Category Archives: Writing



click on the picture to see where i got it from (etsy).

Artists* posses a neat talent. We have the ability to create, form, shape, make—whatever word you want to use—amazing things with whatever we’re given. We take what we have and make it into something wild or beautiful or touching.

Writers have a lot. We have our minds, words, a pen, and some paper (or a computer, depending on the person). But we have so much more than that. We can take absolutely anything we see and use it in a story (yeah, even that piece of garbage blowing across the street). We take some boring things, mix it up with the whirlwind of chaos in our heads, and come up with something like a book or a piece of poetry or a short story or whatever. Just look at all of the amazing works that have been created: Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, The Chronicles of Narnia, Percy Jackson, and ______ (insert your own favorite series). And those are only book series! I haven’t even mentioned all of the individual books or the short stories or the poetry and everything else (yes, even non-fiction).

When painters start out, they have some colorful liquid, a blank canvas, and whatever they want to paint. Yet somehow (I don’t know how they do it—it’s amazing) they manage to make some of the most beautiful images in the world.

Dancers have their bodies and their minds. Yeah, they have some training too, but that won’t help them one bit if they don’t want it to. I’ve seen dancers who have amazing potential toss it all away because they don’t care about dance. They have better things to do. And while there’s nothing wrong with that (as long as they really do have better things to do), it proves my point. If you want to be a beautiful dancer, you have to try.

Art is special and precious. It shows that this world has beauty in it. Artists have a way of accentuating that. They have that talent, and I’m ever so grateful that they exist. Because the “earth” without “art” is just “eh.”


*An artist can be defined as many things, and just about every person has their own opinion of what a real artist is. But I think of artists as writers, photographers, painters, sculptors, dancers, sketchers, singer-songwriters, yes—even you, Miss Stay-At-Home-Mom Who Likes to Create Her Own Little Pieces of Beauty, etc.


Through the Fields


She walks through the fields,
The wind blowing through her dark hair.
As she drifts, she sails on the wind.

With pale arms outstretched, she sings.
Her songs are of new love,
Intertwined hearts, and lovely days.

Bare feet waltz through the grass,
Dancing with the breeze
That carries aromas of daisies and roses.

Flowers braided in her hair,
Freckles turned up to the sun,
She leaps and twirls through her peaceful haven.

She cries, she laughs, she ponders.
She basks in the sun,
Which is her constant friend.

She is the Wanderer,
The Queen of Nature,
The Dancer.

She is the Singer.
She sings in the refreshing rain,
And she sings under the rays of her friend.

And through all, she dances,
Skipping softly around
Her sea of weeds.

Her true home,
Her make-believe garden,
Her blissful sanctuary.

This poem is posted on TeenInk over here. (Please, please, PLEASE rate it!)

What on Earth is Wrong with this Place?

Today I came across this piece that I made in my much-loved, half-broken, worn notebook. I vaguely remember writing it, but don’t recall what brought around these thoughts. All I remember is that it all started with that circle on the page. I was trying to figure out how to turn a blank page with a black ring on it into a beautiful piece of art.
And then there it was. Fill half of the circle with synonyms for “beautiful,” and the other half with antonyms. And, somehow (I guess), the rest of the words just flowed from my head, through my hands, and onto the paper.


Which is stronger?
 A kind word, or a derogatory one?
If first: what about one’s insecurities? Would they not kill any goodness in an instant?
If second: how could men possibly be so cruel to each other? Even a weaker but nice word is better than a strong, mean one.
What on earth is wrong with this place?
Contradicting but beautiful. Large, yet so, so small. Full of idolotry and purity. Supposedly sinnless, but so broken we can’t even see our ugliness. So vain, so humble. Confusingly simple. So full of hatred.
I don’t understand this world I live in.
So I’ll cling to Christ, who will save me from this place.
This crazy, twisting, long, fantastic, odd, beautiful life means something to Him.
And I don’t mean to disappoint Him.


Not Giving Up

**WARNING:** This is the most clichéd (and repetitive [it was in the middle of the night when I made it. Give me a break]) poem you will ever read (or I will ever write—hopefully). I wrote it a few nights ago after falling asleep, waking up, and realizing that somehow, someday, all those words I’ve written and kept hidden in Microsoft Word documents will have a purpose.

