May is an interesting month to me. First, there's the obvious reason: my birthday is May 9th. I'm the type of person who wishes that her birthday was special or something, but really I like spending the day enjoying my own company. Ah, but I digress. Other people have birthdays in May too, like my sister and my best friend. It's a month for Mother's Day, when I get to thank my wonderful mom for everything she does. Finally, it's when spring finally starts showing up in Cleveland. April kind of teases us with warm days interspersed between freezing, but May at least promises to never snow. I appreciate that.
Anyhoo, since I like May, I've decided this is the month when I will begin my creative writing exercises! Yay! It helps that I'm almost done with my second semester of grad school, so I will have a tad bit more free time. It'll be epic.
Here's the plan: every day in the month of May (ha, that rhymes), I will post an exercise to help with writing. Some days, it may just be me brushing up on grammar. Other days, it may be practicing detail or character development. Some of them will be ones I've done for workshops and the like, others I will make up... probably on the spot.
You're probably now asking yourself: why in the world should you do this? Well, for starters, I would love to write one of those self-help books for writing skills. Haven't thought of a title or anything, but I like the idea of forcing the readers to write, since that is the best way to learn. It's also great practice for me, and it has been awhile since I did exercises.
PREVIEW!! This means in June, I may begin my series of stories. This means every week, I will add another chapter to my story. I'm bouncing around two ideas at the moment, so by June I'll hopefully have it figured out. Until then, bear with my incessant posts...
It has been two years since I studied abroad in London. That seems like forever and a half ago and it's weird to think that it even happened at all. One of the objects I have in my possession to help remind me that yes, I did indeed live across the pond, is a journal I used for class. The module was a creative writing course that used London itself as the main focus. I loved the class and loved the opportunity to write about such an amazing place. What follows is a small excerpt from that journal that I like so much I thought I'd share...
Taken by Mary Crotty
The Underground (Originally written on 28. January 2011)
Within the grungy bowels of London, monsters rumbled and groan. Nothing can stop them as they crash through their long tunnels of concrete. Beware their many mouths as they slide open wide and engulf any waiting mesmerized passenger too close to the yellow line.
True heroes may stand on the gray concrete platforms beside the trenches of the beasts. The thick air wraps around them, smelling of leather and a slight hint of human sweat. Only those brave enough may step up to the painted line marked "Mind the Gap." Passed that, the platform falls away to deceitful metal tracks; the footprints of the behemoths.
All goes quiet and the wind gushes from the dark unknown, fluttering loose hair and newspapers about the concrete catacomb. A quiet hiss and squeak of metal-on-metal comes from the darkness. Two orbs of light, like glowing yellow eyes, appear first. Then the head of the beast made of a square metal frame and sheets of glass as it slides closer. Ever closer to the platform.
Quench the urge to pet the monster as it swoops by. Everything begins as a blur as one can only see the white body and the red doors mixing together, creating the illusion of pink. The train slows, making the windows and doors become separate. Even the dirt can now be seen marking the worn-out beast as a veteran of the deep.
Finally, the train comes to a stop. With a hiss, the doors open, beckoning those stationed on the platform to step inside. Are you a hero here to force the modern Grendel to slumber? Or will you only be another snack for the eternally starving Tube?
****
Taken by Mary Crotty
It's short, and I think I like it mainly because it's fun to fantasize about everyday things. I guess this just gives you an idea where my mind goes when I had to wait for my train home. Truly, it was nothing short of an adventure.
Long ago, back when I wrote random stories on a site called Quizilla (I'd leave you a link, but it's nothing like what it used to be) because I was bored in high school and really enjoyed writing. The nice thing about it was although it was set up as a site for quizzes, people wrote stories as well. Some that were quite interesting, if I remember correctly. Granted, a lot of them had some major spelling mistakes, but fear not! I was one of the ones who spell-checked before publishing... usually. (Note: I don't plan on mentioning the stories I wrote because I was in high school and they pretty much sucked. Just... take my word for it).
A banner one of my followers made me for one of my stories.
Nothing special, but I was really happy for the support!
