Why Do We Write?

Last summer at my first overnight writer's camp, I wrote a poem called Why Do We Write? The first day of the camp in one of the classes, everyone was asked to go up to the chalkboard and write one of the reasons we write up there. I used a bunch of the reasons that resonated with me in the poem. A couple months ago I submitted the poem to my local library's poetry contest, and it was one of the winners! It's one of my favorites that I've written.

Why Do We Write?
Kate I. Foley

Why do we write?
You may as well ask, "Why do we breathe?"
We write to explore different realities,
To be more than ourselves and for
Self-expression.
To take control.
To give us life.
To see.
To build the worlds we wished we lived in,
To immortalize our thoughts and
Make people feel something.
Because we just love stories and to
Keep ourselves sane.
For freedom.
Because we have to.
Because our souls say we must.

Writer's Camp 2014!

Yesterday was the last day of my second year at writer's camp in Lititz! :) I had so much fun. It was a great group this year. It was smaller, but all of the kids that came were really serious about their writing and really wanted to be better.

And the teachers are fantastic. Dr. Scouten and Ms. Savage are super nice and friendly, and they treat you like peers rather than teacher/student. They also have a knack for critiquing your work in an honest and helpful way. They don't sugarcoat anything, but you never feel like they're putting you down. They're very encouraging and never hesitate to challenge you in ways that help you to grow as a writer. I feel very lucky to have such great mentors.

I can't post everything I did over the week (that would be a really long post) but here are some of my favorite pieces:

(This is the first chapter of my YA contemporary, Beneath the Moon and Stars):

Five dollars and twenty-five cents. That’s all that was in my pocket. That and some fuzz. I stared at the frozen foods section for a long time before deciding that Mom would prefer not to use the microwave anyway. Microwaves give off radiation, you know. And Lord knows we could do without any extra hospital bills.
Finally landing on a slightly dented box of instant Mac and Cheese (“Add hot water and enjoy!”) and a package of strawberry Pop Tarts, I proceeded to the checkout line. The line was fairly long, especially for a self-checkout line, so I picked up an over-priced tabloid and flipped through the glossy pages to discover what other see-through fabric Miley Cyrus had passed off as clothing. I was so engrossed--or grossed out--by the article that I didn't notice when somebody walked up to me.
I jumped and blinked up at the teenage boy standing next to me. He grinned from ear to ear, blinding me with his pearly-whites.
He gestured to the tabloid. “Miley Cyrus. Are you a fan?”
I blinked a couple more times. Small talk made me nervous.
“Oh! No. No, I’m not a fan.” I replaced the magazine on the rack. “Just trying to—pass the time.”
The boy nodded wisely. “Time passes too quickly, if you know what I mean. Glad you’re not a fan. I can’t stand people who like her, and you seem like likeable material. Friend potential, even. You know what they put in those? You’re up, by the way.”
My head spun as I stepped up to the checkout counter. He spoke so quickly.
“Put in what?” I asked, once I was able to get my thoughts straight.
“That.” The boy pointed to the box of Pop Tarts. “Disgusting food, if it even counts as food. The glands of a beaver’s backside are used as flavoring for the strawberry ones, and who knows what else? Who’s to say whoever came up with the ludicrous idea didn’t say, ‘What the hell, how about we inject the S’mores ones with the anal substance, too?’ I’m Harry, by the way. Harry Potter.”
He extended his hand. I took it.
“You're kidding.”
“Totally. My parents aren’t that mean. No, I’m Lane.”
“Kya. Kya Williams.”
“Nice to meet you, Kya, Kya Williams.” He winked. He was so smooth while my hands just shook with awkwardness.
I pressed a button on the screen and watched my receipt slide out as the machine chirped, “Have a nice day!”
“Still going with the Pop Tarts, huh?”
I shrugged, not looking at Lane, though I could see out of my peripheral vision that he was smiling.
“They're on sale.”
Lane flipped his carton of peppermint ice cream in the air and placed it on the counter.
“See you around, Kya!” he called, holding his hand up in goodbye.
I gave him a small wave back. “Yeah. Maybe.”

(This is a poem I wrote for a writing prompt we used. We had to take two books from the library--I chose Legend by Marie Lu and City of Glass by Cassandra Clare--and use different words and sentences from the two books to combine them into a poem.):

No news is good news, right?
But that, she knew was a lie.
It's not the best, but maybe if I wander among the guests,
Lost and aimless,
Responding to the sense that her bones were melting and
Breaking inside her.
Eyes immediately shift toward her.
Let me take your hand, and I will give you mine.
I'm going to raise the angel, and I remember the first few.
They went flying.
At that,
The light in his eyes,
Already bright,
Went to such a blaze that the
Sparks that painted the clouds overheard as they fell,
One by one,
In streaking lines of golden fire,
Were like angels falling from the sky.

