lovetowrite's blog

Long. Light-hearted.  Weak ending.  Suggestions appreciated. 

It was nine o’clock.  December 5^th.  School night.  There were three of us: me, Mack, and Jule.  Mack, short for Mackenzie, Jule, short for Julienne, and me, Hope: a name that didn’t lend itself to nicknames, or anything else besides absurd optimism. 

We were walking home from the cider mill, about a mile and a half away, clutching our Styrofoam cups of hot spiced cider with both hands.  The roads were empty.  The traffic lights were flashing red.  This is often the case during winter in Vermont. 

“So, have you finished that essay for Lit.?” Mack said.

            Jule laughed.  “Have I started that essay for Lit.?”

            “Can you say free period tomorrow?” I smirked.

            Mack sighed. “Yeah, well I don’t have a free period tomorrow.  Plus I haven’t even looked at calc.  Or bio.”

            “Whatever, Mack, it’s senior year.  Who even cares at this point,” I said.

            She rolled her eyes.  “Applications won’t be in for a month.  It’s a little early for senioritis.” Read more »

Cabbie

It’s hard sometimes to understand what I’m doing here: 24 years old, two years out of college, broke. I drive a cab to pay the bills—to cobble together rent on my shitty, closet sized apartment, to keep coffee on the shelf and ramen in the pantry.

Yesterday somebody told me taxi driving was no job for a girl like me. To hell with that, I need the money and I need to drive—there’s no way that I can sit around an office in pumps and a pencil skirt and make copies.  

Not that I was supposed to end up here.  Who is?  Who dreams of driving people around all day?  Always taking journeys but never arriving at a destination.  Yet, there are hundreds of taxi drivers in the city.  Many of them are immigrants.  They came here with nothing more than a wife, some kids, and a load of expectations. Don’t know what they thought they’d find here, but this sure isn’t it.  Read more »

This is long.  Suggestions appreciated.

             The first bouquet came on a Tuesday.  Sarah was in the kitchen with the newspaper when the doorbell rang.  It was early morning.  She heard her husband’s footsteps on the stairs and listened as he opened the door.  Words were exchanged, too muffled for her to hear.  She kept reading.

            Gary, her husband of three years, came in carrying a bouquet of roses.  “Surprise,” he said.

            “What are those?”

            He shrugged.  “Flowers.  A guy just came and delivered them for you.  Maybe there’s a card.”  He handed her the roses.

            Sarah took off the packaging to look for a note, but didn’t find anything there. “He didn’t say who they were from?” 

            “No.  Just handed them to me and asked me to sign.”

            She inhaled deeply.  “They’re beautiful.”  She looked at him suspiciously.  “Our anniversary isn’t for two months.  And Valentine’s Day was a while ago…”

            “Don’t look at me, I didn’t send them.”  Gary laughed.  “You know I’m not that smooth.” Read more »

At the beginning of September I spent 10 days in Italy.  Haven't quite adjusted to being back...

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 the silence

between movements

is like a breath--

everyone seems to

wake up,

momentarily,

out of the lull

the music puts us into.

the musicians smile,

their perfect posture relaxes;

they breathe too.

pages turn,

stands are adjusted,

and then, soon,

they're off,

and we fall under their spell

once more.

 There is such camaraderie between the musicians.  They have to trust each other to play the right notes at the right time, and at the right tempo.  You can see them watching each other as they play, making minute adjustments in their own motions if needed, smiling when they make eye contact with each other, smiling simply because of the beauty of the music they play.  The program given to all the audience members as they walked into Elley-Long has a tagli Read more »

the violist’s face is

almost

as expressive as her bow. 

her eyebrows scrunch up occasionally,

lips turn up at the corners in times of rest,

and at some moments,

her eyes close

completely;

she stretches her whole body back while her instrument is silent, Read more »

 The piece starts on an ominous note—six, to be exact.  The strings open up with a strong refrain that is repeated multiple times throughout the movement, and the piano echoes them.  The entire movement is one of anger, it seems—a lover’s quarrel, perhaps.Read more »

 The piece starts on an ominous note—six, to be exact.  The strings open up with a strong refrain that is repeated multiple times throughout the movement, and the piano echoes them.  The entire movement is one of anger, it seems—a lover’s quarrel, perhaps.Read more »

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There have been many odes to Harry Potter in the last few weeks, and although everything I write has been said already, I won’t be able to rest until I’ve had my say as well.
I’ve been in love with the wizarding world since the age of five, and it’s an affair that has no foreseeable conclusion.  Through every book I have laughed, and cried, and desperately wished that I could meet the people Ms. Rowling has brought to life with such honor, vivacity, and truth. Read more »

  This is definitely angst free, but I don't know if it perfectly fits with GG's angst-free vision.  But I'll tag it as such for now.        

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...written for an application for a medical conference in Burlington this summer.

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Hello, YWP!

This January 14^th and 15^th, the First Light Theater group is putting on an original version of Antigone, adapted from the version written over 2,000 years ago by the Greek playwright Sophocles. The crew and cast is made up entirely of middle schoolers, and also involves high school students helping with direction and lighting. I'm deeply involved with the production—I was the one who adapted the play. The story hasn't changed, the words have just become a bit more modern—to make it easier for everyone to relate to.

This is an incredibly unique and exciting production, and we'd love to get people to come to see it from all over the state. So if you're able, please try and make it! Tickets are $7 for adults, $5 for students, and can be purchased at Frederick Tuttle Middle School or at Dorset Street Beverage, in South Burlington. They can also be purchased at the door. Performances are at 7:30 PM on both days, and take place at South Burlington High School.

