Fire

Fire

Twisting, shimmering

glowing

Ethereal, eternal

but abrupt

Life giving, nourishing

but destructive

Protective and illuminating

but dangerous all the same

I am the element of contradiction

Why We Write

Why do we write? Sometimes I ask myself why. Like, why do I perform an art form where most of the results will never be seen by anyone but me? Why? Why not just read or find something more seemingly deserving of my time.
Because I have to.
I go through periods where the words won't come, where the worlds I create fall flat or my vision of a character fails to happen.
But I continue onward.
We write for the same reason the basketball player who has never gotten a basket continues to shoot the ball. We write the same way the swimmer practices their strokes day after day after day. We write the same way a singer sings the same note over and over again in a succession of melodies hoping to hit the right one.
Writing is a lifestyle that one does as often as they need. It's a need to put down words and a need to get the thoughts and questions we have out of our head.
Some need to write like they're running a marathon, others write like they're running out of time, or the last group writes so infrequently that you forget they partake in the hobby.
Every writer has a different view of it. But we all fall under the same umbrella. We're writers.

The Queen of Light, Coronation Day

An excerpt from an original short story based on my current work in progress. Enjoy~ - Alyssa

“Roselyn.” Knock knock. “It’s time to get up, my lady.”

I groan as I pull the covers further over my head, burying my face deeper in the fabric. Maybe if I pretend to be asleep he’ll go away. Unfortunately for me, Maion is persistent. His stacked shoes mimic a horse’s as he clops across my room. Just let me sleep old man. He pries my hands off the covers and tugs them toward him, throwing them over his shoulder. His famous smile is painted on his narrow face. As usual his white hair is slicked back with far too much gel. A spotless white suite is his attire of choice. Baby blue eyes peer down at me with annoyance.

“Rise and shine,” he orders, his voice drier and plainer than a saltine cracker.

I moan and roll onto my stomach to avoid his rays of judgement.  

“I don’t wanna…” I grumble. I’m definitely not a morning person. It’s a daily battle getting me up and ready in a timely fashion. I’m grouchier than a bear and more stubborn than a mule. Frankly, it would be easier to negotiate with a brick wall. And it might even care more than I do.

“You must.” His tone is stern. “If this were any other day I’d let you sleep until noon.”

I have to keep myself from snorting. That’s a lie and you know it, Maion.

“But,” he continues. “You know today is an important day.”

Damn, it’s here already? I didn’t realize how fast it had come. I almost forgot about it. My insides twist as my heart slams against my ribcage. I sit up so fast I almost fall face first onto the floor.

Maion continues to stand over me.  His smile is replaced with a thin pink line. “Be downstairs for breakfast in ten minutes. Don’t bother getting dressed. Iofel will be up with your dress to help you get ready.” He’s pleased enough with his efforts. Quickly he turns and exits, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

I sigh. He’s such a pain. I go over to the vanity and begin to brush my tangled while curls. You heard right: white. Don’t ask why. All angels have white hair, that I know of. So, no, Maion’s not elderly, he’s an angel, like me. He’s technically my butler, though he likes the title “assistant” better. Maion’s my right hand man. He practically raised me all on his own since my parents are no longer around. He’s one of the most intelligent people I know, the same one who taught my mother when she was my age. The maids tell me he used to be a lot more carefree and kind back then. But her death hit him hard; even harder than it hit me. His heart turned to stone. He’s been trying to make me just like her. He has a special place in my heart and to my family. I wish he wasn’t so uptight all the time, though. Makes him so much harder to love and appreciate.

Of course, I’m an angel too. But not just any angel; I’m the Queen of Angels, or more commonly known as the Queen of Light. Well, technically I’m not Queen yet. Today is my eighteenth birthday, as well as the day of my coronation. The Kingdom of Light, where I, along with all the other angels, live, hasn’t had a King or Queen since I was born. Maion told me once about how my parents went off to do some field work in the mortal world. They were going to help spread peace to human towns. Sadly, a band of demons brutally murdered them, leaving me as their only heir. I was barely a year old when it happened. That’s why I’m not allowed to leave the castle. Maion doesn’t want to risk losing the last member of the Lux-Aeterna royal family, humanity’s “eternal light.”

