“Chance! Missy!” I heard for the back door, my poppop yelling, “Get in here!” The screen door screeching behind him as the dogs followed in front. The sun, shining through the back screen door, leaving the heavier, first door, wide open. My older brother and I, watching 90s game shows in my pop pop’s dark blue, velvet-feeling recliner with our little brother sitting in between us. A calm Chincoteague, Virginia setting sun in our peripheral vision, with voices and steps in the background. I’m more interested to overhear the background, than what is playing on the television. “Cash!” I hear, “Get over here!” Thinking, to myself, who’s Cash? “Dad!” I heard my aunt say from the living room, his name is Chance!” Hearing my family laugh amongst themselves in the other room, I decided to get up and join them. I see my grandfather having an ice cold glass of Pepsi given to him by my grandmother, sitting in an upright rocking chair, grabbing, the drink from her hands with a subtle, “thank you” given to her. His hands shaking, bringing it up to his lips, always wondering, why his hands would always shake like that? Later to find out it was his Essential Tremors. Admiring this view of him, sitting next to my mother’s side, with the huge air vent in the floor, behind him, separating the bathroom for the living room. It hurting like hell to step on it barefoot.
May 2nd, 2006. One of my aunts, (that i’m closest with) pulls into my driveway in the afternoon, with her friend in the passenger seat. “Hi Aunt Chris!” “Not now, where’s your mother?” I was taken aback by this, since she usually greets with me with a more loving tone in her voice. I tell her that my mother was on the third floor of the house, taking care of my little brother. She races up the stairs, and has my mommom who lives with us, follow her up the stairs. (It may help if I explain the story of my family a little more. My mommom and my poppop were married and had two kids, my aunt Chris, and my mom, Robyn. They were divorced after some time, but my mom never remarried. He had a kid with another woman, as well as another woman. You can say he got around a bit! He then got married for the second time, in a different state with my mommom Gail, having two kids, Heather and Michelle. So in total, I have 7 aunts, but two of them live in virginia.) My aunt’s friend, Stephanie, took me into another room on the second floor of the house, in my parents bedroom. All of a sudden I heard incredible screeches from the room above me, saying,”Oh my God” “Why” “Why God, why?” and all around just pure screams coming from that room. I start panicking. When you hear your mom in such a state of hysteric, you automatically think the worst, My mind went straight to my dad. He is a police officer in the City of Chester. Where is he? He went to work didn’t he? Why is he not back? Is he okay? Did he get shot and killed? He must of. I think my dad is dead. I start crying a great deal of emotion, screaming and crying. However, I’m still very greatful to this day, that Stephanie, who was with me, reassured me that my dad was okay and alive. My mom called both me and my brother up to the room upstairs. I left Stephanie's side and bolted up the stairs to see my mom. I look around the basketball themed room with the slanted roof, and I see my aunt, my mom, and my mom with blotchy faces and tears dried on their faces. My mom sat me down on her lap, and carefully explained to me that poppop had a heart attack earlier that night and died suddenly. I couldn’t help to be relieved that it wasn’t my own dad,but hearing that your pop pop had died was not something you want to hear either. I started crying, immediately questioning the how and whys? The funeral was lead up to the front door, by a fake looking grass ramp. Staring it down uncomfortably as my mother explained to me, with tear strained eyes that, “pop pop's body is going to look like he is sleeping in a box, but he is up in heaven forever now.” Me and my cousins stayed in the car at the burial, but was forced to come out of the car at the last bit, because he loved his grandkids so much, he would've wanted it that way. This was the first day I ever saw my dad cry. As I write this, with tears slowly making its way down my face, I remember the memories of that house and the screen door that annoyed me to no end and how it would never shut all the way, would become a memory that won’t ever leave my mind. “Snake eyes! Snake eyes! My poppop would yell, as he taught all of his grandchildren, very patiently might I add, the game of Monopoly. Never having any of the fat pieces off of a steak on my plate, because he would eat them all, as well as everyone else's! His giant round belly, his slightly balding head. Not letting any of his grandchildren leave without, “giving poppop a hug”and telling us he loves us. I yearn for the days back of having him around again, hearing his voice again. Needing to know what his voice sounds like again, but having only certain phrases I can put his voice to. Chincoteague Island is a very special place for me. That was an annual excuse to go see my poppop and his family around the same time as the annual pony swim that we went to every year. I desperately yearn for the togetherness that my poppop bought when all of his families were together. The only thing we all had in common was him. I definitely feel like I took for granted the time I had with him and what he did for our family as a whole. It is not the same anymore and I’ll never get that time back again, to re-experience it but only be left with the memories of him and our families being brought together.
