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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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The Writing-Practice Journal
New Intention:
Now in 2017 and the following years, if any, I shall use this journal for whatever I please to write. 
Still, I reiterate: Read at your own risk!
Old Intentions:
Now, starting with June 2013, I will use this journal for the entries for "I Write in June-July-August "  . Afterward, I'll go back to the part I have down below in red. Still, read at your own risk. 
Now, starting at the end of 2010, I am going to write into this journal directly, without making any other copies. Freeflow, but from prompts. I may use prompts or simple sentences as prompts, which I'll put on the subject line. I'll probably use some of the prompts from the Writing.com app.
And yes, I do intend to make a fool of myself, because I miss writing on a good old fashioned typewriter with no other cares. Maybe some ancient and wise author like Dickens will watch me from Heaven, shake his head, and say, "You haven't made a dent." Not a dent, but making my own mud is my intention. So, if you read, read at your own risk.
Truth is, I had started this journal in 2002 for the different reason of writing down ideas on the craft of writing. Over the years, my personal blog took over what I wanted to do here. Afterwards I continued with writing exercises with no order or plan to the entries. And now, this.
Who says I can't let my hair down! Okay, I can't because my hair is short.  But I've got nerve.
  
October 19, 2013 at 6:52pm October 19, 2013 at 6:52pm
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Anger Misplaced
My rage is a tangible object, like fire, which scorched me at a very young age. It may have started with my adopted father's actions or it might have emerged because of my mother's high praises of Ariadne.
I wasn't even at the school age, then. I must have been sick with the flu or a virus or something, which probably no one had noticed. I was sitting near Pa Hirsh and watching him work. A sudden nausea hit me and I threw up on his work. Pa Hirsh's face turned crimson all the way to his neck and chest.
"You bastard!" he yelled. "Couldn't you move your head the other way?"
Then he picked me up and literally threw me out of the back door. On the porch where I fell, I could hear his screaming at my mother.
"Fiona get back here and clean this mess. I'm ruined. What'll I tell the boss now?
"Woman, will you move? This is no laughing matter. Stop it. I give you a home, take in your bastard kid, and what do you do? You laugh at my misery, caused by your kid. Did I have any obligation to feed a kid who's someone else's? This is what I get. I'm nice to your kid and the ugly frog messes up my life."
At that instant, reality hit me. I was not Pa Hirsh's real kid, and that explained many other things I was subjected to. But then who was my real father?
No matter how often I asked and pleaded for the answer, no one ever told me the truth. Moreover, my mother yelled at me for asking dumb questions. If my real father should not even be mentioned, then who was I?
On the other hand, Ariadne had two fathers. This happened because, when Ariadne's real father died, Aunt Greta married Clifford Wieland. And both of those men treated Ariadne much better than anyone ever treated me.
But it wasn't just the fathers that got to me; more like it was my mother. To her, Ariadne had no faults; Ariadne was perfect. "Can't you be a little like her, at least?" my mother told me over and over until my ears fell off.
Being unloved and picked upon by everyone is the pits, ranking right up there with being murdered in slow doses. And not having lived up to your only parent's expectations has a brutalizing effect. The ego recoils and one's self-image is punctured like a tire that went over some sharp construction debris.
I admit, Ariadne was prettier than me and she did seem to do everything in a perfect way. But how could I live in the shadow of a perfect person who takes away everything and everyone I ever wanted?
To top it all up, Ariadne is Aunt Greta's daughter; Aunt Greta, the only person who's been nice to me and the only person I adore. I wished Aunt Greta were my mother. She should be my mother, not Ariadne's.
And Ariadne now has been acting so hoity toity. She avoids me like I am the plague. Probably after I got back at her in my own way, and many times over.
The bitch, that Ariadne! She lives in my blood like an insidious disease.
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October 11, 2013 at 5:34pm October 11, 2013 at 5:34pm
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Contest 2, Setting # 1
Ariadne’s Brownstone in Manhattan
on West 10th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues
Hello, I am Ariadne Kinney, one of the two CEOs in Kinney & Strauss.
When I sold my small flat on Central Park West and decided to buy this house downtown, I was doubtful if the change would work for me, but I have no doubts now. I love my house.
One reason is that its location is close to Kinney &Strauss building on Wall Street. On a good day, I can walk to work, and on the way , if I am early enough, I might catch some quiet time and get a cup of coffee in a Starbucks before tackling the day.
My house is a brownstone on West 10th Street, which is probably the most beautiful residential place in Manhattan, including the area from St-Mark’s Church in-the-Bowery on the east side through the restored brownstones of the middle Village to the high rises on the Hudson River. My block is between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, and the dwellings here have baroque ironwork and boast with their colorful window boxes in season. My block ends at the clock-tower of Jefferson Market Library, which is part of the New York Public Library. One of my haunts is this building that looks like a church of leaded glass, steeply sloping roofs, gables, pinnacles, Venetian-Gothic embellishments, and an intricate tower and clock, which rings every hour on the hour.
