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[mynoveljourney]

[mynoveljourney]

[mynoveljourney]

looking for beta readers!

hey all! I currently have three very short and unfinished chapters of my novel up for reading if anyone would like a sneak peek! I’m looking for all the criticism possible. message me for more!

[mynoveljourney]

cor—leonis>mynoveljourney

I’ll still post some poetry/prose now and then, but will mostly have updates!!

hello I am writing a book

aight listen here Everyone. you should know that I am 100% serious about this. I got the idea years ago and finally started making progress this semester while literally everything fell apart around me and I used writing and planning this out as Major Catharsis.

but it’s starting to come together!! and I’m immensely happy with how it’s going even though it’s obviously frustrating and confusing, there is no good writing, there is only good re-writing and that helps a lot to know. it’s just so good to get back to writing and have a project to devote myself to again. 

if you want more details, you can follow my progress on my writing blog, which I am now repurposing for novel updates! thanks everybody love u <3 <3

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There is a neat little scar on my left shoulder that you wouldn't ever notice if I didn't tell you it was there. It's barely the width of a sewing needle and only about as long, Flush with my skin, A slightly brighter shade of white that gleams when the light hits it just right. It's the only one of its kind that ever left a visible mark and even then it is quiet and hidden — it doesn't do justice to its story. See, when they talk about mental illness, They talk about it like it’s something tragically beautiful, Or beautifully tragic, Like it’s poetry or art, An accessory, A personality trait, a funny quirk or interesting fact to share over h’ors doeurves at an art museum-- “Van Gogh had depression,” they say, “And look at all the beauty that came from it. He cut off his ear, you know.” (Do they think about their tortured artist So desperate to drown out all the noise, Lying in a pool of his own blood, How long he had to stay there before he was found, The screaming, The burning?) And what about Ophelia, Lady Tears, In all her longing -- (Who pulled her from the river, Who found her there? Did her brother scream in anguish? Did she? Was everyone too busy marveling at her soft eyes to listen?) A plot device. You hear the words “anxiety” or “depression,” And I bet the first thing you think of is The teenagers on all the pamphlets in your high school, Warning you against suicide or drugs, The ones with gray hoodies and hands in their pockets, A dark cloud following overhead and raining gently -- But nothing their SSRI umbrella can’t keep away, Nothing that therapy couldn’t cure, Nothing that would outlast high school. My own rain was not so neat and tidy. My world did not turn shades of blue and gray, And it was more of a monsoon than just a rainy day, Scarier than it was dreary, Deep reds, The shade of green they tell you to look for in the sky before a tornado hits. The kind where your umbrella is turned inside out by angry winds-- If you dare to venture outside-- Where you run for cover, Jumping at every thunderclap, Wondering how much louder a storm can get For which I had no warning. I was never as simple as those school pamphlets. I was never a black and white rose against stark red lips, The tortured poet, One hundred pills and a vodka chaser, A broken willow branch -- I was a just a kid, Too young to mourn lost love, Or experience that level of intensity of feeling, But I did anyway. (These things don’t happen logically) My storm did not start and resolve in the ages of fourteen to sixteen, It’s been raging since I can remember. As years went by I learned to draw inward Because nobody likes the girl who cries on the playground And worries about things she can’t control. I went deeper than I ever thought I could go, Trying to climb back up the walls of the hole I’d been digging But unable to grab a foothold-- I was trapped in my own skin, So desperate to break out, To quiet the deafening roar, I fought back with Angry fingernails slashing at my own face in anger, A razor to my wrist, A pencil’s metal butt to my arm in desperation, A razor on my shoulder, Teeth to my pillowcase muffling a scream, A razor to my hip. I wondered why my storm still wasn’t big enough to have a name, Why nothing was working against it, Why I didn't bleed enough, Why all my desperation would vanish After a few days of healing (I guess my body was trying to tell me She was strong enough to take it Even when my brain was not) So eventually I set down my weapons-- Not because I was better, Not because things were quieter, Just because nothing was enough to make the noise stop. There was nothing conventional about it. It was all forked tongues and harsh words, Lashing claws that stung and sharpened teeth that bit And pushed everyone away; There was nothing beautiful there, Not the kind of tragedy you’d marvel at, It was the kind of tragedy you wish to God had never happened Because there can’t possibly be anything beautiful from it. My storm wasn’t convenient. Nobody stared in awe at the neat little scar on my shoulder -- Nobody will call it art in 100 years. I wished for so long to just turn numb, To float away for just a little while, Temporarily not exist -- Just until I’m ready again. Just until the storm breaks-- They tell you to just reach out for help if you need it, And criticize you if you don’t, But they don’t ever tell you that you will be holding yourself captive, Bound and gagged, Trying to tear away the knots you’ve tied but finding they won’t unravel: As soon as they go, So will you. It’s best to rage alone. And then there were the days where everything went away, And I felt the sun break through the angry clouds, Felt the warmth of its light on my face, Love in my heart-- And when the rain stopped, It stopped for longer each time, Two days, A week, Six weeks, Six months, And things returned every now and then, but the short bursts of thunder Were nothing to me anymore-- I would weather them, They would end, They would go away. With time. With patience. The thing is, I will always be a little too much to be Ophelia. I’m not the type to float away down a river, Romantic, Surrounded by flowers and lily pads, Looking in death as if I were only asleep. I will always be too loud Or too quiet Or too much Or not enough For that. And I am not Van Gogh. The only painting I have done from my pain Has been to wipe away my tears, (And my blood) -- He never sculpted, But I did Every time I took hold of my body And rose from the floor. But I think that they must have had their own rage, too. Like me, Their own claws and sharp teeth, And I think we do them a real disservice to remember them As going out quiet and resigned, Leaving only beauty behind. More than love-lorn, And sweets for the sweet, more than a wreath of flowers, More than rue; More than a starry night, Or sunflowers bathed in yellow light, More than a self portrait with a bandaged ear. When I look at the scar on my left shoulder, I don’t feel tragically beautiful Or beautifully tragic. I fear for the next time the stormclouds roll in, And how I will learn to bear it better.

