,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
as if the highway were a summer
concert – <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
they wipe the glass,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
returning resolution<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to what was once<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
beautiful.<o:p></o:p></div>
Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-76090637031422566812014-02-27T18:33:00.001-05:002014-02-27T18:33:10.921-05:00Next Door<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">an imitation of “Fern
Hill” by Dylan Thomas<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now
I was quick and eager as a young bird in the trees<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">About
the leafy shadows and lonesome as the sun was lone,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The sky above the tinned roofs
cloudy,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
Rain waited and let me run<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Reddened in the shadows of his
smile,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And
knighted by myself I was Sir of Imagination<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And
once before I had woken and counted pirate ships<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
Chasing the wake of my vessel<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Over the crimson waves of sunset.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And
I was flitting like dandelion seeds, spent my days<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">About
the happy grass next door and playing to my fancy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> With that smile and that heart of
gold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
Rain fell quick on tinned roofs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Reddened by the rear lights of the
cars<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And
the setting sun, till the sky becomes as an abyss,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Red
reflections cold on the wet asphalt streak behind me<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
And childhood fled<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> From the knighted Sir who tamed the
Rain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-36622668398401645952013-09-26T19:15:00.004-04:002013-09-26T19:17:25.579-04:00Lost Lamé<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The
rustle of the autumn’s golden page</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">(As
if by thumb were leafed the gilded leaves)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Shall
whisper inspiration to the trees</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">To
pen their paper’s face with adages.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">A
story thus is wrought with foliage,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">So leaving
latticed staffs in symphonies</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">With
brazen emptiness, a vacant stage.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">But
once a page upon the street is dropt,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The
ink is blurred by sodden breccia;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">And
so, the gilded page, the heart’s lamé,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Discarded,
since the author thought it notched,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">This masterpiece of marginalia</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Is
lost among the world’s wet alleyway.</span></div>
Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-74474678952833716022013-08-01T01:51:00.001-04:002013-08-01T01:52:43.916-04:00Blind Sailor<span style="font-family: inherit;">The sails are waiting for the sky at night –</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />The sailor’s dreams find comfort in the sun,<br />Who paints its canvas pink (to his delight)<br />And sings the songs foretelling what’s to come.<br />But no such Sun predicts my own waves’ tide – <br />No color comforts me or warns my sky.<br />I’m left a sailor, blind, to stay or hide<br />From storms I fear, and pain that they imply.<br />If I were brave, I’d set sail anyway.<br />I’d turn my sails to catch the unknown wind.<br />But am I brave? That’s not for me to say.<br />For time will tell if I or waves rescind.<br /> So through this storm or through this sunset sail,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> For either way I’ve come too far to fail.</span>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-10775897668100959712013-07-18T14:28:00.003-04:002013-07-18T20:34:31.795-04:00Blank-Screen Moments<i><span style="font-size: large;">I sit and stare at the bright, white, blank screen.</span> Two minutes. Five minutes.</i><br />
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Write a sentence. Erase it.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Realize it's 12pm. Get up and get myself a bowl of yogurt and granola (mmmhmm good).</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Sit down. Finish the yogurt. Get up and fetch myself a picturesque little mason jar of water (how quaint).</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Sit down again. Curses.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>The screen is still white.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>What? The words didn't write themselves by now?</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Not fair.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">It's one of those blank screen moments in life. </span>Those moments where you feel like you're wading through sludge, through miles of a white, wordless fog, where the absence of logical, organized thought taunts you. You're trapped in a never ending cycle of waiting, where there is nothing to do except wait...and yet waiting still feels so irrational. Waiting for what? For the words to write themselves? For Life to suddenly streak across your blanched surroundings with a flourish of trumpets and a shower of fairy dust? For the faded black scribbles to make sense?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sometimes, our landscapes feel so dull, boring, and barren. Not barren as in <i>dead</i> - to be sure, there is plenty of wild grass and untrimmed foliage to fill the space - but for now, the world still feels barren...flat and lifeless. The grass has not been tended, no beautiful beds of soil have been fertilized, no forests have been planted, no mountains have been built, no flowers have been tenderly brushed across the landscape to caress it with their warm splashes of color. Not yet, anyway.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS4kB2NZsU-HbL3xq8O9ODoBVlvwVZNuVLsWN0zvXJKp8mSVFNp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS4kB2NZsU-HbL3xq8O9ODoBVlvwVZNuVLsWN0zvXJKp8mSVFNp" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Waiting.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You can close your eyes and imagine what your landscape will look like, dream up the treasures your world will encompass, but to what extent can our dreams really influence reality?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You can take those dreams and awaken them, try to re-create with your brush the flowers and trees and mountains you imagined, but to what extend can you create your landscape?</div>
<div>
Is the landscape to be created? Or is it to be discovered?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Do we make it happen? Or do we wait, anxiously, on the edge of our seat, for the mountains and trees and flowers to suddenly spring up out of nowhere? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Do we truly explore? Or do we wander aimlessly, glancing over our shoulder every couple yards, hoping that a new world will have sprouted while we weren't looking?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Or.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Perhaps the landscape something that is being constantly created. Even when we are distracted by looking for what we hope to see, feeling as though nothing is changing, our hearts are being prepared and our world is slowly being shifted.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In truth, I am exploring the landscape that is being created for me. I am being guided along the path that has been laid out for me, and experiencing all the surprises along the way. Even if the flowers I am hoping to see never color my landscape, the beauty that will capture my heart will, one day, take my breath away with it's glorious sunrise.<br />
<br />
One day. Hopefully soon.<br />
<br />
This I must believe, or else drive myself insane, despairing over what I fear I might lose.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">So I do believe. And I will wait.</span></div>
Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-54519678391179532442013-07-02T20:34:00.001-04:002013-07-02T20:34:18.620-04:00ChangeAlmost a year ago now, I wrote a post about how much I despise being alone. The dark tendrils of thought that would follow me into my solitude, wrapping their sinister black fingers around my ankles and wrists and throat until I couldn't move or breathe - the smoke that distorted and clouded my mirror so that all I could see of myself was a deformed silhouette of who I really was - that fog of black smokey tendrils was my greatest fear. I could feel myself beginning to choke every time I was alone, and rushing to find some sort of companionship to avoid going completely insane.<br />
<br />
