writing

New project : Book Reviews

Coming soon! Because I like to write but I do not find ideas for non-fiction stories and because I love to read, I have decided that writing reviews of the books I’m reading could be a good practice.

I have studied English literature for the past 6 years so I do know a little bit about novels, short stories and poetry. Yet, I have always found it hard to express my opinions concerning the stories I was reading. By forcing myself to write on this blog, I can get better at writing and of course, expressing feelings.

And at the same time, it could give you ideas for your next book to read! I also hope that it will be an opportunity for you to give me advice on what to read.

The books I read are essentially French and English literature. The first review I am going to write will be of “Vernon Subutex”, volumes 1 & 2, written by Virginie Despentes. (I am still reading the second book at the moment and it’s really exciting).

I hope you’ll like this new topic on the blog!

Advertisements

Creative Writing Story #1

It has been a long time since I wrote something on this blog. I have been quite busy moving in England and settling in my new job. Also, I have felt a lack of inspiration lately, and I was too lazy to force myself to write.

Since I have not created any new piece lately, I am publishing very short stories that I had to write for my creative writing classes in uni last year in Dublin. They are only drafts but I really like them.

Conscience of a photograph

Here, we had a photograph of a boy and a girl, sitting next to the sea, both the characters were looking away, and I imagined them as part of the youth of the 1920s in the United States.

Paul remained staring at the calm sea. He heard her moving behind him. It was a pertinent question she had asked. Indeed, what was holding him back?

‘My father,’ he started. ‘He is the one that has put a spoke in my wheel. He is the poison. The day I told him I wanted to be a poet, oh! I remember well, he cut me short. I already made plans for you and I will not comply with you insanity, he said to me. You see Margaret, my father owns a shipping company in Florida and Monsieur has decided that I should run the company when he retires. I will not, I shouted at him. But apparently, I have no choice and my voice does not count. I told him that I would flee, that I would leave to Europe but he sure knows I won’t let my little sister alone with him now that my mother has died. God blesses my mother. If only she was alive, she would have let me follow my dream. Did you know Margaret, that my mother was fond of English poetry? Every sunday, she would read me Shakespeare’s Sonnets. She especially loved Sonnet 18. Do you know it, Margaret? Oh! You should definitely read it. Oh! How I miss my poor mother!

My father never understood our interest in the magic world of poetry. I bet he has not tried hard anyway. He aspires to money and money only. Poor soul! Believe it or not, Margaret, I even wrote him a poem once. I remember it well! It started with : Once again it happened, drowned in the depths of my sorrows, I contemplated my soul. Do you know what his reaction was? He tore the paper into pieces without a glimpse towards me and he said coldly that this would not help me run a company. As if I cared about his company! You see Margaret, I don’t dream of power or money at night… I dream of travel and poetry, I dream that my father accepts me for who I am.

Oh, Margaret… Sometimes I wonder, did other poets have parents? What was Shakespeare’s father like? Certainly not like mine, at any rate!

I don’t know what to think anymore nor what to do! On the one hand, I wish I had the courage to travel abroad and be a writer but on the other hand, I cannot resolve to abandon my sister or you, Margaret. Can you imagine what my sister will become if I she falls into my father’s clutches? I understand this must be hard for you to listen to, but believe me when I say that I have no other choice.’

When he had ended his spleen, Paul turned over and looked at Margaret that had remained silent. She had a reassuring smile on her face, a smile that seemed to hide an absurd thought. She put a hand on Paul’s shoulder and said :

‘I think I have an idea!’

I am still alive.

Yes, I haven’t been publishing for a while, although I have been writing.

I am currently working on two projects. One is more or less like what I am used to, a kind of essay on life, a way to understand others around me and get a deeper understanding of society.

The second one is completely different. It may (I would even say ‘will’) not interest everyone. I am planning (once again, remember that I am a very [very, very] lazy person and I might abandon the project (I hope I won’t), I am planning to create a second blog on which I will be discussing my life in Dublin. I think it can be very interesting, both for me and potential readers, to read and talk about life in Ireland, which is so different from what I was used to.

Keep you updated (hope to get started this week end).

New Project

Discipline.

This is what I need. Since I created this blog, I have had many projects started, but not a lot finished.

I am writing again, and again it is something long. I need to keep trying and remain on the same work for a while. This means that I might not be writing any poem for the moment, unless inspiration forces me to do so. I would like to get something done for once, something I am proud of.