But it’s so boring here day in and day out. It’s the same routine: fight with to get up, eat breakfast, classes with Maion, which include how to act like a lady and be a proper ruler. In between we have a snack or two before eating dinner and praying before bed. To any of you out there who want to be a princess or Queen or royalty or whatever: it isn’t as easy as it seems. I’ve trained my whole life for this one day, the day where I’ll have to step up and rule and entire kingdom.  Becoming a Queen at age eighteen will increase my responsibilities a thousand fold. I can feel it now. I wish I only had to worry about which boys liked me and if my makeup was on point.

I can’t believe Maion only gave me ten minutes to get ready. He knows it takes me at least twenty to brush my hair alone. It’s gotten so long it touches the back of my thighs. My bangs, on the other hand, constantly hide my eyes, making me look more childish. I don’t even look an adult much less fee like one; and I’m light years away from a Queen. My face is round with baby cheeks. My sapphire eyes still have an innocent shimmer to them that suggest I never left the house. I have no defined curves or feminine qualities at all. I don’t look at all how royalty should. It doesn’t help that Maion reminds me of how “un-queenly” my appearance is.

Sigh. Just yesterday I was an innocent princess, but overnight I was supposed to blossom into a knowledgeable Queen. That’s all I ever hear. “Study hard now so you can be a great ruler later.” “No, you can’t leave the castle. It’s dangerous.” “Think of what your parents would do before you act.” How the hell am I supposed to know what my parents would do? Sure, Maion has shown me pictures of them, telling me how great rulers they were, especially my mother. They didn’t raise me, so how would I know how to rule an entire kingdom? I feel like I have no qualities of either of them. Both were kind and thoughtful, putting others needs ahead of their own. I, however, am a rebellious troublemaker who will go out of the way to trip a Maion with a heavy tray rather than help him carry it. The only thing I have is their eyes. Like them, mine resemble the ocean: deep, mysterious, and can turn from raging to calm in a matter of minutes. 

Writer's Block

Writer’s Block, that time in every writer's life when they simply can’t put anything down on paper. The words don’t flow. Inspiration plays hide and seek with your brain. You fear your story will never be written. I understand. Though it may seem like I’m productive and all, I actually procrastinate with writing more than half the time.

The reason I want to talk about this issue early is because it’s one of the toughest hurdles to jump being a writer. To some, ideas cascade like a waterfall in their mind. Their world is as vast and endless as their imagination. The problem: they don’t know how to describe it all on paper. The words don’t come as easily as their ideas. I know a lot about that. I struggled as a writer for the longest time. My ideas were endless, but how I’d write them were a constant problem. Blank pages glared at me for hours. How would I ever start my story?

So what did I do? I read any book I could get my hands on, absorbing its sweet knowlege in my brain. I watched television and movies, paying careful attention to their good and bad points. I observed how others behaved and how their actions affected others. To me, all of this was the key to be a good writer. And it actually worked. Books taught me how to write; the styles I liked and the ones I didn’t. Popular fandoms helped me see what people wanted out of a story, as well as what they didn’t want. People showed me how to make my own characters more organic and less robotic.  

The key to being a good writer is to be a good observer. If you know life works together the story will feel real to the reader. However, this method of learning isn’t always easy. What do you look for? What’s right and what’s not? How do i know if I’m observing the right things? That’s the beauty of writing; there’s no right or wrong way. Writing is a personal art. It adapts to the person writing it. A story is unique to it’s creator. No two stories are alike (that’s plagiarism!).

The most important thing to do when you have writer’s block is to write no matter what. No matter how bad it sounds on paper, any draft is progress; any progress is better than none. So relax. Don’t worry about how it sounds or compares to others. Everyone can improve and everyone can revise and edit. Take your time. Writing is not a marathon.  

ONce you get past writer’s block your work won’t become a chore. It’ll be enjoyable. That’s how it is for me. And that’s how writing is supposed to be.

So smile. You and your story are both unique. Don’t write it for others, for their approval, write for your own. Because self gratification and hard work means more than words can describe.

What does it mean to be a Writer?

“How can I possibly be a writer?”

“I’m not as good as others.”

“I’m too young to write.”

“My writing isn’t going where I want it.”

“Writer’s block has me stuck.”

“Should I just give up?”

“What’s the point if I’ll never be published?”

We’ve all thought or heard these before. Being a writer isn’t easy, but even more so when you’re a teen writer. I’ve been a writer ever since I could pick up a pencil. Trust me, one of the hardest parts is overcoming the negative view of being a teen/young writer. But I’m here to tell you that you’re never too old or too young to write. Adult writers may seem intimidating and more knowledgeable about the world, which is only true because they’ve lived longer than us. But this by no means makes them a better writer. Being part of multiple writers groups, I talk to adult writers on a daily basis. Some are very good writers while some have only just started. Though I’m young, barely an adult, some of my writing can surpass that of an adult writer. The reason? I’ve been writing my whole life and working on my current work in progress, Queen of Light, for about seven years now.  It is by no means perfect, but my work ethic is that of an adult; that’s all that matters.