There has been a lot of healing this past year. And a lot of learning. You learn new things, venture to new <span style="font-family: inherit;">territory, new hurts come, and healing commences again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">And then you look back.</span> </span>Over your shoulder. Over the landscape you have carved out of the barren earth you started with. You look at the peaceful, dandelion-covered hills, full of wishes. You scowl at the scraggly cliff-faces that still taunt you and remind you of how they bruised your shins and your heart. All the rivers written by tears and the trees inspired by dreams. The landscape looks nothing like what you started with.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzESpx325tuSbSs3L-Yf6U_PmpqhCeirh7FQvi6yI1kO0kIme1SoGiF0zy25pM6AxWK4kjFlQAR954OkfWAx6JO6pKOc_fLd-uY5ubXzOKkmsMIWQCW_v33WAImulTXQ1AkXSGUTSXqu4/s900/an_unfamiliar_territory_by_eyedoorcinema-d4qdya5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzESpx325tuSbSs3L-Yf6U_PmpqhCeirh7FQvi6yI1kO0kIme1SoGiF0zy25pM6AxWK4kjFlQAR954OkfWAx6JO6pKOc_fLd-uY5ubXzOKkmsMIWQCW_v33WAImulTXQ1AkXSGUTSXqu4/s400/an_unfamiliar_territory_by_eyedoorcinema-d4qdya5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And you realize how much you have changed.</span><br />
<br />
The familiarity that comes with knowing yourself, the comfort you find in being able to predict your own actions, fades into a fear of the unknown.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;">WHO AM I?</span></div>
<br />
This is the question we unknowingly spend so much time trying to answer. We don't think it consciously, but our entire lives we are testing ourselves, learning, adjusting our sails, re-assessing our surroundings, and moving on. <span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">We are exploring our hearts - foreign territory, unfamiliar landscape.</span><br />
<br />
You would think our own hearts should feel like home. Our heart should be a place where the lights glow through the windows and through the darkness, warming us like a blanket and a cup of hot cocoa, tucking us in at night to tell us stories about who we are and who we are to become, leading us forward, and inspiring us with a sense of adventurous security.<br />
<br />
But that's not always how it works....<br />
<br />
Our hearts are scary places sometimes. We discover things about ourselves we never thought we'd see carved into our landscape, and uncover wounds we thought we'd mended and find them still pulsing and bleeding. In an effort to heal the cuts and burns, we grope at them with our dirty hands, only succeeding in filling them with infection. Somehow, we know that a cup of hot cocoa would make all the shadows disappear, but the warm lights and soft blankets are miles away, and the bedtime stories are eons ago. We have to fight the real dragons now.<br />
<br />
A year at college is like fighting dragons - battling the dragons in your own heart, and discovering the dragons in others. Fire rages and carves out unfamiliar trenches, covers the hills full of wishes in scorch marks, and burns down the trees built by dreams.<br />
<br />
We are left with a heart that does not look like ours.<br />
<br />
We are left looking in the mirror and wondering who it is that is staring back at us.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6C7INmSUaXsKjAsHRHgctv7eyiBs9waGhUL7FMKioEKvlCZ26FPhmxJjIJnLDEgogbkbUOHyuDCQO1oQy6CQlfqT0xslbN-hAP5hinDjGs6niatjPSOO3vovz1fUM-P4K8GHymN7Htc9k/s1600/mirror.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6C7INmSUaXsKjAsHRHgctv7eyiBs9waGhUL7FMKioEKvlCZ26FPhmxJjIJnLDEgogbkbUOHyuDCQO1oQy6CQlfqT0xslbN-hAP5hinDjGs6niatjPSOO3vovz1fUM-P4K8GHymN7Htc9k/s320/mirror.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But even in the midst of fighting dragons, there are those things that remind us of who we are.</span> Those places, those people, the inside jokes, the magic that brings us back to childhood, back to fields full of dandelions...<br />
<br />
And yet we cannot go back. We must press onward.<br />
<br />
Learning to love who you are becoming is not easy. Learning to love that slightly unfamiliar face you see in the mirror, being willing to venture out into that strange landscape...to learn its geography all over again, even in the face of change...is not easy. And choosing to <i>form</i> that person you are becoming in a <i>purposeful </i>way - containing those fires, healing those wounds, planting new fields of flowers...that is even more difficult.<br />
<br />
In the midst of all of this, across the battlefield, remembering the bedtime stories and the warm blankets, remembering the flowers and the wishes and dreams, and hanging on to them, becomes a vital part of moving forward. It is the memories of light and joy which strengthen us. If we think we've lost that light, that joy, then we won't even bother looking for it behind the shadows and the scorch marks. Memories of the magic which fascinated us as children helps us remember how to see it, even now that we have grown. Memories of who we were help us find who we are.<br />
<br />
Our landscape will continue to shift and change, and we will continue to explore it. But why are we exploring? What are we looking for? Exploring must be purposeful - without a purpose, exploring becomes wandering, and our lives become aimless. Without a purpose, we plod onward, never truly understanding ourselves, never truly seeing the beautiful landscape we are sculpting. We must remember, as we traverse the tender crevices of our hearts, how important it is to be searching. Always searching. Searching for who we are...and for who we are becoming...and for the light that guides us home.<br />
<br />
<br />Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-66117515808894497612013-05-19T18:25:00.002-04:002013-05-19T18:25:36.288-04:00Accidents Happen'Twould seem that this is not a sonnet, sir,<br />And not a poem written to ask
why<br />Your <span style="font-size: small;">taciturn responses </span>don't concur<br />With
accidental hope we felt inside.<br />'Twould now seem that your feelings were a
lie,<br />As bogus as to rhyme "inside" with "why" - <br />And unto Love this scheme
repeats its cry<br />To question of your words what they imply.<br />As accidents do
happen, I confess<br />Perhaps the Willow raised her eyes too soon.<br />Perhaps the
Stream to roots could not digress...<br />Perhaps our instruments were out of
tune.<br /><br /> If accidents do happen when one tries,<br />
Then so one has, and I apologize.Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-21836876338261904392013-05-01T12:34:00.003-04:002013-07-02T20:41:50.118-04:00The Willow's Curse<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Your
gaze I feel from far across this space – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">These
pews of people, faces of the mass –</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">And
though I hide somewhere behind my face</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">With
dodged glances, still my heart’s impasse</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Cannot
deny the very Thing it fights.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">This
is the willow’s curse, to be so near</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The
Water that it craves, yet not unite</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Its
roots with tender coolness it reveres.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">And
yes, the willow bows before Your gaze</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">(To
look is to betray the thoughts inside),</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But
who’s to say its eyes it cannot raise<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">When
from Your searching glance it needn’t hide?</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> The
roots, they cannot drink, or reach the Stream, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Unless
the Water welcomes them to dream.</span>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-70035170740899001122012-05-28T14:38:00.000-04:002012-05-28T14:38:46.210-04:00Alone Time?<span style="font-size: large;">I hate being alone.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgydAPrLXNXaRvRRB2s4rsp7G4TeNlyJq-UsrZnHoQ8-aYhNgEhAEbaJmTprgJfAFAYdI8KOVOVRkrZlbZq8zdJkzwZ7KTnVCEhDReuUUQE9WBYJ2y2EaQ8Lgel6Zqb-Ld7TLVzFRjcKLiN/s1600/girl+sitting+alone+sailboat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgydAPrLXNXaRvRRB2s4rsp7G4TeNlyJq-UsrZnHoQ8-aYhNgEhAEbaJmTprgJfAFAYdI8KOVOVRkrZlbZq8zdJkzwZ7KTnVCEhDReuUUQE9WBYJ2y2EaQ8Lgel6Zqb-Ld7TLVzFRjcKLiN/s1600/girl+sitting+alone+sailboat.jpg" /></a>If I were to write an autobiography, it would begin with those words. Being alone is probably my greatest fear: greater than my fear of tight spaces (which is substantial) or of heights (which is even more substantial). I suppose it's scarier because it's a different kind of a fear. It's a fear of something which I can't run away from. Myself.<br />
<br />
I am scared of my own thoughts. Scared to be alone in a room with myself, without anything to distract me. Ever since I was little I've been this way - I was not the child who could sit and be content playing by herself. I was the high-maintenance child who constantly begged her mother to play with her.<br />
<br />
It's because I think too much, really, and that's something that's always bothered me about my writing. I always feel so heavy when I write, like everything that I write has some deep, solemn meaning (such as this post). I run away from my thoughts, because my thoughts are usually self-critical ones. I can't just sit and think about anything. If I'm going to think, I'm going to THINK. And THINKing is exhausting. Since that's all I do when I'm alone, I don't want to be alone, because I'm afraid of getting caught inside of a funk that I won't be able to crawl out of again.<br />