Anyway, I learned some good habits from this. First, I learned how to write for an audience. I knew I had to write stories that would intrigue the people who were already on the site, and from reading around, most of this meant chick flicks or vampires. I delved into both because coincidentally, I was going through my vampire phase. Two, I learned how to write as a habit because I usually would post a new section every Saturday morning. I would sit at our family computer (ah, the time before my own laptop... good times) and crank out a chapter for a few hours. I wrote more in the summer, obviously, because I was free. After awhile, I became a beast at leaving cliff-hangers, but I never wanted to leave them for too long. I did end up with a few fans, and I didn't want to disappoint. Third and finally, I learned a bit about writing HTML.
Even then, I knew this was not much of an accomplishment because I would really just Google whatever I wanted to know. At the same time, though, I learned what made up my page and would change the font, color, background, and even some mood music to set the tone. I will admit I sometimes went a little overboard, but I would pull back if need be. I even added a few pictures and videos for good measure, all using the HTML code.
Fast forward back to present day, when I am now trying to learn more advanced code. One of my dear friends introduced me to Codecademy, which is a site that teaches you code in baby steps. I've fallen in love with it and do every lesson with vigor. I just finished the courses on HTML and CSS, which was half review because of what I've done before. I did enjoy CSS and am excited to continue learning random things!
Why bother, you ask? Well, since I learned HTML I have enjoyed playing around with websites and such. I also think that as the world becomes more digital, knowing more about computers is helpful. My laptop, Zachary, is also on Linux because of a few mishaps on Windows 7, so understanding a bit more code might also take away some of the fear of trying to fix my own problems. Finally, if I'm going to be a librarian of the future, I might as well keep up with the technology that will hopefully continue to integrate into my workplace. Really, that last one I just threw out there for good measure.
St. Patrick's Day always has a special place in my heart. Most of my ancestors were Irish, but came over at different times. Some came over before the United States were formed (according to my mother) while others came over during the potato famine. Some of my ancestors worked on the railroads here in lovely Cleveland, Ohio, and even my dad worked in the steel mills. When people meet me, they sometimes remark how Irish I seem, whether it's by my name (Mary Katherine) or appearance (gotta love my pale freckled skin). On top of all this, I also did Irish dancing for ten years, and how I began is the story I will tell today.
Yes, I will confess I became a dancer because of Riverdance. I saw it on television and I remember being floored by the mix of strength and beauty the dancers had. Their stomping feet would mesmerize me and I'd sit there fascinated, slowing inching closer to the screen without even meaning to. If it ever came on, I wanted to watch because I would then try to mimic their steps. As I recall, I thought I did pretty well, but I probably looked pretty silly trying to hold my hands to my sides as I stomped and shuffled around. I imagine I was also very wobbly as I tried to manage my steps.
Unfortunately, my parents did not want to invest unless I was absolutely certain I wanted to dance. This is perfectly reasonable because after buying the two pairs of shoes, the socks, the lessons, the heavy expensive dress, the wig, the competition fees, the hotel rooms, and the gas to travel to the competitions, your wallet feels pretty exhausted. I didn't even mention any souvenirs or extra T-shirts and sweatshirts to advertise your school! Oh, silly me. Thus, it took a year of my trying to persuade them that I wanted to dance before they would let me, and one vacation had to occur first as well.
It was the summer of 1998 (I think, my memory is foggy, but stay with me). I was eight years old and ready to start third grade that fall. My family decided to go on a vacation down to the Isle of Palms, South Carolina because my aunt and uncle owned a beach house there. It was a nice house with about a ten minute walk to the beach, but not important for the story. The point is, we were there.
Anyway, one night my family stopped at an Irish pub-like restaurant for dinner. My mother can remember the name, but I was eight so it didn't matter to me. I remember dark wood and cramped spaces. There was a guitarist in the corner singing random songs such as "Cheeseburger in Paradise" and my mother immediately sang along. I think that was the first time I remember listening to Jimmy Buffet, but definitely not the last.