Like the flowers,
I will bloom.
Like the sun,
I will burn.
Like the stars,
I will shine.
Like the trees,
I will grow.
Like the leaves,
I will dance.
Like the wind,
I will push
Those who need
the nudge
Toward the light
of my Savior.
Like a baby bird,
I will fly.
And then fall.
But I will land
On a branch,
And keep trying.
I’m not giving up.


Six Word Stories (Plus a Secret Story)

I like writing (and reading) six word stories. They can be fun writing prompts because they leave so much left for the imagination to figure out. Such a little bunch of words can make you laugh, wrench your heart out, or make you raise your eyebrows at someone’s cleverness. These stories can help you to appreciate the art of writing, too. I mean, some of these tales are pretty awesome, right?
Here are some of mine. Enjoy.

He handed her a single rose.
She twirled and spun and laughed.
“We have come to kill you.”
She took her backpack and ran.
She took it, smiled, then left.

“Will you please dance with me?”
She gave it all to Him.
The whole family resented that man.
But he couldn’t let her go.
She didn’t remember anything at all.
He received the letter, then disappeared.
Time went so fast back then.
He begged her to not go.
The little girl lost her balloon.
His anger destroyed all of them.
“I can’t do this any longer.”
After much begging, she finally consented.
They still laugh at year-old jokes.
(That counts. Hyphens mean one word.)
See what I did there? Six!
They dated for two whole years.
“Just let go. I’ll catch you.”
They sung songs all night long.
She fell asleep under the stars.
They’ve been married for twelve years.

Now for the secret story part! Somewhere in here is a hidden story (it’s not individual words. I’ll {possibly} do that another time. But just worry about the sentences for this one). Whoever can find the story wins! But you don’t get anything. Sorry.
HINT: It contains 7 of the sentences (gee, I practically gave it away right there).

Have fun!

The Day I Fell in Love

Two years ago to this very day, I decided to write a book. I had no idea what I was getting into. At all. I also didn’t think I’d stick with the whole writing thing. I didn’t care about the grammar, the spelling, the characters. But after awhile, those were the things that I eventually started to care about the most.

If there was a green, red, or purple line under a word on Microsoft Word, I had to fix it. I couldn’t leave it. Even though the grammatical corrections were often wrong, I’d re-work sentences just to make the stupid lines disappear.

Then there are the characters. While they aren’t real people, aspects of my friends’ personalities (and my own) are in every single one of them. Every character is special.

Sometimes I feel that only a writer can truly understand the “friendship” of a character, because only they have experienced their protagonist take control of the plot. You type furiously at your keyboard, but it’s not really you writing. The characters have taken charge of the plot. (Okay, so in a sense it is you, because the characters are only figments of your imagination, but you get the idea.) You think about your characters all the time, and their personalities develops so fully in your mind, even if there’s no character development in your story.

So here I am, two years and almost three books later (my NaNoWriMo novel is still in progress, and moving quite fast). I’ve stuck with writing, and love it more than when I started by miles and miles. I’ve gotten over Microsoft Word’s silly corrections, and have learned to ignore them (unless they’re correct).

I want to keep the books and my treasured characters to myself, but I also want to release them out into the world. Who knows what I’ll do. For now, though, I’m keeping my words safe for only a few to see, until they’re ready. Until I’m ready.
But maybe one of these days I’ll let people see what really goes on inside my odd brain.


He Saves us All

This is a poem I wrote earlier this month. Posted at over here.

As the bright moon sets slowly
Beyond the far off mountains,
A star shines brightly.
Snowflakes gently swirl,
Trees sway in the wind,
And the angels sing.

A royal Prince, born to die,
Is welcomed by the angels
Who sing their praises.
Shepherds humbly bow
Before their mighty King.
Oh, beautiful night!

Bethlehem, oh little town,
Follow the star up above,
And find you new King.
He’s sleeping soundly,
Laying in a manger,
Dreaming of His task.

A hard and difficult life
Of assisting His Father
Save this broken world.
Dying for our sins,
To rise after three days,
From the depths of hell.

Praise the mighty King of kings!
He’s saved us from Satan’s wrath.
He has persevered.
Oh, wonderful day!
Praise Him in everything,
For He saves us all.

Merry Christmas!