<br />
At the same time as I'm thinking and feeling too deeply, all my characters feel shallow and monotonous, because they all reflect my own feelings, instead of their own individual ones. I don't know enough about <i>them</i>...all the focus is on <i>me</i>. And my solemn thoughts make every moment of my story solemn, and the same as the moment before it.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I don't spend enough time alone. I THINK too much, but I don't EXPERIENCE enough. I don't know anything about human nature, because I haven't learned my own feelings about different experiences. I can't write about my character experiencing something on their own, if I don't know what it feels like to be alone. What do you do, when you're alone? What do you think about? What do you see? Is the world different when there's no one there to experience it with you?<br />
<br />
But, then again, what proof is there that something happened, if you don't have anyone to verify the experience for you?<br />
<br />
Oh, the world is so odd.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-82910077664380823222012-05-24T14:46:00.001-04:002012-05-24T14:48:15.466-04:00The Musings of an Alice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh73bLv4Mp94kG54IJA_2ndZJEv_E-TFtlMMTZh-XOOhkknvO48cPoM5Ukr1N1ZLAYGd6UbTvvpAeAuqdU75Luu4drj8PbJinf4pZbWmqgV38UTfa3_cEV8RgVYAdrtv6_4tDGlIW-kibM2/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh73bLv4Mp94kG54IJA_2ndZJEv_E-TFtlMMTZh-XOOhkknvO48cPoM5Ukr1N1ZLAYGd6UbTvvpAeAuqdU75Luu4drj8PbJinf4pZbWmqgV38UTfa3_cEV8RgVYAdrtv6_4tDGlIW-kibM2/s640/photo.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Sometimes,</span> something so significant occurs in your life, that it seems as if everyone should know about it, regardless of whether you told them. </span>"Didn't you know?" "Didn't someone tell you?" No. They didn't. Which is why these stories must be told, at some point, even if it is told weeks after the story began.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Although the story ends</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I cannot just pretend</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>It never happened. </i></span><br />
<br />
In short, I was called by my director to be Alice in her production of Alice in Wonderland, though I hadn't auditioned for the show. Surprised, flattered, honored, all of the above. I almost cried.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>When things like this occur</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I find myself unsure</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Of whether it really happened. </i> </span></div>
<br />
That was the 21st of March. Rehearsals started the following Monday
(26th). The first performance was May 5th. We had a month to block the
entire show, learn our lines, get/make our costumes and props, design
the lights, master the background music, and build/decorate the set. The illustration below shows the result.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXVYDX0jyCUPzMns9IrPD5jL1XW_qBkkCXA7qxaBGRikq9gNDOa4N2zziEVL4k9oVTRHkpOTFRXBWqDDEDpAmvuAdfVvkqqKIZsTVmtoqLw0zO6DsqbXPiAYWDgrfq74FYCkkf1GPgclhR/s1600/scan0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXVYDX0jyCUPzMns9IrPD5jL1XW_qBkkCXA7qxaBGRikq9gNDOa4N2zziEVL4k9oVTRHkpOTFRXBWqDDEDpAmvuAdfVvkqqKIZsTVmtoqLw0zO6DsqbXPiAYWDgrfq74FYCkkf1GPgclhR/s640/scan0001.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is my illustration of our interpretation of the show, including costumes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was a wild ride, that couple weeks. The last show was May 20th, and I graduated the 5th of May (after having exams and tech rehearsals at the same time, I graduated
opening night) . . . and now it's all over. But, as I said, a story must be told, even after it's already ended.<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Once upon a time, a little girl named Miranda enrolled in a college, got a job, and became another little girl, all in the span of a few short weeks. This was rather overwhelming for someone so young to handle all at once, and her many adventures quite tuckered her out. Exhausted, she sat by the light of her laptop one night, and paused to sort out her mind and try to remember all the things which had happened to her.</i></span></div>
<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i> On Wednesday, the 21st of March, the phone rang, and it all began. Miranda heard it from upstairs in her room, but she was trapped in the web of school, so she ignored it. Yet for some reason her ears pricked up when she heard her sister answer the phone. The director, calling for her.</i></span></div>
<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>"I really wanted to offer you the part of Alice..."</i></span></div>
<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>How could she say no?</i></span></div>
<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Rehearsals until 11pm, sometimes later. Aching legs and an aching head. Blood shed onstage. Yet she would never trade any of it. The cast was eleven people, and they became as close-knit as a family. High-level-stress situations naturally form bonds between people. It's one of the great joys of showbiz, that with the stress comes a new-found family.</i></span></div>
<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Opening night was fantastic, as were all three other shows. Miranda soaked every minute </i><i>in</i><i>, trying to savor the experience, sink into her character, relish her time onstage in Wonderland. Standing on the stage, in the dark, after the final bow, she found herself wishing that she could go back to the beginning and do it all over again. She would miss Alice. She would miss Wonderland.</i></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">And now, her life must go on. College is lurking up around the corner. Oh dear.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Hopefully it makes more sense than Wonderland. </span><br />
</div>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com0Country Gate Players, 114 Greenwich Street, Belvidere, NJ 07823, USA40.827830964304354 -75.07883906364440940.827079964304353 -75.0800730636444 40.828581964304355 -75.077605063644413tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-50604474799043609732012-05-04T14:23:00.000-04:002012-05-07T14:24:58.703-04:00Cap and Gown<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">How strange this is,</span><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
Freedom so free -</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://us.123rf.com/400wm/400/400/rrraven/rrraven1109/rrraven110900067/10677411-graduation-cap-and-diploma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://us.123rf.com/400wm/400/400/rrraven/rrraven1109/rrraven110900067/10677411-graduation-cap-and-diploma.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
No pens or books</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
Consuming me.</div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
The future looks</div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So big, unsure,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And full of life:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Adventure!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">A 'Pirate' knife</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And wild cries</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">From stadiums</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">All fill my skies.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Opprobruims</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">All left behind - </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">There's nothing now</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But what I find</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In all there is</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In "yet to come".</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And all of this</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Is, after all,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">To come to pass</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">At Seton Hall!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">GO PIRATES!</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.freeunderdog.com/images/team_logos/58049a88ab9f147d504b5c76cae9a137.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="http://www.freeunderdog.com/images/team_logos/58049a88ab9f147d504b5c76cae9a137.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"> </span></span></div>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-34844837087030744402012-03-07T11:06:00.000-05:002012-03-07T11:06:55.777-05:00Redeemed: vision forum contest results<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">March 5th, 2012</span> (four days after the original announcement date) the winning stories for the 2012 Short Story Contest were chosen.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Unfortunately, mine was not among them. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Fortunately, that means I can now post the whole story on my blog without fear of disqualification.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">(you can read the winning entries <a href="http://www.visionforum.com/news/blogs/doug/?lnk=t">here</a>.)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So, without further ado, here is<span style="font-size: large;"><i> Redeemed: a short story</i></span>. A story which I can now claim as entirely mine, without any affiliation with Vision Forum. Which, I suppose, can be one comfort amidst the tears of not winning $1,000.</span><br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>A sharp scream split the frozen mist.</i></blockquote><blockquote><i>I tore my eyes away from the malicious waves battering my ship, and whirled toward the deck. My heart skipped. <br />
