Peeling Away the Dragon’s Skin

kiara-december-blog-post-picture            I never thought I would be a poet. When I was beginning my full immersion into writing, and dedicating myself to the craft, I had already made up my mind that I was a fiction writer. I adored fiction because I thought it was the best place to create worlds. It had a more massive scope to build, and I just didn’t associate that with poetry. Prior to my entanglement in poetry, I thought it was basically this fancy, condensed, intellectual beast I wouldn’t ever really be able to tap into.

It wasn’t until my junior year, and even more so, my current senior year in creative writing at Douglas Anderson, that I really found out I had a poetic voice. What I learned mostly, from my poetry classes, as well as from constantly reading the work of my peers, is that fiction isn’t the only place for a narrative. Poems can be wombs which birth stories whether it be concrete or not, and even if a poem feels confusing, an emotional narrative is always apparent.

The concept of an emotional narrative is something that I hold very dear to me. Within my poetry, I at first felt daunted by trying to get across what I desired to say. In fiction you’re able to have more room to build context, to play around, and lead up, but within poetry the collective piece is attempting to get the reader to feels something and pull them in, in a limited space. Poems of course, don’t have to be short, they can be expansive creatures, though typically, they aren’t as long as a novel.

To try and tackle the task for formulating an emotional structure to which my poems flow, I normally start off with creating some type of setting or atmosphere. In a lot of my poems, I’m setting the scene to what I’m going to show. I often use color in my pieces too, to visualize what I want myself and others to feel when they read my poem. I like to think of the type of color I want to show with my words, its softness or sharpness, the depth of the color, and how can I construct the words around it to sound fluid or sharp to enhance that color.

Thinking about things like colors, then help me build the narrative I want to be contained inside my poem. Along with the rest of what’s going on I construct the words meaningfully, create line breaks to control the pacing of the piece, and I’ve learned to manipulate structure to do my bidding.

Poetry is very flexible. I am in love with traditional looking poems, but also the prose poem. Poems have many designs and costumes to wear, as within prose poems it can mimic the reading style one takes on when reading normal prose, but syntax doesn’t have to be confined to conventional methods. One doesn’t have to build an actual story but have a fluid contemplation in that form. It can stabilize a moment. Regardless though, at the end of the day, the work is still poetry, and it’s working on undressing itself and to give the reader permission, to uncloak themselves too, to their own vulnerabilities to expose some type of truth at the end.

I may have started out a fiction writer, but I am an equally strong and dedicated poet. Poetry has aided me in exposing the truths I never wanted to confront ever, because in the smaller space you can only run from our minds so much that eventually you have to take the sword to the dragon.

-Kiara Ivey, Layout and Design Editor

Brevity in Flash

seth-januaryI love the word “brevity.” It’s quick and sharp but still flows well. It sounds like someone had the guts to let out what they wanted to say. It’s also the word Scholastic’s Art and Writing contest uses to describe flash fiction, and I’d say that’s accurate.

Before I got into my fiction “groove,” I struggled with word count. Regardless of the grade level, fiction pieces were supposed to wrap up at around 1,300 words. Usually, I grumbled through the revision process—why do I have to cut so much out? I’m barely exploring my world or my characters. What a waste.

I was stuck in description. I didn’t have a complete grasp on descriptive implication, so I just focused on things I considered interesting. For example, several of my freshman pieces mentioned their protagonists’ eyes. Who cares whether they were “seafoam green” or “warm brandy?” Details like that helped visual their physicality more, but interrupted narrative flow. I think I can chalk this up to my hesitance to go deeper. Until very recently, I avoided exploring my inner fears and insecurities in writing. I was scared of opening still-fresh wounds, so I hid behind flowing, unimportant images. Even when I had my first lesson and portfolio in flash fiction, I still fell back on layered-but-shallow imagery.

It didn’t work well, at first. The limit was 1,000 words, and my first draft landed at 989. It was below, but it personally wasn’t enough. I wanted—at the very least—to tell something which I felt didn’t suffer under word count. The result was something I was proud of then, sophomore year, and still see the significance of now. To break my trend of unfocused description (and, conversely, protagonists unwillingly distant from the reader), I limited character interactions to just the protagonist and his forbidden boy band love (go ahead, laugh). This was a significant step for me because I usually had the central character of my pieces interact with everyone mentioned. This limitation emphasized the most immediate, important “relationship” in the story. I also cut out all description that wasn’t observed by the protagonist himself, to ensure that every image developed an aspect of the setting, the conflict, and his character. Ironically, his homoerotic conflict intertwined with insecurity about his boring brown eyes, compared to the colors he sees in his band mates’ own. At the very least, I explored aspects of my own insecurities. I applaud myself.

Then sophomore year ended. When I started writing fiction again—in junior year—I felt myself regressing. My images didn’t interrupt anything. In fact, they usually contributed to development. However, all my stories were “safe.” Once again, they lacked personal truth. I look back on them now, and they are well-crafted, but when I compare them to my recent works, I’m not as emotionally affected.

That’s why I love flash fiction now. The form still expects masterful handling of craft, but in a way that gets down to an intimate immediacy. As a senior, I’ve written strong pieces that all—unconsciously—fall under 1,000 words. It’s this trend that helped me realize just how important flash fiction is to me. It emphasizes a direct approach, but not one that’s blunt. There’s still plenty of room for descriptive implication and explorations of plot, character, and setting. The brevity is there, and lets me be myself in writing fiction.

 

A prompt, to help others grasp the importance of flash fiction:

Explore the inner tension of a character as they carry out a single, pivotal action relating to the conflict.

-Seth Gozar, Fiction Editor

Magical Realism and Writing

my-pic-decemberWhen I was first introduced to the magical realism genre, I thought it was strange and knew right away that I wouldn’t like it. However, after studying it for a few weeks in my creative writing class, and eventually writing my own story within the genre’s definition, it became one of my favorite things to write about. I love the idea of being able to take a cliché topic and make it original in its own world.

            At first I only expected the genre to be about magical occurrences and unusual reactions. However, with the first story I read in my class, “A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings” by Gabriel García Márquez, I knew that this genre wasn’t what I thought it was going to turn out to be. This story does more than just show a moment in which a community is blessed by the presence of an angel, but branches off into many deeper meanings. For instance, the story shows greed and the lust for power that leads a family to treat a dying man (or angel) as though he is an object to be profited off of. After I read that story, I began to research and read more because of how interested I was. I don’t know exactly what it was that changed my mind on how much I enjoy writing this genre, but something clicked my interest and hasn’t let go.

When I was assigned my first magical realism story, I racked my brain trying to think of a unique idea that I could make interesting. I ended up writing a short story about a man grieving over the loss of his wife after she dies in a car accident. On his way home from visiting her grave one evening, she appears as a “ghost”, following and speaking to him because she thinks he can’t head her. She talks to him throughout the course of the night until eventually deciding it’s unhealthy for her to stick around and ramble on when he can’t even hear her. Before she has the chance to leave, he pulls her into his arms and embraces her, without questioning how she’s alive they continue to live their life together as if her accident had never happened. After revising this one, I came up with ideas for more stories that I could possibly write in the future. It’s been a while, now, since I’ve sat down to write a magical realism story. However, the ideas and techniques are still heavily present in the other things that I write, whether it be unusual events and warped senses of time, or just that I’ve morphed some of my ideas into other genres too. Someday soon, I hope that I can find the time to sit down and write a new magical realism story, whether it’s an idea I’ve already thought of, a completely new idea, or even just a revision of an older story.

Makinley Dozier, Web Editor