(Another poem):

Haven

A sign too worn to read rests among the ivy.
It held words once,
But now only the memory of bumps and jagged edges,
A reminder of what once was
Letters and poetry.

Scrawlings and scratches,
The familiar sound of ideas emerging
And words materializing,
Like magic,
Onto the paper.

Here: free from distractions-
beeping and tweeting and pings-
A cacophony of reminders to Check Your Device,
And see who has updated their Facebook page, Twitter feed.
Consumed by the vortex of the online world.

Here it is silent,
Save for the rustle of leaves,
And the gentle rippling of water
As a duck swims around and around and around,
Stuck in an endless loop.

I sit in this haven,
This little tucked away world
And think.
And write.
And dream.

Highlights from the week:

-Meeting a girl named Peyton who loves to read and write fantasy, just like me. We exchanged e-mail addresses and are keeping in touch.
-Scoring over thirty points in "Balderdash" (my highest score yet).
-Getting to hear A.S. King speak, and having her recognize me as soon as she entered the room. She walked in and started introducing herself, but got sidetracked when she saw me and said, "Hey, I know you!" (That was pretty cool.)
-Dr. Scouten saying that my writing reminded him of John Green.
-Ms. Savage saying that I have a great voice and how she,"--doesn't want anybody to mess with it" and that she expects my first internationally known novel to be published by the time I'm 20. (I started crying a little when she said that.)
-Seeing signed copies of Fauxpocalypse on display at Aaron's Books. (We went to the bookstore almost every day before we went home.)
-My "extended family" getting to see me present a couple pieces I wrote during the past week on the last day of camp.

Pictures:

Fauxpocalypse!

Peyton and me

Dr. Scouten and me

Ms. Savage and me

My "extended family" came to cheer me on

This is the highlight of my summer, and I think it's safe to say that I'll be back each year until I'm too old to attend anymore. ;)

Writer's Camp--Day 4

The last day! (For you guys, anyway. I sort of lumped things from different days together, so all of my favorites combined make up of four blogging days). ;)

We went to the local park with our notebooks to write a short story or poem from the point of view of an inanimate object. I did mine from the point of view of a plastic frog toy. It would look something like this.

I don't know how old I am. Each of my parts is a different age. My springs might be fifty years old while my paint is only two.

I'm a plastic frog. And I have always lived at the playground.

The playground's a fairly large place. There's the long green slide that everyone rides while squealing with glee. There's the swing set that allows kids to fulfill their dreams of flying through the air, even if it's only for a moment before they come crashing back down to the ground. There are monkey bars that many a child has fallen off, but no one has cried when that happens. That's the amazing thing about kids; they're always ready to get right back on.

But the favorite at the playground has always seemed to be me. Many people have ridden me from time to time: toddlers, women with babies, teenagers, laughing with ice cream cones in hand. I've watched toddlers grow taller, I've seen them beam as they're finally able to reach the monkey bars on their own, I've felt their weight grow heavier as my springs creaked and groaned.

Some kids have talked to me, confided with me their secrets, hopes, and dreams. Some have pet me like a dog and told me that I was beautiful. Others have merely glanced my way and smiled.

Emily was special. I seemed to be her first confidant, her special guardian, her best friend. When she was five and she scraped her knee, she ran to me, her tears streaking my frozen expression. When she was thirteen, and her "friends" didn't let her sit with them at lunch, I let her ride on my back, no matter how much my parts groaned in protest. When she was sixteen, and her boyfriend broke her heart, I was the first one she told.

And when she was twenty-five, and her three-year-old daughter stumbled off me, dizy and giggling, Emily said, "Say goodbye to the frog. You won't seem him again after we move."

Her daughter, Cece, said, "Bye, Froggy!" and patted my head.

Emily turned to me, tears in her eyes.

"Thank you," she whispered.

She stroked my back and walked away.

If I were a human, I would've burst into tears. I would've wrapped my human arms around her and told her with my human lips that she was my favorite person in the whole world. I would've used my human hands to try and drag her back, to make her stay.