l.i.f

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went and played dress up today for no reason other than to just have fun😜

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Split sea

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“the loser now will be later to win,/oh the times, they are a-changin’!” please excuse the poor sound, the mistakes, and the weird looks on my face (??) I spent 3 hours in a practice room tonight arranging this — it’s not perfect, and I had help from some YouTube videos — but I’m overall happy with how it turned out! now I have to actually write my paper though whoops (at University of Michigan - Ann Arbor (North Campus))

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where's that video of the sisters in their living room watching a Disney movie and the older one is trying to get the younger one to stand on her shoulders but the younger one is like "I cANT" and she bashes her head on their chandelier made of antlers and starts screaming

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Better late than never!

This week’s finale on stars focuses on stellar sizes!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7T1LO6nOUdw

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Star-sizes.jpg

[mynoveljourney]

Give people time. Give people space. Don’t beg anyone to stay. Let them roam. What’s meant for you will always be yours.

Reyna Biddy (via yourboycubs)

[mynoveljourney]

I. You are divine and you always have been. When you were born, the heavens marveled at your existence, flashing orange and lilac and pink and grey and white in your honor. From that moment you were able to call the sun from the sky if you wanted it so, and even if the blood of a God didn't flow through your veins you would have found this power all on your own. Your nurse always said there was thunder in those eyes, it came out of your fingertips as you got older, when you learned how to bring it forth at will. Now the sky is at your command and even Zeus seems to take direct orders from those supernal lips. He probably knows that with one glance you could bring him to his knees. Most men quake in your presence, and so do trees, and hills, and mountains. You could bend them all with the flick of one finger. What could you do with a kiss? II. He came in with the tide, and you don't know if Poseidon's waves brought him to you or if they just followed wherever he decided to go. In a passing glance you were at his mercy, oh God how he pulled at you, how his soul seemed to burrow deep into your own. He is the first man you have ever met who is more powerful than you. At first this puzzled you but now you are happy to step back, you are beholden to him, you fall deeper every time he tells you that you are his. Is love meant to ache this way? Every moment it burns like a hot coal in your breast but you do not complain. You are sure that you must glow from it, this vibrant warmth brighter than anything you have ever known. When he kisses you, the earth shudders. You tell yourself that this attraction has been heaven blessed, because now you are bright enough to become the sun for your own sky. Apollo laughs. III. Whenever you look at your sons, you say a prayer of thanks to Artemis. You believe they look just like him, they are made from your love, him and you extended. Nothing your old magic could produce could even come close to equal with your boys. His boys. They must be more him than you because you haven't felt this bright since he washed ashore in your father's kingdom, your home, the home you betrayed for him, the home you can never go back to. You've done things for this man that you should be ashamed of, that should shake you to the bone but you would do it all over again. His love belongs to you now, immortalized in your young family. Eventually you realize that you don't need so much power to rule the sky anymore. It is inside of your boys, in their eyes and hands, in their heart and lungs. You love that they are more like him, but you like to think that they got a piece of the sky from you. IV. You can no longer bear to look at your sons because they are too much like him, and the day he left your sky fell out of your hands. She came from nowhere, one day the brush of her hand and the glint of her golden crown pulled him from your side with no way to get him back. Exile from the land of your birth wasn’t so lonely with him at your side, but now there is a lump in your throat that aches with the pain of being alone and all you can do is weep. A body that was once divine has been reduced to a wailing shell, these foreign people whisper about your marriage in their streets as your cries echo in their ears, your sons no longer know who you are, it burns. Hera, protect me. Guard me from his fire. Bring him back to me. V. The burning has not passed, but it is different now. It is angry. It is violent. It demands revenge, it demands the last word. You will not take this lying down. VI. It is finished. Your human pieces of sky have bled on your hands and their father kneels at your feet, defeated. You have won. Once again you are divine, and the ground again rumbles under your feet. But it is hollow now, the thunder in your hands sounds more like a whimper. The power you once had was gone with the final swing of your sword, when your sons cried their last, when they died wondering how long ago their mother stopped loving them. No matter how hard you try to scrub it away, their blood will stain this floor, this heart of stone as long as you live. You hope the waves that carried their father to you will change direction and lead him as far in the other direction as he can go. He is not welcome anymore, not with you. Not in your new sacred sky.

2 February 2016, 1:30 pm “Medea reimagined” l.i.f.