Later on, after we finished, my aunt and uncle's foster daughter at the time asked me to dance with her to the music. She was nine, I believe, so around my age and I liked her. It took a little bit of persuasion to get me away from my parents, but eventually I stood up and decided not to just dance. I wanted to Irish dance. My memory made me think that an Irish tune was playing, but I honestly cannot remember the music. I do remember people clapping along as I whipped my feet around, taking all the attention away from my friend. My arms tried to stay at my sides as I bumped and shuffled, feeling accomplished until I finally collapsed back into my seat. Applause filled the restaurant as my mom handed me my spring jacket and we headed for the door.
As I was just about to exit onto the street, I heard the guitarist say, "You know, if she had kept her arms a little tighter, I would have thought she was Riverdancing."
Before I knew it, I was in my classes learning about all the different steps and keeping my hands at my sides. Part of me has always wanted to go back to that restaurant (that's still there) and dance again, but I know no one would remember. Not to mention, it's been around five years since I had my last Irish dancing class, so I'm a little rusty. I'll still dance for you on St. Patrick's Day, though. All you have to do is ask.
I am a huge fan of upcycling. Simply the idea of already having what I need as well as using something in a new way. It involves random thoughts and needs to be filled. This could also be my downfall because before I throw anything out, I always ask myself, "Can I use this?" It's usually an epic battle within my head as the brainstorm commences. Some of my story characters run to hide as the thought bubbles rain from on high. Different ideas unsheathe their flaming swords of reason and step out onto the muddy battlefield. Blood splatter as weapons clash. Arrows of suggestion mix with the thought bubbles, causing disaster to the warriors of ideas. Yet in the end, I usually throw the thing out anyway... or recycle it. Recycling's good too. I would really like to avoid hoarding things, so unless I see a use in the foreseeable future (like how I save pieces of wrapping paper for cards that I make and write on a monthly or so basis), I usually will throw something out. Yet I feel that's when I feel my grief over the brave thoughts that lost their lives during the battle in my head. Unfortunately, they are gone and we must live on because that's what they would want.
Something like this,,,
That paragraph is a mess of nonsense, but I was really enjoying the metaphor, so I'm not getting rid of it. Might draw a picture of it some day and clean it up, but it is about an argument in one's head, so my defense tonight is that war's supposed to be messy.
Anyhoo, on to the plarn. What is plarn, you say? Well, it's upcycling at its finest. One day, I noticed a lot of plastic bags in my room and I decided to use them. Granted, they were in my room because I use them for garbage, but since I have been buying things faster than throwing things out, the pesky bags have started to collect. One option is to simply recycle, but before I did so, I figured I would do a little research and see what creative people did with such bags. In some cases, people simply took a whole day and folded them into little triangles. As much as I might be a perfectionist, I can't bring myself to do this. I don't have the time. Then, I stumbled upon this gem:
Plarn, or plastic yarn, is a method of cutting plastic bags into strips so that you can use them for crochet or knitting. As someone who enjoys the occasional granny square, I immediately liked the idea and found that making a bag out of the stuff to be genius. After a week of cutting up bags, I ended up with this result:
My own plarn bag
My favorite part about plarn is that it doesn't look like plastic bags when you're done. Sure, if you get really close and feel the plastic, you can tell, but it doesn't even make that annoying crinkling noise of plastic bags. To get the different colors, I just used different bags, but the splashes of color in between the layers came from the images that had been on the bags. It gives a nice semi-random design.
Getting that close up of my crochet skills
I decided to line the inside with some material I bought and gave myself a few pockets. It involved mainly hand-sewing it to the plarn, but I first used a sewing machine to make the pockets. You know, for the essentials like my phone, wallet, change purse, and pens. An artist/writer can't go anywhere without pens and paper. I chose this size because I could fit my tablet as well as a book (or two) inside without making it too heavy. I then added some simple straps because this is really my first bag and I didn't want to overwhelm myself by making them adjustable or anything. I also fused one plastic bag together and attached in between the plarn and my lining on the bottom to give it extra support and water resistance in case I put my bag down somewhere questionable. I have a link here to show you how that works.
The inside. Made a point to match the blue bags I used in the stripes.
So there you have it, my latest creation. I like how I don't really have to worry about it in the rain or the snow. Many people have complimented me on my bag and every time I tell them that 1) I made it and 2) that it's from plastic bags, they're always amazed.