But I wasn't. And I never will be. So I settled for a silent goodbye, a creak of my spring, and a hope that Emily wouldn't forget me. Because I certainly would never forget her.
***

We worked on our final project after that, the piece that we'd share with the other students and their parents. I'd done a sort of poem, except that it wasn't in the form of a poem. But it wasn't a story, either. It was more like a poetic narrative. I'll show you the before and after. The "Before" was my rough draft, and the "After" was my final draft, the one that the different teachers helped me to edit.

Before

The Golden Gate of Promises

The archway was mystical, completely made of pine, prickly, but sweet-smelling. It was curved at the top, like a wave that never hits the ocean floor, frozen in time. It stood amidst a garden of trees, bushes, and flowers. It hummed with energy sounding like a hive of bees, although it only hummed for me. I was the only one who stopped to listen.

This archway was the Gate of Promises.

The sun seemed to shine brighter as I approached the archway. The humming grew louder. The bees were singing for me, for I was their queen.

Behind me laid a field of dreams, fragile and glittering like glass stained with red. I had trodden on them with my bare feet. The red blood that trailed behind me was my misery and despair. It stopped right before the archway. I took a deep breath and let the bees surround me.

And I stepped through the Gate of Promises.

After

The Golden Gate of Promises

The archway was completely made of pine, prickly, but sweet-smelling. It was arched at the top, like a wave that never hits the ocean floor. It stood amidst a garden of towering oak trees, sweet berry bushes, and yellow tulips, drinking in the sun. It hummed with energy, sounding like a hive of bees, although it only hummed for me. I was the only one who stopped to listen.

The archway was the Gate of Promises.

As I approached the archway, the sun shone brighter, the humming grew louder--no longer a hum, but a buzz, a drone. The bees were a choir, singing only for me, for I was their queen.

Behind me, a field of dreams, fragile and glittering like glass stained with red. I had trodden on them with my bare feet. The red blood that trailed behind me stopped abruptly before the archway as if an invisible dome protected it from such terrors. These horrors were not allowed beyond the gate.

I took a deep breath and let the bees surround me.

And I stepped forward.

Writer's Camp--Day 3

It's been a while since I've posted one of these, so let's move on to Day 3! :D

On Day 3 we did a lot of poetry and free writing. I'm pretty sure we did thirty minutes straight of free writing. We had a prompt, and for five minutes we weren't allowed to stop moving our pencil. Here's one I did from the prompt: What Does the Universe Taste Like?

The universe tastes like ice cream in the summer, cold, comforting, and sweet. In the fall it tastes like cinnamon, apples, and pumpkin pie. In the winter it tastes like cookies, hot chocolate, marshmallows, and gingerbread. In the spring it tastes like berries and fresh fruit.

But if you're floating out in space, the universe tastes like your imagination, whatever that may be. It tastes like your thoughts, feelings, and memories. It tastes like home, wherever that is. It tastes like love and friendship, hope and promise, happiness and excitement.

The truth is, the universe has no taste. It's flavorless and bland. That is, until you decide to cook something up.

After that, we moved on to poetry. We used the painting "Peasant Wedding" painted by Pieter Bruegel as inspiration. We were supposed to study the painting and choose one person (or animal) to use as the POV (Point of View) for the poem. I chose the man circled in red, the one staring at the servant.

Peasant Wedding

Guests come flooding in through the door,
Chatting with their neighbors and gossiping with their friends
Without a care in the world.
The bride sits smugly in her place of honor,
While the groom vomits his consumed liquor.
Drunkards yell, "huzzah!" after the musicians
Play their tune.
A sheep pokes his head out from under the table,
Hoping for a little food.
A child eats in the corner,
His punishment for breaking a jug.
But my eyes are not on him.
They are on another.
The woman is bent over,
Carrying a large tray of pies,
Sweet-smelling and delicious.
But not in my eyes.
Her back stays hunched over,
Even after she sets her heavy burden down.
Her limbs creak like the branches of a
Weathered tree.
She closes her eyes and groans,
Struggling to straighten.
The servant grabs a jug,
And she hobbles over to where I am sitting.
"Anything for you, sir?" she wheezes.
"Only hope," I reply. "I am not partial to drinking."

We did more poetry, this time on whatever topic we wanted:

Ballet

The world is a blur of pink.
Shoes fly in all different directions as the
Little girls dance to the music.
The ballet was perfect in every way,
Feet barely making a muffled thump as they
Hit the floor and rose again.
The fairies danced around their queen,
Making flamboyant gestures with their hands.
All except one.
One fairy had danced off to the side,
Eyes closed and twirling.
She was clumsier than the rest,
Stumbling occasionally and dancing an unknown
Routine to
Silent music.
the fairies glared at the clumsy one,
Who was smiling,
Unlike the rest.
She had ruined their performance,
But it did not matter.
She was the most beautiful in the end.

