So that’s what it feels like to completely stop
.
.
.
And think for just a moment: What if they were mine?
It wasn’t always like this
They’re just a friend
My mind won’t stop these thoughts
I wish it did
“No you don’t”
Tag: creative writing
Desire
Mona Awad’s 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl: You Can Write Things Out of You
Mona Awad’s 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl, the 2017/2018 Acadia Reads pick, gives readers a glimpse into the struggles, mind, body, and soul of protagonist Elizabeth. The ways that Elizabeth views food and her body is abysmal. However, the book itself is far from it. Mona incorporates a dark humour throughout the stories which softens the blow of Elizabeth’s transformation not only in terms of weight, but in terms of overall identity as well. We are introduced to the chubby wide-eyed teenager Lizzie who then shifts into college student Beth. In her college days, Beth becomes obsessed with food and develops a determination that the reader is privy to once she becomes Elizabeth: married, thin, and elegant. Everything she has ever wanted to be. But there is also a disordered thinking that has creeped in, paving the way for Liz.
What makes Mona Awad’s 13 Ways unique is that it isn’t one continuous story, but a collection of 13 short stories each with a different focus whether it be one of Elizabeth’s friends, food, men, or an all too relatable experience in a fitting room. This style of writing allows for the distinct identities stemming from Elizabeth to shine through. Although it is one person throughout the 13 chapters, there is enough of a disconnect that illustrates the daunting transformations that the protagonist goes through. All but two of the stories are from the point of view of the protagonist, but Awad gives us a taste of other perspectives as well; one from a lover and one from Elizabeth’s husband. This gritty novel leaves those who resonate with the stories feeling a fleeting sense of bittersweet nostalgia.As part of Acadia Reads, Mona Awad came to campus and her presence was just as enthralling as her novel. In discussing her writing process and inspirations, Awad revealed herself openly to her audience.
“I was struggling with body image issues myself. I was very overweight; a 22-year-old goth girl, in some ways similar to my main character Lizzie. The idea to start writing came from a few places. One was the experience of clothes shopping as an overweight person. Specifically, at women’s plus sized stores, which back in the 90’s were abysmal. Especially if you were a young goth girl. A t-shirt with a sequined cat on it isn’t going to do it for you—that’s not what you can wear to a club called Death”.
Another source of inspiration for Awad existed in the various pieces of creative writing that she was exposed to in University. Recalling a piece of advice one of her Professors extended to her class, “he said that ‘you can write things out of you’, and when he said that he pushed his hands away from his body. Both that statement and that gesture thrilled me. I had never thought of writing in that way”. Awad referenced the writings that inspired her and gave licence to make 13 Ways possible, the writings that gave her permission to write out of herself. Among the list: Black Tickets by Jayne Anne Phillips and, of course, “13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” by Wallace Stevens.
“There are some texts that you have the fortune to encounter in your life, and if you’re an artist they just give you permission. They make you realize what depths and what tricks are really available to you. What freedoms are available to you…I maintain that the text that is going to do that for you, as a writer, as a student, as a person just existing in the world, may not be the one you’re already holding close to your heart. It may come as a real surprise to you. It certainly did for me… I think for anyone involved in words and story-telling that there is a constant engagement with what has been written as a way of shaping what will be written”.
After attending Mona Awad’s presentation and reading her book (twice), I was asked what 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl was about, but I could not give just one answer. The novel is not about just one character, it is about all the characters and all the readers and every relationship the characters and readers have. It is about vulnerability, desire, rage, sadness, hate, love, and everything in between. The beauty of Mona Awad’s novel is the emotions presented within the situations, because they can be applied to more than just body image and weight. Even if a reader can not resonate with those types of struggles, they can certainly apply the raw emotion to some sort of situation in their life. In my opinion, this is what makes a book worth reading.
Swimming Lessons
I do not know how to put
the happy back in my head
how to stop the aching
of my bones
how to fill the hole
between my lungs.
I am a ship
capsized by a sea
of loneliness
and as it takes my breath
I feel my motivation
for survival leaving me.
How will I make it shore?
I do not think I want to.The sun is shining,
the sky clear and blue
but I succumb to the waves
I am too weak to move.
Perhaps apathy
is all that is familiar to me,
for I do not tremble.
I cannot shake in fear
as I fear not drowning.