“Murdoch!” I called, sprinting from the bridge. The men in the wheelhouse jumped as I flung the door open. <br />
“Captain!” All three of them stood. <br />
I strode toward my First Officer. “Murdoch, what’s going on?” <br />
He stammered, “W-what do you mean?” <br />
“On deck! Didn’t you hear the passengers yelling?” <br />
His mustache twitched. Of course he had. <br />
“So why aren’t you doing anything?” <br />
“I left men in charge…” he blurted. <br />
“I put YOU in charge! Do you see what’s happening out there?” <br />
All three men turned and stared out the window. Murdoch looked up reluctantly. </i> </blockquote><blockquote><i>The deck teemed like a disturbed anthill, erupting with a mob of Third Class Passengers, feverishly rushing to escape the sinking ship. Pale-faced men sprinted back and forth, or else bickered with each other, hollering curses. Women and children huddled like frightened sheep, herded toward the lifeboats by the deckhands. <br />
And only one lifeboat remained. <br />
“Do you see the problem now, Murdoch?” <br />
He looked down. <br />
A woman’s cry split the air again, shrieking from the lifeboat which had just been released. Then another, younger cry joined hers. <br />
“Mama!” <br />
Somehow, the cry of the little girl leaning over the ship-rail echoed louder than the men’s bickering. My heart skipped again. A tiny blonde head flashed against the black waves, a tiny pale hand grasped desperately for the other nineteen lifeboats now drifting away. <br />
“Mother!” <br />
I tore my eyes away and stepped toward Murdoch. <br />
“Were all the lifeboats full?” <br />
He shrugged. “I don’t know, Captain. I was following your orders. Women and children first.” <br />
I clenched my jaw. “And were the lifeboats full of women and children, Murdoch?” <br />
He was silent. <br />
I turned and left the wheelhouse. </i> </blockquote><blockquote><i>Down the stairs at full-speed, I rushed into the teeming anthill, elbowing my way past the bickering men; as if by saving the little blonde girl I could make everything right. <br />
Sarah’s face kept flashing before my eyes. Oh, how I missed her. Oh, how I had wronged her… <br />
But if I could only save this girl… <br />
Her little body looked so lost against the backdrop of the treacherous sea. She cowered under her heavy coat, clutching a doll like a lifeline in one arm, stretching the other arm as far as she could over the ship-rail. But she was silent now. <br />
She had given up calling. Her mother was already drifting away. <br />
I ignored the chaos around us, strode across the deck, and tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped, almost dropping her doll in shock. <br />
I knelt down next to her. She just looked at me with solemn eyes. <br />
“Is your mother out there?” I gestured to the water. <br />
She evaluated me, then nodded. <br />
“I can help you.” <br />
Biting her lip, she nodded again. <br />
I grinned and stood. <br />
And then I realized that the chaos around us was the loading of the last lifeboat. </i> </blockquote><blockquote><i>Passengers surged toward us like a stampede of terrified cattle. The deckhands passed out lifejackets frantically, shouting at the top of their lungs, “Women and children first! All men have to wait, women and children first!” <br />
Only a handful of lifejackets remained. <br />
I grasped the little girl’s hand. “Come here, quickly!” <br />
Then I swung her up into my arms. Signaling to the man distributing lifejackets, I sprinted to where passengers were loading. <br />
“Captain Smith?” <br />
“Yes, Roberts. I need a lifejacket.” <br />
The deckhand glanced at the girl huddled in my arms and nodded. <br />
“Here. But there’s not much room left.” <br />
I took it and stepped away, setting the girl down on the deck. Then I looked her in the eyes. <br />
“You have to put this jacket on, all right?” <br />
No response. <br />
“If you put this jacket on, I can put you in that boat, and you can get safely to your mother. Do you understand me?” <br />
Her lost little eyes widened, but she nodded all the same. </i> </blockquote><blockquote><i>A man’s infuriated bellowing exploded behind me. <br />
“What do you mean, you’ve given out the last one?” <br />
I stood and spun around. <br />
A sallow-face man, his expression like a mad bull, had pinned the deckhand Roberts against the ship-rail and tried to send him over the side. I lunged and grabbed his elbow, pulling him away, but he wrenched himself out of my grip. <br />
“I told you!” Roberts bellowed back, “That was the last jacket, and it should go to a lady, not to a sniveling drunkard!” <br />
The sallow man charged, but I grabbed him and held him. <br />
“I deserve that jacket, can’t you see? That woman was old, decrepit, useless! I’m a brilliant, productive man! Why should I be the one to die?” <br />
I threw him back, onto the deck. He sprang to his feet. Then he saw what I was holding, and his eyes lit up like fireworks. <br />
“Ah! Saving a jacket for yourself, were you, Captain?” <br />
I sneered. “Never. This is hers.” <br />
He looked down at the girl who peeked out from behind my legs. <br />
“What good is it to her?” With a snarl, he leapt forward and grabbed it. I growled and held on, but my stomach felt sick. In his enraged eyes, I saw a reflection of myself. All the things I had said, the night before I boarded the Titanic, when Sarah had begged me to stay home; things for which Sarah could never forgive me… <br />
If only I could save this girl… <br />
I yanked the jacket back, pushed the man away, and knelt down to put it on the girl. “Ignore him, little one. Let me get this on you.” <br />
Behind me, the man growled. Then he lunged. <br />
Knocking me backward, he tore the jacket from the girl’s back, sending her flying to the deck. Before I pushed myself to my feet, he threw it over his own shoulders, and leapt into the lifeboat. <br />
“We’re all on board!” he hollered. “Lower the boat!” <br />
“Wait!” Murdoch called, bursting out of the wheelhouse, a bright white lifejacket in one arm. “Captain!” </i> </blockquote><blockquote><i>I spun around. “Murdoch?” <br />
“Captain, this is yours!” <br />
He handed me the lifejacket. I just stood. The little girl ran over to me and clutched my leg. <br />
“W-why?” I stammered. “Shouldn’t this be the passengers’?” <br />
Murdoch looked down. “The men all agreed. You should be safe. Get back to your wife and daughter. Besides…” he faltered, “It was partially my fault. The lifeboats not being full, I mean.” <br />
I looked around at my men, and they smiled resolutely back at me. <br />
I couldn’t bear their loyalty. Not after I had been so heartless to the one woman in my life who deserved all of my loyalty and love. My men were putting me first, but I hadn’t put her before myself. <br />
I had denied my responsibility as a man: to protect. <br />
I glanced down at the little girl. My chance to make things right. Then I knelt, and slipped my jacket over her head. <br />
My smile was tainted by tears. <br />
I would go down with my ship. Redeemed. <br />
But Sarah would never know.</i></blockquote><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.freefunlinks.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/tiny-books-against-their-computer-versions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://www.freefunlinks.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/tiny-books-against-their-computer-versions.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> SHORT story. Hehe.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">An interesting aside: </span>I've been reading a lot of short stories over the past month - Hemingway, Hawthorne, Joyce, Maupassant, Crane, Melville, Poe - and I have come to realize how many works of astounding, influential literature are contained in the short story. The turn of phrase, the subtle descriptions, the hidden message under the action of the story. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Short stories are brilliant authors trying to make a point. It's how artists argue.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I've also realized that I have a really difficult time sitting in my room alone for hours to write a novel - I'm a gregarious person, and there's nothing I can do about that. I can't even sit up there doing schoolwork for very long before I have to come downstairs and see people. So in recent months I've found my creativity languishing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But I still love writing, and I still want to write. I just can't do it for large chunks of time without risking going into shock when I finally walk out of my room ("There are PEOPLE in my house!?!?!"). </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Maybe I should take up the short story. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a lot of "points" I want to make. I'm an arguing artist, for sure (thought, not a brilliant one). Maybe I can learn how to be under Hemingway's tutelage.</span>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-37293859855052506382012-01-26T16:07:00.000-05:002012-01-26T16:07:46.753-05:00Further Into the Brainstorm . . .<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">. . . and never mind the whipping winds and whirling whirlpools, the sheets of rain, and the frosty gale that seems to tear the skin from your face!