Day 4 coming soon. :)

Challenge time! :D Write a poem from the POV of any person in the painting "Peasant Wedding." It can be a couplet, a haiku, a free verse, or anything else you can think of. Share in the comments! 

Writer's Camp--Day 2

Thanks to everyone for waiting patiently for this post! I won't share everything we did (because that would be a really long post) but I'll share my favorite parts.

Anyway, here goes Day 2 of my writer's camp!

We started off by sharing our most recent entry in our "Idea Notebooks." An "Idea Notebook" is a notebook that you write in every day for inspiration in your writing. Every morning you write down twenty images or ideas that are in your head. They can be simple, stupid, or make no sense, but the more specific the better. You don't have to like everything you write down (or even understand everything you write down), you just have to have twenty things. Here's an example from my notebook:

1. Chewed and bitten pencil
2. Pulled-out hair
3. Sleepy eyes
4. Melted ice cream
5. Apple computers
6. Ashes
7. Long-forgotten bookshelves
8. Dusty corners
9. Bed-head
10. Untied shoelaces
11. Pile of crumpled papers
12. Free writing
13. OCD
14. Blank pages
15. Tower
16. Burned-out stars
17. Curtain call
18. Imposters
19. Pretzel twists
20. Hunger

My "Idea Notebook" has been extremely helpful. I've found that most everything in my notebook makes for great subjects in poetry.

We then proceeded to talk about "Qualities of Good Writing." We brainstormed as a class to figure out what qualities of good writing we needed for every genre (whether it be contemporary, fantasy, poetry, non-fiction, an essay, or anything else). Here's what we came up with:

1. Focus (meaning you don't jump around from subject to subject without any natural transition).
2. Creativity
3. Originality
4. A good hook
5. Good organization/structure
6. Clarity
7. Flow (this goes along with focus--if you're going to change the subject, change it naturally so it's not jumpy and abrupt).
8. Proper grammar/spelling
9. Good word choice
10. Your purpose or target audience is clear (if you're writing for teens, it has to be clear that what you're writing is for teens. If your purpose is to help people become better writers, then you need to write something that shows that).

I also learned some new words that are good for writers to know:

-Figurative Language = similes, metaphors, and personification
-Cohesion = flow
-Coherence =  unity
-Mechanics = punctuation
-Diction = word choice

We then moved on to poetry. I wrote a poem dedicated to my favorite color (yellow):

Yellow

Yellow is the sun,
A lemon,
A cat's eyes.
Yellow is the feeling of hello after a
Goodbye.
Yellow is happiness,
Bright,
Bold,
And true.
Yellow is the color of me and you.
Yellow somehow manages to turn
Sour into
Sweet.
Lemons into lemonade.
Now isn't that neat?
Some might argue that yellow is cruel,
Turning sunshine into sweltering heat.
What a wicked tool.
But the yellow sun shines so we can
Follow the yellow brick road.
The yellow sun makes our smiles brighter
Like friendship or a happy code.
Yellow is the merry kitten who chases butterflies,
But can never catch a single one,
No matter how hard he tries.
Yellow is a happy thing,
Beautiful and true.
Yellow is the word I use to describe me and you.

We did some free writing, too. I wrote a short poem/narrative that eventually expanded into my final project that I shared with everyone. Here is the first stage of the piece (I'll share the final stage in my last post).

The Golden Gate of Promises

A child's black glove lies on a road sign,
Ripped and tattered,
A sign that winter is a thing of the past.
Spring is upon us.
Rebirth.
Rejoice the fact that we have a chance.
While behind us may lie a field of broken dreams,
Ahead of us is the Golden Gate of Promises.

Challenge time! :D Write down twenty images or ideas that pop into your head and share them in the comments. I'm curious to find out if anyone starts an "Idea Notebook" after reading this post. ;)

(Psst! I've been doing a lot of posts around the internet lately. Here are the links to them):

"Top Ten Summer Reads"
"The Five-Draft Plan"
"Book Stack Saturday"
"Four Magical Items I'd Love To Own"

Writer's Camp--Day 1

Before I start talking about my cool completely and totally amazing writer's camp, I have an announcement to make! :D

I'M GOING TO BE A REGULAR CONTRIBUTOR FOR "THE BOOK CHEWERS!!!!" :D

I just recently found out and I am super excited (if you haven't noticed from my constant use of emoticons)! :D I'll be starting my position sometime in July. I'll blog here whenever one of my posts go up (or, you know, you can just subscribe to "The Book Chewers." Just an idea).