I am instead inviting Sadness
to stay,
to hold me in a way
I have not learned to hold
myself, stability,
familiarity in self-destruction.
These waves are angry,
relentless
and they ebb and flow
being pulled by my own,
damned
stubborn heartWhy else would I give in so easily?
I have tried countless times
to defeat my worst enemy
I have tried to conquer
this tenacious part of me
and I cannot win, Darling,
precedents show I should sink
instead of swim.Here Lies Caesar and His Men: Worshipped, Lost, Magnificent, Doomed; Homesick but not Forgotten
All this happened both forever ago and about a half a second since, in a span of around thirty seconds. It seems like an unapproachable distance of separation though, since then, that last year of school I thought I wouldn’t miss or think about now. Things were still fresh, a little more promising, a little less cruel. Brewing summer, ocean in abundance. I still remember the classroom windows and their view, how I would sit on the rocky table with its uneven legs and glare outside – the water view, the birds colliding with the sun, the sun swathed in a bright blue sky. Good weather reminds me of these memories. How one time, near graduation and on the cliff approach of a hot, thick, buzzing summer, school ended for the day and I walked down the hill and into the mid-afternoon, my only thought being that I needed to go for a swim. I called you, and you were hesitant, but with stupid persistence I managed to convince you to join. So I got on the bus headed your way, towards home, because there was this little beach tucked behind this neighborhood on the way, and I planned to meet you there. It’s special because rarely anyone goes there, and tourists hardly know anything about it, so it was all to ourselves (excluding the straying man or two).
But I accidentally got off the bus early–this bus full of people and salt and sunscreen–I think I can still smell the sun clinging on to all their bodies (slapped pink) and freckled faces (slapped red), all of us pressed together in this stuffy, contained space: as the bus moved bravely forward into this heat; my eyes snatching bits of the shore view from those windows; with the lazy, sunny conversation getting drowned underneath the sound of an engine… so like I said, I got off this bus early, around a few stops early. I can’t remember if I realized this before or after I got off, if I wanted to save face or not. I thought I should just keep walking until I eventually get to the neighborhood, as the bus rolled past with all its passengers of flight and fury – and I was about a quarter of the way there when I saw this woman walking towards me from a stop just ahead. An older woman, who was also on the same bus as me, and was smiling without her teeth. I can’t remember well, but she was so kind and offered to hold all my things on the bus – or offered me a seat, or both. So she was smiling at me and when we finally reached each other, still walking and small-smiling, she said – probably meaning nothing of it and with joking, light provocation (lighter than air) –
“Guess we both got off at the wrong stop.” I smiled and amicably agreed. I guess we did.
You must understand something, because looking back on this now I am struck with happy grief, at the realization that all life has really been is me accidentally getting off at the wrong stop. Anyway, I reached the beach soon enough, with the first thing worth getting out of being my shoes and socks. I stripped down out of uniform – tugged off my school tie and trousers, tucking in all my things on sharp rocks or in my bag. I only went swimming in just my underwear and pressed white school shirt (in this moment I preferred half-hearted decency over everything) which was now limp and wilting from sweat, and no longer crisp. I remember squinting out at the horizon, flat, bright – blue – and there was this boat off in the distance that made me wonder and worry if they saw me and would stop to say hello.
While waiting for you I would lay in the water floating on my back (which I’m told is called The Starfish) and blink through stinging blurry eyes, spotting vague whispers of a cloud here and there. I would then get out of the water and sit in the warm sand, my knees tucked into my belly. This moment (a moment I know now to have special significance as it is something like a point of no return) spent waiting and accompanied only with that brutal sun, and that feeling of wet strands of hair clinging to my cheek – that feeling of a moment lasting forever…
You came eventually.
And we were the only ones on the beach for some long, special stretch of time – excluding a straying man or two.
But when I saw you walking down to meet me for the first time, I remember you were saying something like hello, you brought food for us to eat, and you were sorry for taking so long. I can’t really remember the rest of the conversation after that. All I remember for certain – with happy, wistful conviction and with joking, light provocation (lighter than air), is that you got off at the right stop.
Empty Ovens
The smell of ash and winter clung to her stockings like the babies her husband prayed for. Itchy and tight, she couldn’t resist a scratch. Scrtttch. One chipped talon gave birth to a new run.