Let’s take a step back for a moment. You may be asking yourself: “How can overcome writer's block?” “How can I compete with other writers?” “What if I can’t write very well?” The solution: write. It’s that simple. A draft is a draft no matter the quality. Many writers can’t find the motivation to write. And if you can get something down on the paper you’re ahead of the game. As long as you can get your story out you’re already doing better than some; there’s always time for editing later. And if you absolutely can’t think of what to write or how to start, just take your story and imagine hypothetical situations with the characters. It may not seem like much, but taking this time to explore your world is very important. If it is underdeveloped it adds to the frustration of not being able to write. But there’s no rush. I know how you feel. “How great would it be to be published before I’m 18?” It’s a nice thought and all, but the reality is some can do it and some can’t. I’ve accepted that it won’t be true for me, but I keep writing. Why? Because no matter what age I am I’m a writer. There’s a story in me that needs to get out. And there’s a story in each and every teen writer too, and they are just as meaningful and important as one inside an adult writer.

Believe it or not, being a teen writer is actually better than being an adult writer at times. Though we have less experience, we have more time and at this age our imaginations are one of the most active. I’ve found this to be true. Over the years my imagination has only expanded, allowing me to rework my story and add fix problems. So even if you’re simply thinking about a story you’re doing something right. You have all the time in the world to write. Don’t stress about word count or publishing, they can sometimes be distracting.

Now, you may have an idea for a story, but you’re not sure how to work it. What should you do? Ask for help of course! It’s easy. If you have a close friend or teacher or parent ask them to look it over. Having unbiased eyes, eyes of someone who doesn’t write, is a big help. They won’t nit pick at the details, they’ll be looking for how the story works as a whole. And if you have that you’ve already made the skeleton for your story; fleshing it out is easy from there. And if they tell you they don’t like it, don’t get discouraged. It might not be their cup of tea; they could prefer a different genre. But show more than one person so you get a more well rounded opinion. And if there’s a similar point from all, you know what to fix. It’s very important to get opinions of potential readers, to see what people want to read. I’m not saying write to appease popular demand, but sometimes the opinions of the mass are important to think about when writing. The point isn’t to make them happy though, it’s to make yourself happy. But for those who want to be published, public opinion may weigh more heavily.

And what’s the real goal here? Sure, it would be nice to be published and famous, but that’s not why anyone should write. You should write because it’s fun, because you want to. If writing becomes a chore you won’t want to do it anymore. That’s what I do. I write short stories and poetry in addition to my novels. Not for hopes of being published, but because it’s fun to write. It can even be addicting at times. But fact of the matter is, you, yes you, can do it. You can write that novel. You can be amazing. It can be hard at times, and you might want to quit. Take it from someone who’s thought about throwing their story away many times; it’s hard to quit once you start. For me, I just couldn’t abandon the world I created. Something about it pulled me back. And yours can do the same.

Writing isn't throwing words on paper hoping they’ll all make sense. It’s an art. Using the heart, mind, and soul to transport readers to another world. Writing is important to me, and I’m sure it is to many of you as well. It’s been there for me when I was lonely and made me feel like I was good at something. So push through the struggles; you can do it. I’m still here, writing, and so will you. Never give up. Someone out there needs your story. Even if I only have one fan I will always write. So don’t be so hard on yourself; don’t compare yourself to older and more experienced writers. You can only be you. Work at your own pace. You will be truly great, but it takes time. You’ll see yourself make progress. That’s the best feeling in the world. Keep writing. If you’re truly a writer your heart will know. It will never let you throw away something you’ve worked so hard on. So go out and share your story. The world needs it.  

The Wild Hunt

An answer to Kristian's opening sentence prompt...

❄ ❄ ❄

When the moon turned blood red she knew. The Wild Hunt had started. The howls of the Sidhe’s hounds chilled Brighid’s blood. She quickly stamped out the meager fire she had just managed to kindle. “If they catch me, what will I become?”

The wind felt like thousands of knives pricking her skin. She ran the short distance to her shelter, managing to trip over the fire wood. She slammed the thin wooden door and slid down the rough surface. The entire structure of the hovel was shaking as the pounding of hooves became thunderous. The shadows on the walls seemed to be dancing and advancing towards her.