Now for the moment you've all been waiting for.

Writer's Camp.

On the first day, the teachers and the students mostly just got to know each other. We played a few games (including "Balderdash," "Scattergories," and "Would You Rather") and got to know each other by doing this fun exercise.

We got to interview each other!

We learned about what makes a good interview before splitting up into pairs. Here are some tips I learned:

Do background research.

If you're interviewing someone about their career, do a little research on their job. You might be interviewing them to learn more, but you don't want to look completely clueless. Plus, this will save you time in the interview to ask more interesting questions rather than asking, "So, Mr. Garbage Man, when you pick up the garbage, where do you put it?"

Set it up.

Contact the person by e-mail first. This won't put them on the spot, rather than if you contacted them by phone. If the person lives close to you, offer to take them out for coffee/hot chocolate or brunch. You'll pay, of course. Ask them for 30 minutes of their time MAX. If they don't live close to you, do the interview over the phone, Skype, or e-mail.

TIP: If the person you want to interview doesn't respond within a week, feel free to follow up with another e-mail. If you don't hear back from them for another week, try calling (if you can find the phone number). If no one picks up, leave a message. If you still don't hear back, chances are this person is not interested. Be persistent, but politely persistent.

Write the questions down.

This seems like a given, but a lot of people don't write down their questions. They simply go with a notebook or a tape recorder and ask whatever pops into their head. This leads to a lot of "Um-s" and "Uh-s" and "Hold-on-a-second-s." This just wastes both of your time. Think of the questions before hand and write them down.

TIP: Some of the answers might take more time than others. Put stars or hearts or some other simple doodle next to the questions you want to ask first. This way you'll have plenty of time to ask the questions you really want to ask. If you breeze through all of questions with time leftover, feel free to ask any follow-up questions you might have had throughout the interview.

Be polite.

If the 30 minutes is up, it's up. Don't ask for extra time, don't pretend like you don't see what time it is, don't ask another question right when the time is up. If the person you're interviewing keeps talking after the 30 minutes is up, remind them of the time. If they don't care, go ahead and ask more questions. But they should be the one to initiate the extra time, not you.

Ask interesting questions.

Especially if you want people to read this interview. You don't want your readers to scroll through a long interview of answers to, "What's your favorite color?" or "Do you have any pets?" Think of some really interesting questions, like, "What book character do you think you're most like?" or "What are your quirks?" I've tried both of these questions and gotten great results.

Small talk is extremely helpful.

Some people might have a hard time opening up. A good way to prevent yourself from getting two word answers is to add a little bit of small talk in between. But just a little. If you use too much, you'll end up wasting half of your interviewing time. A little bit goes a long way. If the person you're interviewing mentions that they've always wanted to travel to Portugal, you could respond by saying, "Oh, my mom's Portuguese!" (She is, by the way).

Write and record.

While recording an interview is a good idea, always, always, always bring a notebook along, too. You never know when your recording device might run out of battery or just break completely. Bring a backup and take notes.

Pick out the important stuff.

You don't have to write the interview down word for word, but never ever change something the person you're interviewing said. If they said they hate pizza, they hate pizza. You don't necessarily have to include that when you're writing the interview down, but don't write, "I have a love-hate relationship with pizza," when they specifically said that they hate pizza.

Good quotes.

If you're taking notes and the person you're interviewing says something really cool, make sure you write the whole thing down, word for word. You wouldn't want to forget part of a really cool quote and end up butchering it later. But never ask them to repeat the last thing they said, because chances are they forgot it and it won't be the same. These will be your pull-out quotes, and should be related to your controlling theme (see below).

Use your observational skills.

Interviewing isn't just about asking questions and getting answers. When the person you're interviewing is talking, take a look at how they're sitting. What's their body language like? How are they speaking? Are they excited by this topic? Are they grinding their teeth as they give an answer? Take notes of these things, too. You can get a lot from a person just by the way their eyes look as they speak.

Be nosy.

This is your big chance to ask any questions that you want and actually get answers! Dig deep. What have you always wanted to know about this person? Don't ever be rude, but you can be politely nosy.

The hook.

You're going to want a nice hook at the beginning of your interview. Really grab the readers. Entice them. Why do they want to keep reading? The reader should be reading this of her own free will. Some might just glance at the first few sentences and move on, but if you have a nice hook, a lot of them will stick around and see what you have to say.