</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The unfortunate thing about brainstorming is that I can share very little without giving a lot away. Thus, it is difficult to write a blog post about my specific brainstorm. As I mentioned <span style="font-size: small;">before, </span><span style="font-size: small;">I have been thinking a lot about Torrson </span>. . . and yes, I have written the first words of my re-imagined novel. These, at least, I can share:</div><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i> Torrsøn detested the cold. It reminded him how long he had been waiting. And taunted him with the prospect of waiting any longer. </i><i> </i> </blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i> Sitting with his back to the wind, he pulled his stiff nobleman's jacket tighter around him, but the frills did nothing to block out the biting frost. His nose was red as his frozen fingers, he was sure of it, and dripping with his inner mucus. He wiped it desperately on his sleeve. It would not do for the novice steward to have a runny nose.</i> </blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><i> Growling at the cold that persisted to stab him through the flimsy court fabric, he stood with a flourish and began pacing, as if by plodding back and forth he could run away from the frost.</i></blockquote><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">My notebook in which I had begun, moths previously, to jot down notes about this re-imagination, has begun to fill up with pages of tight scripted notes. Specifying character's relationships, outlining their backgrounds, detailing their evil plots, listing their names . . .</span><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And, of course, with all this comes the character sketches. Drawing my characters always re-inspires me, and it gives me a concrete face to gravitate to when I'm writing about them. (Does anyone else feel this way?) I have their personality inside my head, and I could write it out in words if I really tried. But somehow, in the raw early stages of their development, their personality more easily pours out of my drawing pencils than from my fingers on the keyboard.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIJvCpAneCI0R-M57bVcFkfL0TzeEqscaPqFh1gsCk1GIyr0_OVWhZCGwlSQKVFZMuIBYDPoMKUoeMQ0KOcQxassIIR4Ls7CVSLGwxPXTVkP6mZjtP1d9Kw0IEA10SBoPm0jh6kmDt7hyphenhyphenv/s1600/kim+and+rob+-+jan+038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIJvCpAneCI0R-M57bVcFkfL0TzeEqscaPqFh1gsCk1GIyr0_OVWhZCGwlSQKVFZMuIBYDPoMKUoeMQ0KOcQxassIIR4Ls7CVSLGwxPXTVkP6mZjtP1d9Kw0IEA10SBoPm0jh6kmDt7hyphenhyphenv/s400/kim+and+rob+-+jan+038.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0jnQj2znS0bxojGAoY_FQt4lT7npEhIfRklVDx4XGaZznAOsxVGPl-HBV2X8ly-aNmg6c8-rMc3f3TK1KnJxLg2eMjKevcGJyMWj9gdQyJLVInGxlbTVHH7rt9mSOc_1k-IiaLM5IuYsD/s1600/kim+and+rob+-+jan+039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0jnQj2znS0bxojGAoY_FQt4lT7npEhIfRklVDx4XGaZznAOsxVGPl-HBV2X8ly-aNmg6c8-rMc3f3TK1KnJxLg2eMjKevcGJyMWj9gdQyJLVInGxlbTVHH7rt9mSOc_1k-IiaLM5IuYsD/s400/kim+and+rob+-+jan+039.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
With all the intricacy of the storyline in this particular character novel - political intrigue, plots and coups, intertwines relationships and devastating scandals (intrigued yet?) - I've decided to try a new method of brainstorming/organizing. <span style="font-size: large;">The Bulletin Board.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">This concept has both excited me and scared me ever since I first heard of it. I'm not sure if writing plot points on index cards, pinning them on a board, shuffling them around, lining them parallel to each other, adding things, and taking things away, will be an effective way for me to organize my thoughts. But I have yet to truly try.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"No time for idle talk! Back to work, you scalawags! Don't you know there's a storm a-brewin'? There she blows!"</span></span>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-10342047868830890572012-01-16T12:00:00.000-05:002012-01-16T12:00:31.819-05:00Contest Cancelation And A Brainstorm<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> I'm sorry to inform you that, due to a general lack of interest, <span style="font-size: large;">the January Poetry Imitation Contest has been canceled.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Since no one has commented about my contest voicing their intention of entering, and since my schedule was a little crazier than I had anticipated (sudden, unpredictable inspiration) I decided to save this contest for a better time.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">However, I still intend to do a post on Imitation (since imitation has been such a major proponent of my writing and the formation of my style of prose); and I would still like to do a contest in the future. But, for now, these things will have to wait.<br />
</div><div style="color: #660000; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>In the meantime . . .</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I have recently discovered how much telling other people about my novel both excites and inspires me. Along with a whole slew of ideas for the second draft of my manuscript, several long conversations about my ideas have propelled me forward into a whirlwind of frantic brainstorming and note-taking and drafting.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">HURRAY.</span></b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJ7TefUxSj3NxX_PbctPe4yjuhLQEN8WR0XXKUu0yenDi3Eo6aA7yJ3dLI0vfZ7kWgBDG-ymDlrsf6LEx1ojMAGugMrmXZh56GhjuczXr_o3rY1y9O_3AgPwhDwDTgw6X2Z7aEP4vOpee/s1600/kim+and+rob+-+jan+040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJ7TefUxSj3NxX_PbctPe4yjuhLQEN8WR0XXKUu0yenDi3Eo6aA7yJ3dLI0vfZ7kWgBDG-ymDlrsf6LEx1ojMAGugMrmXZh56GhjuczXr_o3rY1y9O_3AgPwhDwDTgw6X2Z7aEP4vOpee/s400/kim+and+rob+-+jan+040.JPG" width="300" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The original draft of 'Enslaved' will always remain as it is. It's my baby - I can't bear to rip it apart until it's unrecognizable. However, I've been mulling over the idea of writing a character novel for quite some time, and my character Torrson has been nagging me about telling his story. He knows he's the one genuine character that burst out of my imagination. Of all the characters I have ever written, he's the one who wrote himself. He escaped from my brain and rampaged across the pages of my manuscript. Now he wants to take over completely.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I love his back-story. It's interesting enough to be it's own book.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Hmm.</span></span><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> A character novel/political thriller in third person that slowly transforms into an adventure novel and ends in a crazy transition to a different character's first-person showdown?</span><br />
<br />
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">Hmm . . . </span> </span></span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></span></i><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhGxCsPfr4S_tGRxHVLCqqTppFl0uopshWIiVFSC95bPUYkhHm7q4oYUkWtHuB03kQ0lE2J9PTpH0iKImVI8HLbLL8VmyfGPOz8kymgyMgdcVjxR1ckBuxjuyifZa-PzDS21pabEXfmA0B/s1600/kim+and+rob+-+jan+042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhGxCsPfr4S_tGRxHVLCqqTppFl0uopshWIiVFSC95bPUYkhHm7q4oYUkWtHuB03kQ0lE2J9PTpH0iKImVI8HLbLL8VmyfGPOz8kymgyMgdcVjxR1ckBuxjuyifZa-PzDS21pabEXfmA0B/s640/kim+and+rob+-+jan+042.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-14306583687926177272012-01-03T15:22:00.001-05:002012-01-03T15:25:12.541-05:00Submitted!<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">What a joy to log onto my email and see these words: </span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><div class="MsoNormal">Thank you for submitting an entry to the 2012 Catalog Essay Contest!</div><div class="MsoNormal">We are grateful for your participation.</div>Your essay will be reviewed shortly, and a winner will be announced on March 1, 2012.</blockquote><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now, all I have to do is wait.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I know that I promised to post the full story once the deadline for the contest had passed. However, it was recently brought to my attention that doing so may disqualify me from the contest. Vision Forum was unclear about who holds the rights to my story (they have the right to publish it, etc); so, in order that I may not be disqualified before my story is even read, I will only be posting snippets of the story.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">However, if I place First or Honorable Mention (*fervently crosses fingers*) , then Vision Forum will post my story on their website. If I am among the winners, I will be sure to link to their site so you can read the whole story.</span><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">For now, here are some more snippets:</span></div><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><i>A sharp scream split the frozen mist. </i><br />
<i>I tore my eyes away from the malicious waves battering my ship, and whirled toward the deck. My heart skipped. </i><br />
<i>“Murdoch!” I called, sprinting from the bridge. The men in the wheelhouse jumped as I flung the door open. </i><br />
<i>“Captain!” All three of them stood. </i><br />
<i>I strode toward my First Officer. “Murdoch, what’s going on?” </i><br />
<i>He stammered, hesitating. “W-what do you mean?” </i><br />
<i>“On deck! Didn’t you hear the passengers yelling?” </i><br />
<i>His mustache twitched. Of course he had. </i><br />
<i>“So why aren’t you doing anything?” </i><br />
<i>“I left men in charge…” he blurted. </i><br />
<i>“I put YOU in charge! Do you see what’s happening out there?” </i><br />
