Diamonds.Are.Dead

So, a little while ago, I was talking about the graphic short story assignment that I have for my Creative Writing Class. In trying to think up ideas, my teacher was giving us real-world examples. He was showing us a variety of published graphic novels and the way that they each set up their panels, characters, type and so on. I thought it was really interesting how each panel, just by the way it was drawn, told a story of its own through the mood and tone that was set. Here is a peek at one of the graphic novel examples given in class. It's called Fair Weather by Matt Joe:This isn't the exact same excerpt that we were given-ours was much longer-but the idea is the same. Without even having to use type, the artist (Matt Joe), was able to portray a sense of struggle in the first panel; the feeling of victory and accomplishment in the second panel; and then uncertainty is portrayed in the last panel. The use of pictures to tell a story is essential when creating a graphic novel-and it's not always going to be a pretty picture, mind you.

Anyway, inspiration for this assignment was a big issue for me. In fact, I'm still trying to figure out my plot as I'm typing these very words. But this whole idea of getting inspired reminded me of a commercial I'd seen a few times. It deals with creating a comic book using technology-in this case it's the new Samsung Behold II. What I really liked about this advertisement though, was how everyday objects and people could be twisted and re-molded into something else entirely. Maybe if I took a walk in the dead of night, I could find inspiration for my own story as well?

I've posted the video for the Samsung for anyone who wants to take a look.

During this past week, we've been working on a new assignment in my Creative Writing Class-to create our own graphic short stories. When it was first assigned, I was so excited to get started (especially since I love art) and I was so fired up to go. I'd never actually been so enthused to work on something that had anything to do with grades. But when it came time to writing a concrete plot with dynamic characters, it's as if someone dumped a bucket of water over that roaring fire. The problem was that whenever I got an idea, it seemed perfect in my head; but as soon as I voiced the idea to someone else, it fell flat, like a bottle of Coca-Cola when it's left without a cap for a night (you know what I mean). And the bitter taste of having to go back and re-work the idea was just as bad as drinking that flat soda.

But the one thing that has given me some kind of direction is this little thing called a "character profile". My Creative Writing teacher also happens to be my Gr.10 teacher from a few years back, and we had done the same activity then too. It seems he does this with every he class he has, no matter what subject he may be teaching...and with good reason. This activity essentially allows us to meet a character. We examine what they do, what they look like, what they say, and most importantly, what others say about them. I first did one on myself, and didn't really discover anything new about my own personality. But what it did do for me, was it gave me an idea of what I want the main character in my short story to be like. I don't want to spoil anything for anyone (as I will be posting the graphic story up on my blog when it's finished), but in creating it, I'm going to look to my own life for a plot. Because if there's one thing I've learned from this class and this teacher, it's that the story is already there; I just need to look through the pile of junk cluttered in my head to find it.

I really encourage you to go ahead and try this yourself. You can use the structure of the profile from above-look at the things do you do, your appearance, what you say, and what others say about you. Or maybe you want to do a character profile on somebody else. Whatever the case may be, you have to remember to be honest (although it might get brutal at times). You'd be surprised at what you might find. Good luck!

Take a look at some classic comic book fails:

Over the March Break, I went on a reading spree. I finished a trilogy (A Great and Terrible Beauty, Rebel Angels, & The Sweet Far Thing) within a week and it was one of the craziest rides I've ever been on. My opinion on the books probably doesn't matter to those reading this blog, if any are, but I want to give my two cents, even if it is just to bring some peace to my frenzied mind.

The trilogy, written by Libba Bray, begins in Victorian times with a young English girl, Gemma Doyle, who finds herself at a boarding school with fresh memories of her dead mother. As her time at the Spence Academy for Young Ladies continues, she learns some shocking secrets involving her mother who is not the woman Gemma had always thought to be. Guided by visions and unknown powers, Gemma discovers an incredible world: the realms. From there, she learns things about her mother and more importantly, herself, that ultimately changes the course of her life.

Now, I know that this story may sound similar to that of Harry Potter or Chronicles of Narnia, but let me be the first to say that it holds a life of its own. I have read the Harry Potter series, and some from Narnia as well, but I have never felt so compelled to write about any of those books as I have this one. I'm not entirely sure what it is about the way Libba Bray writes, but I completely dive into her books and never want to emerge.

Perhaps it is the perfect mixture of comedy, adventure, suspicion, doubt, fear, love, and unknowing nature of the book(s) that pulls me in. In reading most stories, I am capable of predicting much of what is to come; however, this trilogy surprised me every single time I turned the page. There were a few elements that couldn't have been more predictable (you'd have to be a complete idiot not to see them), but for the life of me, I could never have braced myself for some of the events nearing the end of novels.

What's more is Bray brings to light the social injustices that the world faces even to this day: workers' rights, women's rights, race, class, etc. It's not your generic tale of a girl too weak to do anything for herself; in fact, it's the binary opposite. Gemma comes out the strongest of even the men, and the beginnings of change brighten her uncertain future. She finally has what many women were never given, or even offered, during that time: a voice.