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A yearning for a home that you can’t find again. A hiraeth. The first thing that came to my mind is this feeling in my past friendships to when I was younger. It started out that my older brother and his best friend, convinced each other to do things that one of them did, like playing hockey. They starting slowing bringing more and friends around the house that they made while playing this sport. It eventually turned into four to five guys coming over, some even staying past five o’clock in the morning. Having nerf wars, going to hockey games, hanging out in the pool. Each of them meeting me at different times, but they slowly morphed into one big group of friends, that included me. I slowly became part of that group, and I enjoyed every second of it. However, as most friend groups, there is drama and friction occurs. My brother and his best friend no longer stay in contact as much. However, since knowing him since they were in kindergarten, he still semi stays in contact with the family. As for the other guys, they all disappeared from the group, even one moved to Colorado! Broke my heart that such an amazing friend group, who used to be so close, don’t even stay in contact anymore. I yearn for that friendship back. Things are not even close to being the same, it gets very awkward when we accidentally see each other at a hockey game or when our mutual friend from Colorado comes back in town. We each hang out with him separately, rather than all together again. I spent my High school years with these boys almost every week, for it all to be a memory I crave to get back. We aren’t the same people who we used to be. Now? We’re just strangers to each other, with memories that won’t ever fade. My little brother plays hockey every day now. He is quite good at it actually. It's just a mixed emotion going to his games, knowing what started his love for the sport in the first place.
Hiraeth? What the hell is a Hiraeth? I can’t be the only one who said this outloud when they saw the word. What do you do when you don’t know a word? Google it! Of course not without trying to guess first. I thought it was some Greek tradition that was done in some religion. How embarrassingly wrong I was! A Hiraeth is basically a connection you feel for your home, or hometown that never was. Kind of like a longing or yearning for that overwhelming happiness you feel about a certain place or thing that never existed, but wishing it did.
The first thing I thought of that could possibly be a Hiraeth, that people can easily relate to, is the classic place from Peter Pan’s world, Neverland. How often do we wish we could go to Neverland with Peter Pan, The Lost Boys, Tink, and Jane? Forget about growing up. “Let's go to Neverland and Never come back until forever ends.” A yearning to experience a land that doesn’t even exist. “The second star to the right”, gives people an idea when they look up to the sky and try to picture, Neverland, when they look up to the sky and see, “The second star to the right.” Inspiration in writing and the different styles of writing come from many different shapes, forms, and techniques. For example, In the article, ‘6 ways to be a productive Hemingway-level badass,’ written by Drake Baer, shows how one of the greatest writers in the world, shows his techniques in his ability to write. From using standing desks only, writing his thoughts out first on paper, to getting up at 6 o’clock in the morning, every morning and devote his time purely to writing. In his own words, Hemingway states, “There is no one to disturb you and it is cool or cold and you come to your work and warm as you write.”
How can you create fiction when reality comes to call? An article that Carolyn Chute wrote about the struggles an author goes through writing a story, when she is trying to cope with living her everyday life. She shows the process of wanting, craving to write, but her family life, social life, and just life in general, things need to be done, and it’s hard going from one life to the other and having the time to sit down and actually get into the creative process of writing. Reading the article that Carolyn Chute wrote, showed me more of the distractions that comes along with trying to write as a college student. Setting aside time to do homework or just even attending school, doesn’t actually mean that’s what you will be doing in that time. We have a generation where it is hard to write a paper and have a tab open on an “untitled document” and not have a social media platform on another tab. Constantly, clicking back to every time you get bored or would rather watch a youtube video. Distractions come in many different ways as a college student. Social media distraction is a big one, but say you can control that. What about the things you can’t control? Such as work, kids, other obligations, stuff happens, things come up. Could I become a better writer? Of course! I always think there is room for improvement in everything a person can do. So I created a list of six things I can do to prepare myself to become a better writer for the future:
LNIK TO "WHY I WRITE" BELOW Have you ever questioned an author about why they write? Probably sounds like a silly question. That's like asking why does a chef, cooks? Why does a teacher, teach? Has an author ever question themselves about why they write? Especially writing about it for the world to see? Of course! Joan Didion is a perfect example for an extravagant author like herself, for telling the world, “Why I write.” She writes down in this descriptive work, some of the concepts or inspirations, as to why she writes. She says in her story about how she “simply became a writer.” “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear. “ She pictures writing a novel with just a two-picture duo in her mind. She first pictures things without thinking of any characters or plot, just a blank page, for her readers. Something that the reader would have to see for themselves reading her work. The second picture was for something that she actually saw in her mind. Didion describes that what she sees, doesn’t mean it necessarily happens. She would use images in her mind that she would pass off as inspirations of the things around her, such as an airport. People passing by her everyday, for several years, knowing each person has their own story, she would make up stories in her mind of what that person is doing there and where their journey will continue afterwards. She finishes off her explanation of why she writes with saying, “Let me tell you one thing about why writers write: had I known the answer to any of these questions I would never have needed to write a novel.”
Now the question is, why do I write? I’m not an author, I’m not an English major. Why do I write? I guess the answer to that is because I have to. I understand the benefits of writing though. When I was younger, I was always fascinated by the thought process of songwriters. I never understood the concepts of books and why it took so long to tell a story, when a song writer could do it in a matter of 3-4 minutes, depending on the song. I remember trying to write songs when I was a child, but the process was too difficult for me, still is. I have a major respect for people who can accomplish this. The way they can captivate people into listening to the relatable stories and even using their own stories to captivate both emotion through the ears instead of the eyes by reading. Listen with the ears and not with the eyes. |
Melanie
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