<i>All three men turned and stared out the window. Murdoch looked up reluctantly. </i><br />
<i>The deck teemed like a disturbed anthill, erupting with a mob of Third Class Passengers, feverishly rushing to escape the sinking ship. Pale-faced men sprinted back and forth, or else bickered with each other, hollering curses. Women and children huddled like frightened sheep, herded toward the lifeboats by the deckhands. </i><br />
<i>And only one lifeboat remained. </i><br />
<i>“Do you see the problem <u>now</u>, Murdoch?” </i><br />
<i>He looked down.</i></blockquote><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And now to spoil the ending:</div><blockquote class="tr_bq"><a href="http://www.chasingthefrog.com/reelfaces/titanic/cptsmth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.chasingthefrog.com/reelfaces/titanic/cptsmth.jpg" /></a><i>I looked around at my men, and they smiled resolutely back at me. </i><br />
<i>I couldn’t bear their loyalty. Not after I had been so heartless to the one woman in my life who deserved all of my loyalty and love. My men were putting me first, but I hadn’t put her before myself. </i><br />
<i>I had denied my responsibility as a man: to protect. </i><br />
<i>I glanced down at the little girl. My chance to make things right. Then I knelt, and slipped my jacket over her head. </i><br />
<i>My smile was tainted by tears. </i><br />
<i>I would go down with my ship. Redeemed. </i><br />
<i>But Sarah would never know. </i></blockquote><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">(However, considering the </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">historical </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">fact that Captain Edward Smith did, in fact, sink with his ship, the end is already spoiled. The surprises are all in the middle, and I didn't spoil any of those.) </span><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Now, one announcement before I go.</b> There will, in fact, be a contest this month:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The theme?</span> IMITATION</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Assignment?</span> To write a poem of at least 100 lines in imitation of a specific poem selected from one of the masters (E. Poe, H. Longfellow, R. Frost).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">There will be a forthcoming post on<i> Imitation</i>, along with an example 'imitation poem'. After that the formal Contest Announcement </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">will be posted </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">(along with the deadline and description of the prize), and then</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> <i><span style="font-size: large;">AWAY TO YOUR PENS!</span></i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">And, <i>UNTIL</i> then . . . well . . . <span style="font-size: large;">away to your pens, I suppose!</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></span><i><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></i></span>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-34656485491722567042011-12-30T18:42:00.002-05:002011-12-31T00:05:14.818-05:00Editing . . . Groan<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I've decided I hate editing.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">This is something I've been dealing with for the past five months. I've avoided editing like the plague; ignored the suffering prose of my novel and tuned out the incessant cries of uncompleted school papers.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But now, of course, with a deadline of tomorrow for my Vision Forum short story, I can no longer avoid editing. Yesterday, I took my laptop and sat on my bed for an hour, managing to (somewhat) painlessly cut out the 52 extra words, plus another 16. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">This made me very happy.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yet, after this minor victory, I remembered that I now have to deal with content. Clarity. Keeping my audience in mind. <br />
<br />
And it's even more difficult with a limit of 1,200 words.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Though I can act OCD sometimes, I feel like it would be wrong for me to send in a story with exactly 1,200 words. I would feel like I 'barely made it'. I feel so guilty stretching the word-count.<br />
<br />
Editing is annoying, but with a word-count is even worse. The way your stomach sinks when you finally find the perfect way of phrasing that troublesome sentence, and then you glance down . . . and the Word Count stares back up at you: 1,208 words.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Drat.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I hate editing. And, of course, I'm using this blog post as an excuse for not editing.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I feel antsy and restless whenever I think about going back to that Microsoft Word Page full of text, words I don't want to change. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I always forget. Writing is work. Now to push through the grudge-y, un-fun part of it. Oh joy.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>But oh, how I love it!</i></span></div>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-49441976759715199402011-12-28T23:44:00.001-05:002012-01-03T15:26:12.480-05:00Finished<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuAwZiq4uVK-e7jTuSJvPI2Ago8pOflFnKb-CsMjdIS7pa01zPI_Sic_z86st-lrqB56I3YPYYraZkKfNNhbgsvW0cqROIvyyy9iQkajJoSsPVV6jnlht0ax5vqV-bEm7ktyb_J_8P2sqy/s1600/catalog2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuAwZiq4uVK-e7jTuSJvPI2Ago8pOflFnKb-CsMjdIS7pa01zPI_Sic_z86st-lrqB56I3YPYYraZkKfNNhbgsvW0cqROIvyyy9iQkajJoSsPVV6jnlht0ax5vqV-bEm7ktyb_J_8P2sqy/s320/catalog2.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: xx-small;"><i style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">This was the cover I based my story on</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">About a month ago</span> I mentioned that I was writing a short story for the Vision Forum Family Catalog contest. The instructions were to write the most compelling story which artfully tells the tale of the individuals depicted on the cover in the context of the theme "Women and Children First"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">When I read about it, I was ecstatic, of course.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But I procrastinated, as is the nature of me.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So here I am, over a month later, three days before the deadline, and I am finally done.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In need of editing, yes (considering it's 52 words over the limit). But finished.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My story is titled 'Redeemed'.</span> Here is an excerpt:</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">~ </span></div><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>I tore my eyes away and stepped toward Murdoch. <br />
“Were all the lifeboats full?”</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>He shrugged. “I don’t know, Captain. I was following your orders. Women and children first.” <br />
I clenched my jaw. “And were the lifeboats<u> full </u>of women and children, Murdoch?” <br />
He was silent. <br />
I turned and left the wheelhouse.</i></span></div></blockquote><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">Now, to edit . . . </span>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-34947572290774886352011-12-26T12:01:00.000-05:002011-12-26T12:01:55.963-05:00Pushing Yourself<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It's always hard,</span> after the excitement of Christmas, to throw yourself back into your "groove" with writing. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">That is, if you had a groove before the holidays. <span style="font-size: large;">But I didn't.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So now, to start a new groove! As much as I hate forcing myself to write (it all feels stinted that way) I realize that the stintedness is part of being a writer. And though I feel as if I've said it over and over, I can't call myself a writer if I don't <i>write</i>.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Part of me is nervous that, after writing <a href="http://mirandahajduk.blogspot.com/p/enslaved.html"><i>Enslaved</i></a> I became so exhausted that I convinced myself the best thing to do was to distance myself from prose, and fiction, and writing anything that felt even remotely close to the genre of my novel. <span style="font-size: large;">I was so tired of pushing myself through the stintedness that I didn't even want to think about my manuscript.</span> All writing came to feel stinted, and thus I shunned all of it (except poetry, which is quick to write and fun to read).</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And yet, through all of this, I felt as though I was abandoning a part of myself. I wasn't just taking a break. I was throwing in the towel. Telling myself that "I can't go on any longer". "I can't look at that story anymore". I began to question if I was meant to write at all.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But none of this felt right. Even though I was discouraged, giving up didn't just feel<i> lazy</i>. It felt uncharacteristic. Words have always been my friend. <span style="font-size: large;">Fiction and prose have always been a part of me.</span> To try to convince myself that "I couldn't go on any longer" - just because I was tired - felt as though I was forgetting part of who I was.