-Avni (lovetowrite)

For more information: firstlighttheatre.com/sophocles_antigone

The trailer for the production: www.youtube.com/watch Read more »

 This is incredibly rough and full of cliches and doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but I want to make it better.  I want it to be a love story--a two minute love story, a prose/poetry like jumble.  Hopefully you can help me with that, YWP!

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I started running cross country this year, after I vowed I never would.  It is honestly one of the hardest things I have ever done.  And I'm slow, but it's okay--cause unlike in other sports, no one cares how you do besides yourself.  So...in an attempt at a return to poetry, and in an attempt to get down my feelings pre and during race..I wrote this.  

I hold back the tears Read more »

My shoulders are bending

under the weight of my life

I just hope

they don't break.

Poetry and music
seem to go together,
you know?
And after six months
in which I have not
written a poem,
I am glad to do so
again.

The poem doesn't go together too well, but bear with me.

i.
I like sitting in Elley-Long,
I like listening to the quiet.
Women carry their high heels
in their hands,
And everyone tip toes as the music plays.

Quartet Rossini Sonata.MP3

I love chamber music. While listening to great big orchestras is an incredible experience, listening to 4 or 5 musicians is undeniably more intimate. The music is just as powerful, and it’s almost as if you can hear it better. And I find it amazing that they are always able to stay together. Read more »

As I sat down to watch the Brahms rehearsal, I flipped open my festival program, and did some uncharacteristic research. What I learned was worth the effort. Read more »

It was just another summer day. Hot, sunny, white, puffy clouds floating around like pillows in the sky. I was volunteering at a camp for 3-5 year olds, and it was playground time. Two kids had pulled me over to the swings excitedly, clamoring loudly for 'under dogs' and 'forward dogs' and all kinds of special pushes that I had to be reminded of.

One little boy was my favorite--even though I wasn't supposed to have favorites. (Shh). His voice was high and clear, and he was one of the younger ones there. "Teacher, teacher!" he cried, bopping up and down on his swing. Read more »

When Sarah was six or maybe seven, she watched with fascination as a girl sobbed her heart out. It was only a movie, of course, and not the first time Sarah had witnessed such a scene. But, it was the first time she'd ever paid attention. The movie was a typical rom-com, boy and girl meet, boy and girl hate each other, boy and girl bond over some dangerous/comedic/stressful situation--in this case, getting mutual friends on a date. At the end of the movie, both tried to make their feelings known to each other, but didn't get the chance. Read more »

I had this idea a few weeks ago, but didn't have time to get it down. This is a very rough draft--I'm not too happy with the writing as yet, but I hope to come back to it. I'd love feedback! Read more »

My family visits India every other year, at the very least. Almost all our family is there—a collage of aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents that exclaim over how much older I look, and lament the fact that I don't speak Hindi to them. I used to speak Hindi beautifully, they tell me. When my cousins were younger, they didn't know English, and the only way for us to communicate was Hindi. So I spoke. And when I was young, I was never self conscious, or nervous, and people would think my messy Hindi was cute, not embarrassing. Read more »

Everyone knows the stereotypical teenager.

You know, the one who sleeps in late, and listens to music too loud, and has bad attitude all the time. The one who doesn't clean their room, and hates school, and who eats about a bajillion calories before lunch. The people always on their cell phones, always watching TV, always on Facebook. The kid who has to be yelled at before they do their homework—even though they can memorize the latest hip hoppy/rap stuff on the radio after hearing a song twice. We all know the stereotypical teenager.

Let me tell you a secret. Read more »

This is my first attempt at a slam poem, so feedback would be great!

I miss when people
were real--
awake and alive
and they would feel
passion
for things that weren't cool
and they were the same
outside of school--
but it isn't like that anymore,
Cause this world is
fake, you know it--
its true.
This world is fake,
and so are you--
and you
and you
and you
and whoever thinks
the sky is blue
cause it's not, you know
it's all an illusion
Just adds to the confusion
of this world everyday
these people everywhere
with the same jeans
and the same shoes Read more »

"Did you know elephants and humans are the only land animals that cry?"

I glanced at my brother for a second before going back to the email I was writing.

"Isn't that cool? We learned it in science today."

I ignored him. Eric* can't take being ignored for long, however, and he came over to see what I was doing.

"Email." he scoffed. "Why are you always writing emails?"

I continued to type.

Now, my mom intervened. "Honey, he asked you a question."

I looked up, giving him a teenager's trademark I really don't care look. "What." Read more »

Today I went to school as if it were any other day—pulling on a jeans and a long sleeved shirt and grabbing my fleece from the closet.

Seven hours later, I emerged from that building like a butterfly from a cocoon. The sky was blue and the sun was shining, and the random patches of snow were slowly melting away. Spring sports had tryouts and people were carrying their coats in their arms instead of wearing them. I heard the birds chirping, and if I watched long enough, I'm sure I would've seen the grass turning green.

It was a good time. Read more »

Don't worry. I'm not usually this negative.

Hi. I am a fourteen year old fresh(wo)man, and I am going no where with my life. And it's completely my fault—and I know that, but that knowledge hasn't changed a thing.

Basically, I waste time a lot. And every moment I'm on Facebook, or pointlessly checking my email, or aimlessly reading through comments on YWP is pretty much a failed moment. Me being an incredibly skilled procrastinator adds up to a lot of failed moments. Read more »

8 days ago, I kept an eye on the clock as I waited for the 2010 Olympics to start. My parents were upstairs, and my brother was reading a book, but I couldn't wait for the beginning of yet another Winter Games. Two years ago, I watched the Summer Olympics, cheering on Michael Phelps and the rest of Team USA competing in Beijing, and I couldn't wait to see the athletes that these Winter Games would showcase. Read more »