Writing on Paper

Maybe it’s because I can see the words forming in front of me. Maybe it’s the feeling of being in control. Maybe it’s the sound my pen or pencil makes on paper – the look and feel of a long paragraph.

Or maybe the words flowed better. Or maybe it felt like I had more work done when my hand began to hurt from writing so much. Or maybe I just liked writing.

Writing anything paper-and-pen felt better to me, but it was slower. Even with typing, I could barely keep up with my ideas.

But after typing two manuscripts and reading through some of both, I realized I had stuff missing compared to those half-fulfilled handwritten drafts.

The words and the scenes didn’t flow well. The paragraphs felt smaller. Most of it was dialogue. But when I write on paper, everything seems to fit. It even feels like I can think longer and more creatively as I write

Dear Rocky

The following is a letter I wrote to myself in the beginning of senior year, which was meant to be given back to us on the last day of our English class.

Dear Rocky,

By the time you get this letter, you must be bored of school, tired of school, and exhausted of socializing. Hopefully you have enough willpower to continue reading this (written in August 23, 2016 [first English class]). If not, then sorry.

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Dearest mourner

November 22, 2016


Dearest mourner,

┬áIt hurts. I know. It feels like the entire world should be mourning with you. It feels like anyone’s happiness is a personal insults.

You feel weak because you cry, because you think of them at random times, because you miss them.

It becomes hard to say, “Good morning” when you’re mourning since your world has collapsed.

Your system is gone.

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A deal set for years

In a castle long ago.

A princess waiting

For her promised flaming love,

A handsome, dashing young prince.

For years he waited.

The day had finally come

To meet the princess,

A beautiful, lovely girl

With a fortune to save him.

When he had arrived,

She ran down the steps with love,

A fire in her heart,

To embrace her new husband.

He gave her a golden ring.

The two, now wed, laid

In bed, a fire between them.

Since their love was fire,

The new queen did not notice

Her king locking the door shut.

Because love is fire,

The lovestruck did not notice

The fire in her room.

Burning love muted it all.

The queen’s mind was far away.

Because fire is love,

The thief did not regret it,

But he cried anyway

Because he truly loved her

But loved money even more.