“Ripped another pair?” Molly, her bus buddy, eyed the dark stocking. Molly never ripped her stockings; her legs were always deliciously bare. Jane shrugged.
At home, Jane hung up her coat, put away her shoes, and placed her keys in the old ashtray-turned-holder of knickknacks. Walking into the living room, she saw John wasn’t home yet. No coat flung over back of sofa or shoes to trip over down the hallway.
She turned the oven on to preheat, and flipped on the radio on her way to the bathroom. Stripping herself bare, she looked into the mirror. The harsh light gave her déjà vu and brought the lines left behind by her stockings into sharp relief. They seemed almost garish, purpling into prophecy along her waist. Jane turned away and twisted the faucet, eager to wash away a day’s worth of work.
The radio switched to music and John shouted out hello. Jane didn’t answer, lost in steam and shampoo. Cold air rushed in as the glass door slid open, and John jumped in behind Jane. His hands encircled her waist and he dropped a kiss on her shoulder.
“It’s the still the seventeenth.” His hands wandered and Jane kept her eyes closed. The water seemed hotter, air harder to breathe. Steam turned from soothing to suffocating, and Jane thought about how she was going to drown by air in a shower. At least she wasn’t alone, she thought, as John started coughing against the back of her neck.
“Turn down the heat.” Jane went to twist the faucet again just as the world started screaming. “Fuck, what is that?”
John ran out of the shower, skidding on the checkered tile. Jane turned the shower off completely and followed, dripping her way to the kitchen where the wailing was at its highest. John was frantically waving a dish towel under the smoke alarm, and Jane remembered the time she watched a documentary on the Discovery Channel with her mother about rain dances in aboriginal communities.
“What’s in the oven, Jane?” Jane can barely hear John over the ear-splitting whine of the alarm. The oven must have been dirty, maybe it was the tuna casserole from yesterday. Jane walked over to the oven and deliberately shut it off.
“Nothing.”The alt-nah
A silent political fringe so low-key they’ve never actually been classified. Enter, the alt-nah…
Typically, nobody would actually identify as being part of the alt-nah because politics is just…nah. Hillary being crooked? Nah. Trump being… I don’t have enough words to finish that description? Nah. Having a voice in a country full of voices? Nah.
Leaders within this hidden movement come in many forms. Perhaps one of the most wiry of the bunch is MMA fighter, Conor McGregor. In perfect alt-nah fashion, he leads this movement with pointed tweets like “Fuck politics and fuck religion. I just want to swing a few lefts and a few rights for a couple of hundred mil in peace”. Essentially his followers interpret this as live your life and don’t give a fuck about anything that affects your surroundings.
Common phrases found within the movement include everything from a laissez-faire attitude that “politicians can’t do anything for me anyway” or “the system is entirely corrupt”. Typically, all these quotes can be chalked down to “not like it makes a difference anyway”.
Surprisingly, the alt-nah does act consistently within the political system regardless. The most common example of this is in voting. This is perhaps the most exciting point throughout the year that the alt-nah gets to tout the fact that “their vote doesn’t matter anyway”. Not like any votes counted in the last US election or anything or the PC leadership race…
You may be asking yourself, how does one join the alt-nah? Well, if you’re tired of the system not working for you, if you don’t really give a sh*t whether its Tommy Tea party taking your money and spending it on blow or Tammy the nanny giving your hard earned dollars to everyone else, you’re in luck. All it takes is a lack of shits to give and a few baseless quotes and you too can help!
Red Bullet
She was a flame.
The hot red poker was always cracking down on my fingers as I reached to grab the black butt on the bullet of her favourite lipstick. The glossy silver of the tube, how smooth the strawberry tip crept up, the tiny click when the cap was placed back to its home that resonated throughout my stomach. It was a forbidden luxury. One that, “You’re too young to be playing with!” Bobbing around in the back of my mind whenever my hands got too itchy.She was a scarlet wound.
I remember how her face almost matched the interior of the tube. The wine dark river of blood pockets flushed up into her temples. The cylinder was snatched before my chubby fingers had a chance to hold on. I never even had time to cry.She was the flick of salmon’s tail.