Since I arrived in Ireland, I haven’t really spent any time trying to write. Time goes really fast when you enjoy every little moment.

I really hope I will manage to finish this project. Keep you updated (for those who care).

Nostalgia

Tonight, I looked back at what I have accomplished so far (studies, writings, travels) and I’m quite proud.

I was reading old poems and stuff I had wrote last year and I couldn’t believe I had written them. It looked like it was written by someone I even didn’t know. A stranger, a usurper. When I think about it, it seems normal. We grow up. But I don’t want to.

I want to remain the child who has fun with a stick of wood, the child who draws outside the lines and doesn’t care, the child who isn’t depressed, scared, worried, unhappy,.. nostalgic.

*****

Nevertheless, I think the child still exists. He survives, well he tries. Sometimes, when I am alone, he can come out and play, draw without caring, dream. (I look crazy now) I am worried though… I am worried that as I grow up, he disappears, and leaves the “old me” alone with my sorrows, my fears, my memories, my nostalgia.

Don’t break the chain

I know myself… well, more or less. What I am sure though is that I am lazy. Therefore, in order to write regularly, I need some discipline. 

I have started a program called “Don’t break the chain”. My goal is to write everyday, so I made a calendar on which I have to put a cross everyday I write. The more I respect the calendar, the more crosses there are and it will (I hope) encourage me in keeping on writing.  

I have been writing

As I have been on holidays for a few days, I tried to use my free time (and there is a lot) to enjoy the magnificent forests around me but mostly, to write.

I haven’t published for a while, even though I have thought of essay topics or poems. The reason is that I am trying to write something longer than an article. I don’t really know where I am going to exactly, but I am just enjoying the present. 

I may publish some pieces of this work if there is something interesting or if I want some advice. 

I’m still thinking about life and as I am still a dreamer too, you can expect a new poem very soon.

Live…

This is a very complex and difficult subject I chose to discuss tonight. I mean, all my writings are part of this subject to a certain extend, and this article may seem a little too general. I am not planning to write a novel yet, so I will try to be as brief as I can, without forgetting the main ideas that made me want to write this.

Recently, I talked to a very good friend of mine, and I explained him that I was afraid of not living for real. Indeed, I am always waiting for something in the future to come. Let’s take the example of my year in Dublin. Since I am in university, for two years now, I have been waiting for this moment, this special time when I finally go abroad. As I expect this trip to be special, I feel like all the time which separates me from September is “a waste of time”. I know I could make some efforts and try to enjoy every moment, but I just can’t. This scares me a lot because I am afraid this could happen to me for my entire life.

Also, I wanted to discuss another point which distresses me. How can you be sure that you are enjoying your life if you are not exposing the real you. We all have our secrets, things we hide to protect ourselves or others, or just because we don’t want to deceive people. Of course, we could learn to live with these secrets and reach a certain degree of happiness. However, as far as I am concerned, I am often wondering what would my life be if I revealed some of my secrets. Would life be better? I still have no idea. The only way to know is to tell the truth, to get real, considering any situation it may lead to, good or bad. As we say in France : C’est plus facile à dire qu’à faire!

What’s funny now is that at the exact moment when I am discussing “life”, my brother announces me that I am going to be an uncle in few hours. Anyway.

I know that I could work on these subjects, for myself, and try to make more efforts in participating in life, in enjoying every moment, in getting real and eventually live the life corresponding to my expectations. I just hope that I will be courageous enough to achieve this life before death grabs me.

I thought it could be interesting to tell you which songs I have been listening to while I was writing this article :
Radiohead – Fake Plastic Trees
Sigur Rós – All Alright
Sigur Rós – Von

Poem #1 : Forest, or the Death of Romanticism

ForestThere was a boy, his name was Tommy.
For a while, he thought he was happy.

A beloved child and friend,
A handsome and smooth talking teenager,
Who believed he would always succeed.

One day, he realized he was a thinker,
A poet, a singer…
Beauty was no more a matter.

Alone, he would lie for hours,
In a forest, near some flowers.

His friends recognized him no more,
Even his parents would ignore
The lonely boy curled up on the floor.

He was a loner, a dreamer,
A helpless romantic.
Frantic,
He isolated himself deeper.

Once, he entered a forest,
And never was he seen again,
For his thoughts caused his bane.