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Writing is like a workout. You start off a little tired. Then you get a rhythm going, and you throw your heart and soul into it. But after a while, your muscles start to ache, all your 'umph' is gone, and you want to just lay down and go to sleep.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But the only way to get stronger is to push yourself through the aches and pains! Find that buzz of adrenaline in the back of your brain, exhale, and finish with everything you've got.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So here's a toast to New Years Resolutions before the new year begins! I don't know how many times I'm going to have to say it to myself before I listen to me: but I must force myself to write, or else forfeit part of who I am.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And that would be quite unfortunate.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Does anyone else feel as though they have lost their "groove"? Are there any other authors out there making New Years Resolutions to devote themselves more eagerly to their writing? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Let's hope that new life is born in our words as the new year begins!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Keep pressing on . . . </span></span>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-68506547580520186892011-12-16T14:15:00.001-05:002011-12-16T14:17:24.805-05:00Even More Poems In December<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Still, it hasn't snowed yet.</span> That's a good sign I suppose. Maybe we'll have a mild winter, and January and February won't be quite as depressing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Here's a poem I wrote a couple years ago, in the middle of the night. I love those moments. Yes, writing can be difficult sometimes, but, fortunately, we get those moments of sudden, inexplicable inspiration, too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">One more thing. Keep your eye out in the coming months - I'm planning to hold a contest after the holidays connected with poetry and imitation. The prizes will consist of full-color illustrations of your protagonist. So keep checking - contests will be coming soon!</span><span style="font-size: 20pt;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 20pt;">~</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 20pt;">Hope in Shadow</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Shick, Shack, watch your back,</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u167/thatgirlreallyloves/sadlookingoutthewindow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u167/thatgirlreallyloves/sadlookingoutthewindow.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The twisted dreams are turning black,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The drum of all the swirling shadows,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Come to meet us in the shallows,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> When the world is quiet.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Trin, Trun, time to run,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The shadows come when there's no sun,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The shouting of all the wicked sins,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Cannot be heard over their din,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> I cannot hide from it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Bim Boom, in my room,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Hiding from the impending doom,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">My sadness compels me to ask how,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">My tears my only comfort now,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> Darkness uninvited.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Hoop, Hope, prayers like soap,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Washing, tying, my dreams like rope,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">They lift me from the treacherous ground,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">They urge me on, I'm lost, I'm found,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> I will turn and face it,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> My weapon vanquish it,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> With HOPE I can win.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> 3/09 </span></div>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-42818118699368944752011-12-13T13:52:00.000-05:002011-12-13T13:52:16.993-05:00More Poems in December<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ah, yes.</span> It's getting colder. And any studying I have to do is getting more and more annoying. The holidays are creeping up. And poems keep coming. . .</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: x-large;">Stay Out Here</span> </span><br />
<a href="http://us.123rf.com/400wm/400/400/sirylok/sirylok1103/sirylok110300159/9217271-tangled-tree-branches-silhouette-and-overcast-winter-sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://us.123rf.com/400wm/400/400/sirylok/sirylok1103/sirylok110300159/9217271-tangled-tree-branches-silhouette-and-overcast-winter-sky.jpg" width="265" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Winter skies</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Tired eyes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Pink and blue</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Cold and true</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Silhouettes </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Old regrets</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Wash away</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">For today</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As the sky</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Says good-bye</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">To the sun</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Everyone</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Winter chill</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Christmas thrill</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Glow inside</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Old yuletide</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Carols sing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">New bells ring</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Lets stay here</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Finding cheer</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In the skies </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And good-byes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Winter tears</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Freezing fears</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">New-found joys</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Life enjoys</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Carols sung</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Stockings hung</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Winter skies</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Tired eyes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Go to sleep</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Winter deep.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I can't sleep</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Winter deep.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</span>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-45510174414432259102011-12-08T18:28:00.001-05:002011-12-09T22:11:43.655-05:00Poems in December<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">I've been writing a lot of poetry lately. <span style="font-size: large;">I guess I find December to be a poetic month.</span> Not in the way that you would think of spring or fall being poetic - more in it's own, unique sort of anticipation.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 18pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Here's <span style="font-size: large;">one poem</span>, which I'm sure many authors could identify with. I will be back with more shortly.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><a href="http://www.sciencephoto.com/image/5214/350wm/A5100289-Burning_paper-SPL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.sciencephoto.com/image/5214/350wm/A5100289-Burning_paper-SPL.jpg" width="196" /></a><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 18pt;">This Paper</span></div><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 18pt;"> </span> </blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">New journeys, new ventures, new things to behold:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Stories upon stories that nobody’s told,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Hearts are laid barren upon wasted slate.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Words, they pour forth, but they all come too late.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Too many times, as I wander here</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I have felt the cursed claws of fate.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">They dig and scratch and hold me back,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The passions of ambition crack.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Yearning to live, to help create -</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I am the one who I berate.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Life’s far away, once felt so near -</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Myself that I’ve begun to hate.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">What happened, when I used to write?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The words that fall like stars tonight</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And burn until I separate</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">From the world I infuriate.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My breath too shallow now to hear -</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My paper I incinerate. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Constantia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">This paper I incinerate.</span></div></blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