My first date would have been perfect with the addition of that red lipstick. I thought I had planned the most impeccable route out of the house, setting up traps like a labyrinth to keep my mother busy while he waited around the corner of our overgrown front gates. I quickly learned that my mother was the Minotaur and you could not escape. I had to scrub so long to remove the streak of crimson tides from my cheek, smudged from angry fingers, that my date left thinking I wasn’t coming anymore. She held my jaw between her thumb and pinky and I could smell the heat pouring from her nose.She was the magenta of an August sunset.
We were curled so tightly on the couch, wrapped in blankets and late night snacks. My heart was broken but her arms were so warm. She left ruby red kisses in my hair, traces of the chemical compounds found in lipstick placed along the ridge of my scalp.She was hard as the brick my father had used to build our house.
I asked her politely. Without emotion, as if it was a trivial question coming out of thin air. She told me the story of my birth. She told me the story of the first time he cursed in front of her. She told me the story of her hands over her ears in the back of her closet with red lipstick painted across her cheeks, down the bridge of her nose, because he didn’t like the colour red anymore. She told me the story of the day she vowed to wear nothing but red until death took over. As she unscrewed the bullet and as the pigments touched my lips she told me the story of how she never wanted to see me in red.Motivation
Feeling lost?
Are you scared?
I can tell something is on your mind.
Look, it’s not that bad…
Underneath the pain is a new light.
Reacting negatively is not the right way.
Endure the pain.
I know right now it is hard but everything will be alright.
Sometimes starting over is needed in order to make progress.
Upon a new beginning the past will try to take you back.
Not giving in is the most important part.
Another chance has been given to you and you cannot let it pass.
Varying paths will open the more you try to move forward.
Organizing your thoughts and planning ahead will lead you down the correct path.
In moments of great sorrow, time heals all wounds.
Don’t give up.
A new story is waiting to be told.
Believe in yourself.
Look around you now, and see everything is okay.
Everything is back to the way it should be.Feeling, Are, I, Look, Underneath, Reacting, Endure,
I, Sometimes,
Upon, Not, Another, Varying, Organizing, In, Don’t, A, Believe, Look, Everything.F A I L U R E
I S
U N A V O I D A B L EBut that does not mean it is the end. Sometimes failure is the new beginning.
Ego
You think you are a gift.
The sun.
The moon.
The tides.
All rise for you.
You forget.
We will all rise,
without you,
regardless.Luck
Luck, is it more a part of a phrase or something that people actually believe in? Whether you avoid black cats and walking under ladders or break a mirror and don’t give it a second thought, you or someone you know probably harbors a pretty strong belief in luck. Bad luck, “that’s lucky”, good luck, or “it’s just my luck”, phrases like these are heard quite commonly. Individuals that believe in the concept of luck and those that say things like “I make my own luck” are usually separated by whether or not they avoid things that are universally considered to be unlucky. Luck is defined as “success or failure apparently brought by chance rather than through one’s own actions” so it’s pretty clear what it means to be lucky and what it means to be unlucky.
Luck and superstition go hand in hand, there are certain things one can do, or should not do, that apparently increase the likelihood that you may experience “luck” or that could result in some form of “unluckiness”. So I suppose when someone asks you if you believe in luck they’re also asking if you’re superstitious. Athletes with a pre or post game ritual, people who cross their fingers before they look at their transcript, or people who don’t open umbrellas indoors, everyone has their own small practice that for one reason or another seems to be rooted in luck. If you’re looking for a comprehensive list of things that are lucky or unlucky I would suggest you avoid that because you’ll drive yourself crazy. There are clearly a very large number of people across many societies that believe in luck in one form or another. What is the validity in the idea of luck? As is often the case, science has the answer.
The science of luck has not as much to do with probability as it does with psychology. Those who are more open-minded and apt to try new things are also better suited to dealing with failure. Richard Wiseman, a psychologist from the University of Hertfordshire, found that those who call themselves lucky score higher on the personality factor of extraversion. There are a number of other studies that would suggest that those who consider themselves lucky are extroverted and otherwise bring a certain confidence into the everyday lives. There are actually studies that would suggest “luck” or the general concepts of superstitious people are a result of a section of the brain that attempts to find regularities in an otherwise uncertain world.