She heard the hunting horn and the whoops of the riders. The hounds were yelping in excitement. They had locked onto prey. Something slammed into the door and began scratching at it. Brighid let out a whimper. She heard the crunching of hooves on the fallen leaves. Her nails bit into her palms as she tried her best to stay silent. “There’s nothing here boy.” It was a female’s voice. “Come on, let’s rejoin the hunt.” Brighid held her breath until the sound of galloping faded away. She swiped away the tears that were streaming down her face. Every scenario of why the girl didn’t even try to open the door raced through her mind. Then she heard a piercing shriek and understood. They found somebody else. Another screech pierced the forest and then came the melodious chanting that used to be so soothing. It now caused her to tremble uncontrollably.      

Silence.

Brighid was frozen in place and the only thing she could hear was the pounding of her heart in her ears. Is it over? She raked her pale and shaking hand through her cinnamon hair. She blinked away the tears and let out a breath, “I’m safe,” she whispered. She slowly stood, feeling like a newborn foal. She brushed off the dirt from her roughspun skirt and peaked through the window. There were glittering flakes of white falling in the obsidian night, the first snow of the season. “It’s over.” She fell to her knees in relief, barely noticing the cold breeze that tickled her neck.

“Is it?” It was a male’s voice and sent a spike of ice down her spine. Brighid watched as the window began to frost over. The layers became thicker and thicker until the ice became opaque and she was forced to confront her unwanted companion.

He was swathed in a white cloak of animal fur which almost matched his skin tone. His black hair seemed to be tipped with frost. He was surrounded by a ring of ice that all of the other ice in the room seemed to emanate from. Brighid knew exactly who he was. He was the Winter King.

“M-my lord.” Despite the cold she was sweating.

He had his head cocked and was examining her like she was a stock animal up for auction. “A decent addition, I guess.” His voice was deep. He withdrew a flask and slunk towards Brighid, “Open up.”

Brighid finally found her voice, “Wait! I can be useful. Much more useful in this form.” She started laughing nervously.

He rose an eyebrow. “How?”

“I know what the humans are planning. I know where they are planning to strike.”

“How.”

“I’m easily ignored and when they do notice me, they assume that i don’t understand what they’re talking about. Changelings, after all, are perhaps the least valued denizens of my village.”  Her back hit the wall.

The Sidhe lifted the sapphire flask to her lips. “I’m sure that information will be quite valuable, after you drink.” Brighid sealed her lips together and the Sidhe’s brow knitted together, “It’s only winter wine.” His cold finger trailed down her cheek.

“Winter wine,” Brighid murmured. A bad move because as soon her mouth opened he poured the wine down her throat. It felt like her veins had been flooded with ice water.

The Sidhe smiled. “Welcome to the ranks of the Sidhe. I do hope you will be as useful as you promised.” Brighid’s vision became fuzzy. “It’s time to enter your new life.”

Her world dissolved into thousands of swirling snowflakes.

Who Am I?

Who am I?  A question I have pondered for the longest time; one many others have asked as well. Identity has been something I've struggled with for almost my entire life, but now I think I have an answer.
My name is Alyssa and I'm a freshman biology major from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Ever since I could pick up a pencil I've been a writer. The one I remember writing about two rival fairies fighting to be queen of all the fairy children; I was eight years old.  Back then I only wrote for fun. It wasn't until I was twelve that I began to take writing seriously. I had two other writer friends. We all wrote a collaborative fan fiction that consisted of multiple fandoms. It was enjoyable at first, but as our story progressed I realized I was the only one who had their own characters and plot. The concept of using another world made me uneasy. So what did I do? I started my own story with my own ideas and characters. 
Back then I had no direction. The plot was everywhere. My characters were static. Over the years I've improved tremendously. The little story that started out as a creative outlet is now a full blown novel. Though the plot and characters have changed more times than I can count, this story is my child. It's called Queen of Light, a young adult fantasy that sets to redefine the fantasy genre and its capabilities.

My story is by no means perfect, but after almost seven years of working on it, most of the big issues have been sorted out. My story and writing have come such a long way. It's incredible to look back at the beginning of my journey to see how much I've improved. I've even entered writing contests for with the short stories I've written. This past year I got first place in one held by a local college. 
Now I even mentor other teen writers. Nobody taught me how to write or edit; I taught myself. And I'm grateful that God has given me such a talent. So I use what I know to help those who struggled as I did all those years ago. I'm by no means a perfect writer, I just do my best. I hope my experiences and guidance can make a difference in the lives of writers and readers everywhere. 
Keep writing, my friends. I know you can achieve great things.   