If you are new at crochet, I still suggest this project because the plarn does not fray like yarn and you don't have to be extremely loose with your stitches (which I know comes with practice). Still, the plarn sticks to itself and sometimes fights against you, but it still wasn't so bad. Not to mention, it's pretty easy to get a bunch of plastic bags, so you can make as many mistakes as you want without breaking the bank! I do also suggest recycling the scraps you get while making the plarn because you do not use the handles and the bottom of the plastic bag. Perhaps put them all in a plastic bag you won't use and recycle them. I will admit I did not always do this, and thus why I'm saying it here in hopes that others will not follow my horrible example. I'm lazy and I know it... don't judge me. In the least, I will take the time to make a bag and love it to pieces, as I'm sure if you do this, you will too.
This last week, my mom and I started going to Zumba. It's a class put together by my mom's work, so it happens in her building. She works for CEVEC, which is located behind Mayfield Middle School. Being a Brush alumnus (as well as my mother), it's weird going to my rival's school, even if I pass the middle school and go for another building. as I drove back to CEVEC, I had to pass by Mayfield's soccer field that both the middle school and high school uses. At least they did over five years ago. I remember it being a crappy field and we ended up losing a lot of games on it. It had this annoying hill right behind one of the goals and if you shot and missed...
This isn't what we looked like, but I like the image.
All right, I'm getting off topic already. Anyway, I got there a little early because I wanted to make sure I knew where I was going and all that. My mom had enough time to show me around to the classrooms and workstations used by the students, not to mention introduced me to all of her coworkers. They were all very nice people and I made a point to keep eye contact and shake their hands because getting people jobs is what they did. I felt a need to prove to them I was a confident and polite individual.
When I went over to give my payment to the Zumba instructor, she stopped me and asked me a few questions. I think she thought I was a high schooler even though I was wearing my Marietta College soccer practice uniform. We got to talking about colleges, even though I think she missed me mentioning that I was in grad school. She also asked if I did Zumba before and I got to proudly answer yes. My mother though, has only used the Wii. She seemed to understand that.
The women of the class first assembled in the space. They chatted among themselves as my mom continued to introduce me to them. Most of them wore baggy T-shirts and sweatpants or shorts, making it a very informal atmosphere. Even when meeting the principal, she wore a T-shirt that displayed a monkey and a funny phrase to go with it (since I am aware she should be respected, I will keep the shirt a mystery. In her defense, it was a gag gift conveniently useful for working out). We formed two hesitant lines with me near the windows and my mother to my right. The Zumba instructor took her place in front of us as the upbeat music began to play.
Now, I was a little nervous doing Zumba with my mother because it does involve a lot of shaking. Turns out, wriggling your rump aggressively can tone your abs and makes your butt fit and firm. It is a skill to be mastered, though, and I would say after the amount of dance floors I've conquered, I have a slight idea how it works. Not to mention, ten years of Irish dancing helps. Not entirely because Irish dancing does not move your arms, but it does train you how to isolate and control different body parts.
It felt great to be moving and dancing again. Sometimes the moves felt odd or forced because I occasionally my rump would forget which way to shake. Other times, it felt entirely natural and I could feel my smile broadening with every move. Since I am out of shape, I couldn't help watching the clock as my body protested. I wanted to keep dancing, but it probably was a bad idea to inhale a few mozzarella sticks first. Eventually, the hour ended and although my body felt worn out, I could feel the endorphins making me energized and happy. I quickly had to rush home and shower before going to work at the library, but the work-out was worth it and I look forward to it this coming Thursday.
I will always love to dance. Listening to the music and letting it take control over me. Ignoring any other thoughts and just focusing on my movements. Dancing makes me feel free. It makes me feel alive and powerful. I dance because I'm happy. No matter how stressed or angry I might be, dancing has always taken away my pain. It lets me let go of my worries and focus on what matters to me. As long as I can dance, I will always be able to find my happy place.
For the past four years, college has kept me away from the wild weather common in the Cleveland area. I never noticed its strange behavior back when Cleveland was my world. As a child, it never crossed my mind that lake-effect snow wasn't a thing. Sure, I knew down south it was warmer and they didn't get as much snow because half of my family lives in North Carolina and they would squeal at the thought of a light dusting of snow rather than the avalanche we get (this is an exaggeration. Most of my family grew up in Cleveland and then moved south. It's just more fun to write it that way and really, they have to deal with ice storms that suck).