I guess what is most compelling about the novel though, is how readily I can relate to Gemma; at least the Gemma presented in the beginning of her adventure. Obviously, I don't hold any mystical powers and my mother's well and breathing, but the role she plays within her group of friends and the way she feels in certain situations is something I can fully understand without question.

But I will rant no more, and not spoil the book(s) for anyone who wishes to read them...assuming that there are those that even take my opinion into consideration. I have had the opportunity to reflect on what I've filled my head with during this past week; now I am done and the choice of what to do with the information I have presented, remains completely up to you.

Walking through the structure among a million different worlds,
So many so available.
I wonder which one to choose?
I've taken all the time I could,
To make the right decision.
But still I don't know which to choose among the many given.
I walk and peer and dawdle too,
Hours upon days,
Trying to figure out which painting is the one that's destined to be my next home.
I stop dead in my tracks.
It's painfully obvious,
That Munch is the man I will choose.
The one in the painting with eyes wide in horror...
I have to know why, how, and what for.
I inhale the familiar, clean air for the very last time.
My days in this world are closing in.
My eyes are sewn shut,
My feet pull forward.
The first breath is rebirth,
On a strange, new, desolate road.
No sooner do my feet hit the ground
Than my face is hit with incredibly blistering winds.
My skin begins to crack and flake with each gust,
Blowing every part of me out of existence.
My bones are no longer hidden beneath youthful skin,
My clothes have long since deteriorated,
And now I am nothing but crumbling bone,
Turning to ash in the toxic wind.
The last of me is drifting...
I want to cry, shriek, and yell
But funny enough,
The immortal man beside me has already done that and more...
The man christened "The Scream".

Recently, I finished a book by Cormac McCarthy called The Road. It was one of the most haunting books I have read in quite some time. The story follows a man and his son as they journey through a burned America, traveling with a cart full of scavenged food and random items that could contribute, in some small part, to their survival. One of the most intriguing and clever things about McCarthy's style was that there were absolutely no quotation marks whenever dialogue arose. This was his method of emphasizing the deafening silence that takes place in a country-gone-extinct; everything seemed to be said or told in a whisper. I have to admit that when I started the book, I was doubting whether it was worth it to continue to read or not. But let me tell you, it was most definitely worth it. McCarthy's extraordinary writing abilities paints such vivid pictures in your mind that you literally feel as though you are suffering in the ashen world in which the man and boy exist; all you can sense is the cold, grey wind licking your face and a sense of a complete and obsolete loss of hope. What you feel from reading this book is incredible, and I believe that everyone should abandon the generic 'feel-good' book they've been reading for so long to take a look at a world that could potentially be ours one day.
As I was reading, I took note of some of my favourite quotes from the novel (as nerdy as this may seem), and I'd like to share them with you. Maybe they might tempt you into taking a gander at the story that had me at a loss for words.

"Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow."

"When we're all gone at last then there'll be nobody here but death and his days will be numbered too. He'll be out in the road there with nothing to do and nobody to do it to. He'll say: Where did everybody go? And that's how it will be. What's wrong with that?"

"He is coming to steal my eyes. To seal my mouth with dirt."

I let it go.
The song is lost.
I don't know what happened.
It was my favourite;
I listened to it everyday.
It goes unheard for fifteen years,
Until the day when your own heartbreak unexpectedly finds its due date.
This happens the moment the song takes you by surprise,
Trickling from some radio to retie the frayed laces of your years.
It all comes back.
Why had I forgotten?
The night is filled with the sweet notes of my song,
Pulling me down into a dreamless sleep.
But when I wake,
Only a dumb central phrase sours in my memory.
Again...fading fast.
It will be forgotten.
Do I need it? Can I live without it?
I have for this long.
After all, in an uncertain world,
It's reasonable certainty this forgotten song needs me even less than I need it.

Just this past week in my Creative Writing class, my teacher did an interesting activity with us. We are learning to apply our five senses into writing; in order to know how to write about something, you need to have experienced it. Our task was to try to identify and describe mysterious food items that my teacher had brought in.

This is how it went: we partnered up with someone in the class and we sat with our backs to each other so that one individual couldn't see what was being brought around to the other. The first partner then had to take a whiff of the mystery-food and explain it to the other person. The idea was to try to uncover what the food was.

This really was the hardest part about it: the description. When it was my turn to smell what was placed before me, my brain new exactly what it was-garlic. But trying to explain that to my partner? Not so easy. I found it incredibly difficult to give any kind of description. All I could think of was "it smells garlic-y"...but I very well couldn't say that. My partner needed to figure it out for themselves.

It was a really fun activity to try and my perspective on writing completely changed. It takes incredible talent and skill to be able to describe something you smell so vividly so as to cause the reader to imagine smelling it themselves. I strongly encourage you to try it yourselves. Grab a partner and see what kinds of descriptions you can come up with.

I can't believe it, but my time to show the world what I'm capable of has arrived at last. I have a portfolio interview tomorrow at OCAD (Ontario College of Art and Design); the process of getting here seemed so long, but it's actually here now. OCAD's the school I'd imagined myself in ever since I had heard about it. Many would say it's for the "artsy-fartsy" individuals, and I must admit that some of the people that attend the school certainly have an interesting taste in style. However, the work that is produced there and the absolutely amazing people that come out of there after their schooling is incredible. I love art. It is my passion. Many would argue that there is no way that anything could come of it; I can't make a career out of art. And I must admit that it's not going to be easy to begin working in a field such as this one, but why should I not even try? That wasn't the way I was brought up, and that isn't the way I want to live.