My house is a single-family dwelling of bright red brick with turquoise shutters, with three stories and a large basement with living quarter. The stairs leading to the front door are of the actual brownstone left over from the time when this house was built. There is an open space like a porch on top of the building, where have outdoor furniture and plants in large plant boxes. My boyfriend Jayce and our maid Esperanza are the ones who tend the rooftop greenhouse there. I had sound tube and a small elevator built for all three floors and the basement, in case my 74 year-old mother would come to visit.
As one can’t be too careful living in an energetic city, I had two separate alarm systems installed. One for the outer doors and windows, another for my bedroom’s door. The front door is equipped with a chain bolt, a bell that I can shut off if need be, and a pane of one-way glass.
Each story of the house has two or three rooms. Each floor has one half bath. Except for second and third floors where there are full baths. On the first floor, the large all-white kitchen is contemporary-modern with eat-in facilities. This is mostly Esperanza’s domain, except for me taking in the deliciously fragrant food smells wafting from kitchen. A large dining room and bar are also on this floor.
Second floor has a library, a large entertainment room with a wall TV, stereo system, and billiards table, belonging to Jayce. On second floor, I have my study, also, which is my favorite place in the entire house. Here, the walls are pastel sky-blue with matching blinds and lace curtains. A couple of my paintings depicting scenes of my hometown, Rocky Road, hang on the walls. My desk and its chair are custom-built, made up off soft brown top-grain aniline leather that is heavenly to the touch. That chair is my favorite place to sit of any other place on the face of the earth.
The third floor has the two bedrooms and my painting studio, later taken over by Jayce for his paraphernalia. The master suite here includes a marble bathroom with the view of the back of the house. The guest room has a small terrace with the view of the street.
In the back, we have a back entrance from a small garden, where Esperanza raises scented herbs such as mint, oregano, and chives for her cooking.
As I don’t drive in the city, I have no need for a garage and neither does Jayce, but he has his Porsche stored in a multilevel garage a few blocks down, for when he visits his parents in East Hampton.
Since living in a big, active city has been in my stars, my brownstone has become the best place for me to call home.
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October 5, 2013 at 11:58am October 5, 2013 at 11:58am
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Oct. 5. 2013
Protagonist background story
Note:
At my 2013 NaNo novel’s real time, Ariadne will be 53 years old. She wrote this letter at the age of 17 when she was graduating from high school. Chances are, neither this letter nor Miss Hoobler will be mentioned in the novel, as many waters would have passed under the bridge by then.
  
May 21, 1975
Wednesday
Dear Miss Hoobler,
I am so blessed to have had such a fantastic art teacher like you during the time I have been a student in Rocky Road High. I am writing to you with tears in my eyes because, of every wonderful person in my life, you have been the one who was most aware of my need and desire for art.
My work may never be ready for fine galleries, but just the magic of creating a vibrant, meaningful, color-laden piece makes my heart flutter. Thank you for understanding my feelings and honoring me as the artist of the year in the school fair, not just for one year but for all the four years I have been in this school. And I learned so much from you, how to see three dimensional shapes in all forms, the application of light and shadow, contrast, pattern, color, texture, scale, temperature…I could go on and on.
Unfortunately, I will not be able to pursue my passion for art. This doesn’t mean I will stop drawing and painting. Quite the contrary. I promise you and myself that I will not let go of this love.
Do you remember my stepdad Clifford Wieland from the parents’ day? I believe he thanked you for the valuable time that you spent with me, but he also said he had been training me for bigger and better things, which you might not have liked much. He didn’t tell me what you told him, but I’ll always remember you advising me to go after my passion.
It is true my first passion is art, and if my situation had been more favorable, I would have loved to study it professionally, but after several long talks with my stepdad, he told me my obligations to the family business came first, the Kinney & Russell Co., which my father, may he rest in peace, founded. As I am the only young heir to the company, my stepdad had been training me so I could manage the company and look after my family’s interests. If you may recall, that was why I was spending every school vacation in New York City.
I have to admit, I find Kinney & Russell’s challenge and my internship there intriguing, though not half as much as I enjoy art, but then, my duty to my family has to come first, as everything has a price.
Again, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for encouraging me and finding me that wonderful scholarship in the Art Institute of Chicago. My heart broke in pieces when I had to turn it down. I’ll probably never ever get a chance like that in my entire life again, with or without a scholarship.
I am probably being ungrateful when I think the kids who have little or no means can easily grab at such an opportunity at an art school--any art school--are more fortunate than I am. I hope I don’t sound like a rotten person here. I know how lucky I am for the lifestyle my family has provided me, and I accept my duty toward them and the company my father founded, where my stepdad works as well.
I hope I’ll see you and say my final goodbye to you at the Graduation, next week.
Thank you again for everything, Miss Hoobler. I hope all your students recognize what a wonderful and caring teacher you are. I will miss you greatly.
With much love,
Ariadne Kinney
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Prep Contest Promp:
"Write a story about your protagonist that takes place outside of your novel" |
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