The snow comes fast and it comes hard. The first few snowflakes appear and gently dust the ground right before the wind picks up and a flurry immediately dumps inches upon inches of sparkling white flakes that stick to your clothes and have a nasty habit of sneaking up under your pant legs and drenching your freezing ankles. No matter how many times you stomp your feet, you will always track snow through the house. Even after pulling off your cold boots, the bottoms of your pants stay damp with the melted snow; a constant reminder it's winter. For Cleveland, there's usually at least enough snow to hide the grass and not so much you can't tread your way through it. Except sometimes on Easter, when there can be four feet of snow for no apparent reason, but that's another story.
Winter can be odd and confusing with hopeful rays of sunshine pushing through and giving us Clevelanders scarce days of 50 degrees Fahrenheit. Suddenly, the world is warm and coats are thrown aside as we rush to feel the heat on our skin. For a second, we forget it's January and instead have a slight memory of what warm weather can be. Spring does not seem too far off then.
And yet, it never lasts. That nice spring weather was last Monday. It made all of the snow melt and I remember standing outside with my dog with a strong desire to bathe in the sun. Of course it wouldn't last and sure enough by Wednesday, all of the snow had returned. The temperature dropped below freezing again and Cleveland got on with winter. Right, this is how Cleveland weather works. After four years, I had almost forgotten.
This is also the first winter when I have owned my own car. His name is Archibald and he's a blue 2012 Ford Focus. I got him over the summer because I needed a car for my new jobs. He's spunky and just right for me. We've grown to love each other and have had our share of adventures like speeding down to Marietta for a wedding or driving randomly down Mayfield Road (also known as Route 322) that winds between civilization and nothingness. He likes to take my phone calls with his Sync technology and gets very confused when I get a text message. Archie's a good listener though, and pays very close attention when I use the voice command, usually getting it right on the first try.
If you hadn't guessed, this is Archie's first winter and I'd say he's taking it very well. I don't know how he feels always being covered in snow, but I'm sure sick of brushing him off. He's not the biggest of cars, so it never takes long, but when you have to do it multiple times a day it gets boring. To be fair, Archie has a tendency of swearing whenever he slips on the newly-fallen snow by turning on his little Slip indicator light blinking aggressively. The driveway can also be a pain because he's a light little car with front-wheel drive. As much as he tries to rev up that inclined drive, he seems to have a tendency of falling just a bit short and falling backwards. I cheer him on as he back up and try to rush up the drive again, this time maybe getting a little farther than before.
The mix of drivers is interesting. You can always tell the courageous veterans from the newbies and the elderly. Fortunately, most drivers are much more forgiving when the roads are bad, and there's an odd sense of camaraderie when someone hesitantly makes a turn. All Clevelanders know the feel of slipping wheels as your car fights to stay in control. For a second, your heart beats faster and you immediately think of a horrible ending for you and your car. Just then, the car gets traction once more, you take a breath, and keep going like nothing happened.
Archie's great at driving a straight line in the snow, but he's not a fan of turns. To be fair, I'm known to be impatient and probably should let him slow down a bit more so he could take his time. At least I will now slow down on streets to avoid slipping, which wasn't so true six years ago, so one step at a time, I guess.
No matter how much I may slide, no matter how many times I must brush off my car, and no matter how many times I have to shovel or use a snowblower, I'm not entirely against the snow. I love the light snowfall as the flakes gently waft through a soft breeze. How newly fallen snow looks like a blank canvas, smoothing over the imperfections of the land and leaving a soft blanket of clean beauty. When the sun sets and the streetlights turn on, the weak light makes the snow sparkle and glimmer, reminding me of fairy dust (I'd say glitter, but I'm really not a fan of glitter). No matter how cold it might be, if there's snow, it makes it worth it. I might not be able to feel my fingers and my pants might be soaked, but in that peaceful silence as the snow simply dances down from the sky and gently kisses the earth, I can't help but sigh and enjoy the season.
That, and I can always really appreciate spring when it gets here.