I am constantly asked why I hadn't chosen a more 'academically promising' subject, like math or science, to follow as my future. I have a reputation for being smart, which is a little misleading. I don't believe I am more intelligent than anyone else; I'm just simply curious about the world around me. I love to observe and I love to learn. When I create art, I discover. The assumption that revolves around art is usually that it's only for the people who have the ability to draw. I say that's bullshit. Anyone, with the proper training, practice, and enthusiasm, can draw well, but it's the meaning behind an artwork that is more important. On my first day of art class in high school, my art teacher made an interesting statement that changed my perception of art to this day. She said that "without meaning, art is just a pretty picture". I had always assumed that having the ability to draw was the basis of being an artist. Just having that technique was enough to be one. Boy, was I wrong.

As I went on in art and with each passing year, I discovered and I grew and I truly became more understanding of what it means to create art. And it is nothing that I can explain in words. The feeling that comes with dipping that spattered paintbrush into a crisp jar of paint; the emotion that courses through your fingers as you sculpt and mold clumps of nothing into something; it's all indescribable. I am one of the lucky few that gets to experience this, and I wouldn't trade it for the world. It is for this reason that I want to pursue art as a career, even if no one understands it.

So, tomorrow I walk into the intimidating new environment confidently, hoping and praying to God that I don't mess this up. It's my one shot at becoming something no one really believes I am capable of; it's the one chance I get at bringing to life the passion that everyone is blind to. It's finally here and I'm going to face it, head-on.

"Ew! What is that?!"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it just looks so gross."
"I don't think it's gross."
"But it's mustard on potato pancakes!!"
"So? I like it."
"But doesn't it make you want to throw up?"
"Most definitely not! I can't imagine eating it any other way!"
"But that's just so disgusting!"
"Have you ever tried some?"
"Ew! No!"
"How do you know it's gross then?"
"I just do."
"Alright. Whatever. To each his own."
"...well....what does it taste like?"
"Like mustard on potato pancakes."
"Oh..."
"Do you want some?"
"Uh...I guess I'll try it..."
"So. What do you think?"
"Oh my gosh! This is....
...it's....
ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING."

She looked back and began to wonder,
Whatever happened to a simple "hello"?
Why has this greeting lost it's magic to bring life to a face?
It's been replaced with stony looks from passersby,
And rarely witnessed with a smile.
The "hello" is no longer just that...
It's something more now....or perhaps less?
It used to greet us, bring light to our day,
Now we've discovered new ways to greet.
With insults, swearing, slang, and name-calling.
But whatever happened,
To the simple
"hello"?

Someone once asked me,
What is magic?
Can you sense it? Can you smell it?
As it casts an invisible glow?
Is it card tricks, funny gimmicks, coins behind your ear?
Can you really know the number I think of or what colour underwear I wear?
Is it a gift? Or a prank? Or perhaps a talent?
Is it a power? A force? Or maybe a product of the imagination?
Can it be freed from books? Captured in songs? Exposed in movies?
Does it come from wizards and witches? Spells and potions? Wands and broomsticks?
Is there really any proof that magic exists?
It could be that it hides from the undeserving,
Seeking only those that are worthy.
It can wear a cloak and play some tricks,
A magic that has not limit, no restrictions, no end.
It can take on molds, shapes, disguises,
Whispering only to those that know it is there.
It can whisper in tunes and in notes,
Or colours, cultures, and faces.
It can lie in the seasons, the stars, or maybe the vast oceans.
It can begin an idea, catapult a thought.
Magic can seize us, inject us, and course through our veins.
It can appear in a hurry and end just as fast,
But sometimes it lingers and makes moments in life last and last.
It can find its way into peace, love, and compassion of the everyday soul,
But in truth, how would I know?
I'm just living in reality,
An observer of magic, through a tiny peephole.

I was once asked the question, "why do you write?"
It took a lot of thought and tons of consideration, but I did think of a few reasons:
(1) To take all the emotions, worries, and feelings that have been accumulating in me, and just dump them on a piece of paper.
(2) To express and discover myself in ways I otherwise cannot.
(3) To show the world that there is always more to a person that what is perceived in first judgment.
(4) To expose myself and others to the truths that are vicious, gruesome, and real.
(5) To relate to those experiencing the same thing as me...or not.
(6) To be someone else, even if it's just for a little while.
(7) To find the answers to questions no one else can provide.
(8) To prove to myself that I am not empty.

So, I've actually never really had a blog before and I'm not really sure what's considered "right" when blogging. When I read other blogs and posts, I see how profound everyone is in their writing; it's incredible and I never really thought how much talent it takes to word the perfect blog. But I will learn, I will grow, and I will continue to read so that maybe I too, can someday be a great blogger. And from there, I hope to become a great writer. And that alone will be enough to keep me busy for the rest of my life.