Lucky people, according to psychological research, seem to be people who spot and seize opportunity. They see the world in such a way that serendipity has little to do with their success, but rather it has to do with their open-mindedness and their ability to shrug off poor experiences or “bad luck” and continue on. As someone who is a relatively rational person I still definitely believe in some form of luck, it is something that seems to exist and that I cannot operate or attempt to change. It’s the reason I got a parking ticket this morning that was issued three minutes before I got to my car and it’s also why I spilled my coffee on myself as I removed the ticket from my windshield. Is there a science to luck? The simple answer is both yes and no.
We can often become preoccupied with the idea of the things that are not within our control. We shouldn’t let the things we can’t control take our focus away from the things we can. The science is clear on this subject, extroversion results in a person perceiving that they are somehow “luckier”. Don’t let the idea of your luck consume you, manufacture scenarios for yourself where you can maximize your luck. Try something new, or dangerous, or exciting. You’ll certainly never be bored, and you might just find some luck.
Oh, The Places You’ve Been and The Places You’ll Go
With move-in day approaching I began to feel nervous.
More than 1,400 miles from home and what was the purpose?
I was starting my degree and my young adult life
And Acadia embodied a future that was bright.
When I went for my Frosh pack, I met my future best friend.
I met so many people, on who I learned to depend.
I became acquainted with the rotation of food in meal hall.
I also learned to watch out and not feed the seagulls.
My second year I returned, tan, wise and keen.
I was no longer a Frosh and I’d avoided the freshman fifteen.
I got to know my professors and enjoyed my classes.
I studied, I went out and I even got glasses.
An apartment off campus was where I lived my third year.
Where I met my boyfriend, learned to cook and bonded with peers.
I went to hockey games, started yoga and continued disliking the weather.
I had found where I belonged; I felt it could only get better.
As my final year began, I was anxious and ready.
I was an old pro at school, but as an adult felt unsteady.
The year went by in slow motion, but also too fast
I was home at Acadia, but I knew it could not always last.
As I crossed the stage in U-Hall, the past four years flashed before my eyes.
I saw everything between my first day as a frosh and that moment and I quietly said my goodbyes.
I said goodbye to the place that had made me so nervous four years ago,
The place that had shaped me, that had helped me to grow.
However long you have been at Acadia, you know what I mean.
It is a place that gives back, which in life is not always foreseen.
Future alumni, the end of your time at Acadia is not a plateau,
Oh, the place you have been and the places you’ll go.I’m No Fisherman
There are plenty of
fish in the sea. But,
then you have to rent a boat and
rod and buy worms
and that’s too much
damn effort for me
right now.
Dear Mother
It’s finally done!!
After four years
The mud, blood, and tears have stopped
I cannot wait to get home.
I have lost a lot along the way
Friends, Comrades, Sanity
All for supposed “glory”
I’m lucky to still be alive.
No one won this.
It just created more problems down the road
But that’s all behind me now
YOU’RE GONE
Was the fighting all for nothing?
Everyone who died in vain?
Is this just one graveyard for another?
I died for nothing.
Now there is nothing left.
Nothing Really Mattress
Today,
the morning said to me,
“go back to sleep”
then it kissed me on the cheek
and the rain played through my window
like my favourite song
until i was safe in my dreams.
my bed was empty
when i awoke
Morning had left me alone,
and i wanted to wait
for it to come back.
the afternoon knocked
on my door,
asking me if i was going to eat soon
then it told me
“you should probably eat soon”
but i crawled for a new pack
of cigarettes instead
then i laid, naked and empty,
lost in my head
on the floor of my kitchen,
watching the smoke
cloud my vision
of Responsibility peeking
through the window.
Reality had already settled
into the wrong places of my mind,
snickering as it closed the blinds
to the outside,
reminding me
how god damn easy
it is to ignore
the things i do not want
to face anymore.
i heard it whispering
“come on, what’s one more?”
but one more
was the last of the packi was dizzy,
and exploding with emotion,
intensity.
feeling in extremes
is not easy.
it is leaving the blinds
closed even though
i know i will have to open them
tomorrow.
i do not want to.
it is ripping myself in half,
knowing i will have
to stitch all the shit
back up again.
i do not want to.
it is reaching up from the kitchen floor
to get the knife
from the drawer
and sliding it across my skin.
it is the voice in my head still whispering
“what’s one more”
while my eyes shut
and the walls are crashing,
the blood falls.
it is wondering
if the Morning plans
on coming back at all.