 

 

Prompt for Madison

One of my favorite parts of writing is the first sentence. First sentences can draw in a reader. So Madison, I want you to write a story or poem that starts with this phrase.

The Bang

An origin story. It was tricky to think of a beginning. The beginning of what? A world, a character? It hit me yesterday, and it happened. -Kristian

It started with a bang. 

Not a big bang, by any means. It was more of a hand half heartedly hitting the wall type of bang. A bang that ushers in winter compared to spring.

Markee Owens slid into the world on the newly mopped floor of the Acres High girl’s bathroom.

Feebe’s last priority had been finishing this last floor, this last bathroom. She was a thick girl, with her hair tied back in a severe ponytail that stretched her pale skin and gave the skin around her green eyes premature crow’s feet.  She was well past high school but still young enough to be figuring out what she wanted. She wore old, worn sneakers and loose tan pants and a once loose button up. She’d gained plenty of weight in her stomach the last couple of months, and yet no one asked. 

Feebe had just continued trucking on, rolling out of her small twin bed, shuffling in the morning into the bathroom, often hunched over the toilet puking. A new step in her morning routine. No one asked how she felt. No one asked if she’d seen the doctor. No one asked who the father was. No one asked if she was pregnant.

So she convinced herself that the night never happened. That the brief and intense happiness had never occurred. It’d been a dream.

Until her shirt tightened. 

Until her sick spells became more than a cold, more than a sudden virus or infection. 

That’s when the doctor came into play. And the news was spelled out in clear letters. Pregnant.

Feebe had just finished mopping, as if she knew inside, the inside you hid from, that her contractions and birth would speed up at such a rate that the bathroom would serve as the newborn’s first exposure to the world.  She prided herself on her cleaning speed: bending over, whipping that hand towel into nooks and crannies, and catching the smallest debris.

Now those hands held a newborn baby that was staring at her through slitted eyes, mouth open with no scream. 

That night had really happened. Her calloused fingers brushed over the baby’s wet skin, stopping at the pointed ears. Larger and more shapely than human ears.

That's what one gets when meddling with nonhumans. 

Markee continued to stare at her mother in a quiet, nonhuman fashion, like she was staring at prey.

Feebe brushed off the dread, remembering the brown eyes, lean muscle and soft voice of Markee's father. Everything would be okay. 

Feebe stood up, looking down at the mess she’d have to clean up, and began what she knew best. Cleaning. This time her own flesh and blood.

I Blame The Toast

I've been bad and have been avoiding the origin story. I started it, but currently the background of my world is still in progress. So here's a short story that's a moment between two characters. *hopefully*-Kristian

I Blame The Toast

What was to be said of it? Nothing. Nothing was the state of avoiding, where I let the waves of frustration and anger flow over me, as I entered the void of just being. The images of what I would say, how my body would move seemed so real that I could imagine my nails digging into my palms. But after each discovery I never felt the gratifying pain.

What was to be said? Everything. But everything would cause change, and change would be uncomfortable.

So I moved around the annoyance, brushing off the chip of steam that rose within me. The gifts just large enough to be noticed and small enough for Jem to forget to hide. The need to scream grew within me like a kettle but I swallowed the unsaid words.

But I was always alone, never with anyone for the steam to be directed towards. It was always an item, or a note. Something small.

Until today.

He did it.

The toast was in the oven instead of the toaster. We had a toaster for a reason. I stepped into the kitchen, the tension heavy on my tongue and a veil across my body.

The steam was rising. He had on the watch she bought for him, including the shoes that he bought after receiving her money.

“So. The toaster wasn’t good enough?” I said.

Jem looked up,the rush of oven heat reddening  his cheeks. A slow smirk spread on his face, and his green eyes moved from my face down past my sweatshirt, yoga pants, and finally my shoes. I was wearing everything that I had bought myself thank you very much.

He brushed his black hair from his face. “I tried this at a place and I liked the flavor better.”

I tapped my nails on the counter, tap tap tap. Tap for his ‘place’. Tap for liking the freaking flavor better there. Tap for him not knowing that I knew he was having an affair..

“Oh, the flavor was better,” I said.

He smiled, nodding. He caught my eyes and then squinted for a second before the smile disappeared and turned into a frown. Frowns looked like bad photoshop on him.