The controlling theme.

What is your controlling theme? Bring out the person's personality in your interview. When I was interviewed at the writer's camp, the person who wrote the interview really focused on my dream I had as a little girl--I wanted to grow wings and fly. Throughout the whole interview, that person kept giving little hints about my dreams and my love of fantasy. It made for a really enjoyable interview. Figure out that person's personality and focus on it.

Language.

When writing your interview, add a little bit of description in between. These descriptions should not be what shoes the person has on or what the coffee shop looks like around you, but should focus on the person's face: the way their eyes sparkle at the mention of their dog, the way they bite their tongue when you ask them about their boss. These descriptions shouldn't just be boring, "she smiled-s" or "her eyes sparkled-s." They should be poetic and flow together, such as, "Her eyes looked as if they were sprinkled with glitter," or "her smile could have powered a city."

Your three gold coins.

Your three gold coins are your pull-out quotes (see above). Whether you have two or three or four, you should have a few of them and they should be spread out: one towards the very beginning or your hook (see above), one in the middle to keep your reader interested, and one at the end to wrap it up and leave your reader happy and content. If you use them all up at once, it lowers your chance of having people actually read your interview.

Now that I've bombarded you with tips, tricks, and tools of the trade (and no, alliteration isn't on there, though it can be extremely helpful in poetry), let me show you the interview I wrote that day. I had fifteen minutes to interview my partner and 30 minutes to write up my interview with her. But she wasn't a student.

Somehow I was the odd one out, so I got to choose which teacher I wanted to interview (there were three). I chose Ms. Savage, and boy am I glad I did! Ms. Savage gave me plenty to work with, and I loved the interview she wrote up after she interviewed me.

Here is my interview:

Interview With Daina Savage

Daina Savage--who is 50% Latvian on her mother's side--starts off by saying that her name is often mispronounced and means--roughly translated--the poems of the people. This is the perfect introduction for Ms. Savage, because that's exactly what she is: a poem for the people. Journalist, optimist, and lover of learning, Ms. Savage says that she is very much like Hermione Granger.

"There isn't enough time to learn everything about the world," she says. "That's why I'd want a Time Turner."

I ask her what she likes about journaling and if she'd rather be doing anything else.

"Oh, no," she says. "I have the best job. I was going to be a dentist, but that's not what I was passionate about."

At this point you can see the hopeful gleam in her eyes. I know this gleam well, because it matches the one I have. I, too, am an idealist.

"I like bringing people together," Ms. Savage says. "I like effecting change."

Daina believes that there is good in the world and that kids can be empowered. She is the epitome of an optimist.

Daina also writes poetry. Her love of adjectives, alliteration, and people reacting in a positive way to the natural world just highlight her hopefulness, her attitude of, "the sky's the limit." Her writing is very romanticized and inspirational, much like her personality.

I ask Ms. Savage more about her career and she says, "It's hard to be a critic. I don't like to bring down peoples' work. I love telling a story. I hope my writing motivates people to make a difference."

After we had a lunch break, we did some creative writing. We experimented with different sayings, like, "every cloud has a silver lining" or "the early bird gets the worm." Once we had one we liked, we had to take that saying and twist it around. That would be the theme of our poem or story.

But that's not all. Then we had to include five different words in our stories or poems. These words didn't have anything to do with each other. Our list was:

Mother
Blackberry
Whir
Needle
Clouds
Cliff

We had to include at least five, but we could do all six, if we wanted to. I took the phrase, "A cat has nine lives" and wrote a poem about it. Here it is:

They say a cat has nine lives,
But mine only had one.
My mother told me not to let her go outside.
I didn't listen.
Blackberry didn't hear the whir of wheels against the concrete as the bus came by.
She was deaf in one ear,
You see.
Seeing her broken body on the pavement was like a needle to the chest.
The killer didn't even look back.
I see Blackberry's face in the clouds sometimes
Gentle and sweet,
Never squashed.
It wasn't until a black kitten wandered into our backyard that I was able to love again.
I kissed his nose,
He licked my ear,
And blackberries never tasted so sweet.

And that concludes day one. What do you think? :D

I have a challenge for all of you. A fun challenge. I challenge you to find someone you've never met and interview them using the tips I wrote about in this post. If you want to participate, leave a comment saying so along with your e-mail (in this format: themagicviolinist(AT)gmail(DOT)com). Then find someone else in the comments that you'd like to interview and contact them through e-mail. Have fun! :D (I'll be awaiting your interviews)!