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</div>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-40704164922911397622011-12-06T00:08:00.000-05:002011-12-06T00:08:11.767-05:00Author's Secrets<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8q7bRLeQhE_cu4miZE9qJ3AZAWbaPVj0hzelbzC5ixyxeEozs0sanOeeG15ckX0POKddTceHfftX2iyBUCdGNCPmdJr6urQMY0-VKbTPU5HBGj5e24zb4sxhyphenhyphen9sRkt-3U9_Ue3Qj7cdoR/s400/shh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8q7bRLeQhE_cu4miZE9qJ3AZAWbaPVj0hzelbzC5ixyxeEozs0sanOeeG15ckX0POKddTceHfftX2iyBUCdGNCPmdJr6urQMY0-VKbTPU5HBGj5e24zb4sxhyphenhyphen9sRkt-3U9_Ue3Qj7cdoR/s320/shh.jpg" width="243" /></a>I don't know about you, but <span style="font-size: large;">I don't like to feel as if someone is hiding something from me.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Now, I don't mind secrets. Secrets are fun. Secrets are meant to be kept. But secrets are also <i>told</i>. They are whispered here and there, and I can grasp snippets of the truth, even if I'm kept guessing.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">But I hate it when someone <i>hides</i> something from me.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Do you know the feeling? When you're in the middle of a really great novel, disasters popping up left and right, slowly destroying the hero's world . . .<br />
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<i>And yet you can't escape the nagging feeling that something is being hidden from you.</i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It's an odd feeling, one that's hard to describe. If I could pick one word for it, I'd say 'contrived'. Or maybe even 'distanced'. You feel as though every character is held </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> ten feet</span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> away from you - even the hero - so that none of their reactions feel genuine or real. You're never quite sure what's going on inside their heads . . . but it's not because they are <i>reclusive</i> characters. The <i>characters</i> aren't keeping secrets. The characters <i>themselves</i> are secrets. It's almost as if they want to tell their story, but someone on the outside isn't letting them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">These sorts secrets are the fault of the author, not the character.</span> It's a nagging tendency, when I'm caught up in a really interesting idea, or an in-depth plot, or a fast-paced action scene, to loose the reality of the characters. I get too fixated on the story and so I refuse to let the story's characters be themselves. But, if I neglect to do that, then the story isn't really a story at all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Actually, though we say "a story<b>'s</b> characters" - if you think about it, the characters don't belong to the story. The story belongs to the characters. The events of the story are all contingent on what <i>they</i> decide to do, not what the author decides should happen. Without them, there would be no story. So it's best to let them do what they will, I think.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So, from now on, I'll be saying "the character's story", and I won't make them keep any secrets! </span> </div>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-59860926914662709242011-11-23T09:37:00.001-05:002011-12-06T00:11:08.039-05:00The First Few Words<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fun little things often come to me</span> in snippets of prose that never go anywhere. Beginnings of stories. Things that I'm not quite sure where they're running off to.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Like this, for instance:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Footlight MT Light","serif"; line-height: 115%;">“</span></span><span style="font-family: "Footlight MT Light","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The intricacy of her soul intrigued her.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Footlight MT Light","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">She sat, the bank of the river rising and falling beneath her as if it were a living beast. Or was the just the beating of her heart?</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Footlight MT Light","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“Bitz!”</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Footlight MT Light","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">She turned around.</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Footlight MT Light","serif"; line-height: 115%;">”</span></span></i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.britsattheirbest.com/images/f_magna_carta_riverbank_410.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://www.britsattheirbest.com/images/f_magna_carta_riverbank_410.gif" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Five sentences. Beginning of a character novel, I think. But who is the character? What does she <span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">want? What is she dreaming about? I don't know either.</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> But, fo</span>r some reason, lines like this pull at my heart. I want to know more about her. And the only way to do that is to write about her.</span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I know I'm shrugging. And sighing. And saying to myself "This will probably go nowhere." Hmm. <i>But it might be nice going nowhere for a little while.</i></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">. . . </span></i></span></div><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"></blockquote>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7234333947467420424.post-80805014620026653332011-11-21T10:46:00.001-05:002011-11-22T14:50:23.227-05:00Where a Story Begins . . .<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In my junior year of high school I used a program called </span><a href="http://www.oneyearnovel.com/" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">One Year Adventure Novel</a><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> to help me plug through my first novel. The finished result: 350 pages, 66,134 words of non-stop action.<span style="font-size: large;"> It's not called an <i>adventure novel</i> for nothing.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPwf0urTYx4ENH2lAIYUJfFPFLxkN3hU0K1VrC_JWJYKHFNTB24DkEOC0Ls5ZkCJSLXFG5RP_k2iVLj-PJ6-47YBZZaWOT6yj8ujtst65DnCWUzUo1ZgKX6wXEmDcAXVY1DGGo9b080SiE/s1600/Gracelynn+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPwf0urTYx4ENH2lAIYUJfFPFLxkN3hU0K1VrC_JWJYKHFNTB24DkEOC0Ls5ZkCJSLXFG5RP_k2iVLj-PJ6-47YBZZaWOT6yj8ujtst65DnCWUzUo1ZgKX6wXEmDcAXVY1DGGo9b080SiE/s320/Gracelynn+4.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Death. Captivity. Revolution. Betrayal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;">One girl, enslaved to herself, trying to free her world from the twisted snares of her uncle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I love my manuscript, raw and real as it is. I would love to see it cradled by a loving hardcover binding.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But I had to remind myself where this novel came from. It was an un-formed idea floating around in my head until I learned how to set it down in an orderly way. Chapter by chapter, character by character, disaster by disaster, dilemma by dilemma, plot twist by plot twist . . . <span style="font-size: large;">I learned how to tell as story.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But now I have to remind myself where a story really begins! Since finishing my novel, every time I've gotten inspired by a new idea, I've found myself falling into the rigidity of a step-by-step process.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">That process was brilliant to help me learn, to help me plug through, to help me finish. But now I have to remember - <span style="font-size: large;">a story begins as a free-form idea.<span style="font-size: small;"> The rest has to flow from there. Keep the structure that you learned in the back of your mind to guide you, but let your ideas take their own course, instead of trying to shove them into an ordered list of steps.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Am I alone in this "need" for a step by step? Does anyone else ever feel that they rely too much on an ordered structure to write? Has anyone else had their inspiration sucked out by a step-by-step structure, or lost their love for writing because they constrict themselves?</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am in the midst of brainstorming for <a href="http://visionforum.com/browse/2012/">The Vision Forum Family Catalog 2012</a> short story contest. I refuse to let myself become constricted by a structure! Let the story come as it may come. </span></span></span>Miranda Hajdukhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12375606816133147017noreply@blogger.com3