He moved past me, and retrieved a plate.

“Yes, the flavor was much better, so I thought I’d try it here,” he said.”What’s wrong?”

I moved to the opposite side of the counter, grabbed my coffee,  and sat down in my chair. I combed my fingers through my thick hair, staring at the black refrigerator that clanked from making ice, and the first picture we’d snapped of each other at New Years years ago. She had been there then.

“Well, I don’t know Jem. Maybe use the equipment we bought to use,” I snapped. “We bought a toaster for toast, just as we brought an oven to---”

“Stop. I wanted to experiment and see if the toast would taste better,” he calmly cut me off.

His fingers touched the toast, the butter bright and yellow and greasy. The edges were a golden brown. Jem took a bite and smiled. “Tastes just like I knew it would.”

I pulled a handful of grapes and smashed them into my mouth. They tasted sour, but I didn’t let it show.

“You’re off today,” I said.

Jem looked at me and began to nod but stopped. “Ye-no. No I am not. I must work to bring honor to the family.”

He laughed. A loud belly laugh while also waving around the second piece of toast. I wanted to trip him to wipe the smirk off of his face. Honor to the family? Were we in Disney now?

“Whatever.” I said, and got up.

Jem ate the second piece of toast with loud chompy chewing. The worst liars were the ones who thought they had everyone fooled. And Jem fit that well.

She and I looked completely different. I was tall, with a bush of black hair and moderate sized body. My eyes were hazel with flecks of grey. Jem said that I was caught up in my head, and only spoke when words needed spoken. We were barely out of college and he couldn’t control himself already. She was in our friend circle. Her, with a sweet smile, slim body and humor that would rival a comedian. And she had baked me cookies. The nerve.

I turned to him, slamming my cup into the sink. “I know.”

Prompt

There was...what?

My favorite mythology (both historical and fictional) systems have incredibly interesting origin stories. This is the one story that the rest of the world's theology, morals, ect is built on.

So Kristian, my prompt for you is to create an origin story.

Wind

I am among you

darting among the trees

glinting green

dancing among the pink petals

I carry the sweet scent of new life

I carry the laughter and smell of salt

the revelry of the sun

I provide cool relief to the farmer

who works the land, our mother

to provide nourishment

Caw! Caw! My friend the crow cries

as I support his wings

when he flies among the harvesters

making the little girl giggle

as she picks her pumpkin

The trees whip as I weave between them

I leave shimmering white in my wake

in this I am cursed

by those who do not appreciate icy beauty

I am the storm

I am the cool relief

on a hot day

I am the blizzard

I am free

Who Am I?

Before I answer the whole who am I question, let me first say, who am I not?
I am whoever I choose to be and I will give you the most realistic internet version of myself.  Although the internet allows us to remake ourselves into the version we'd like everyone to think we are, I don't want to do that. I say the most realistic version because everything will not be happy and outlandishly unrealistic. I'm human, and I'll try my best to project me.
So. Who am I?
My name is Kristian and I love to read across the genres. I also love horses and enjoy being around them. I collect the miniature plastic variety.
I'm a college student who's still trying to figure out her place in the world. My life plans change like the weather. It's stayed pretty consistent and is circling around two varying subjects: art and english. I decided that art would be my hobby and english a possible career choice. I don't know what I'll do with my English degree. It is yet to be seen, but I'll figure it out soon.
I choose another writing blog because I want to write more and find my voice. I want to breathe life into characters and actually finish their journey. This blog will be full of stories that Madison and I write. Our artwork will be intermingled in between posts and sometimes we'll talk about books too. This blog is for the art of writing. Sometimes we will give prompts to each other or write from our own inspiration.
I'm hoping when I look back at past stories posted here, down the road, I'll say to myself, "Hey Kristian, look how far you've come. Look at how you've improved."

Who I Am...

Let's start with the basics. My name is Madison and I'm a college student. I'm currently pursuing a degree in Art Education. What will I do with it (Yes! There is other options then teaching K-12)? Well, I'm currently torn between classroom education and museum education.  Nature and mythology are my main inspirations in both my art and writing. To me the way how the elements of the world interact is fascinating.

Like Kristian, I'm writing to find and perfect my voice. You will find me posting poetry quite often. It was one of the first forms of creative writing I was introduced to and it just clicked. Book reviews, short stories, and some non-fiction writing is also fair game for me. I might even throw in some of my artwork too.

Perhaps when I'm looking back at this, I'll be able to see how much I've grown.