#but the third one i think would be his personal journal where he recounts experiences he had in skyrim with ldb that he wouldnt dream of

[custom-whats]

who’s the most likely to write a book about their adventures with ldb and why is it lucien

#this is a joke but is it though #FGAHDFGHDA #he kinda strikes me as the type to have 3 literary recounts of his time with ldb #i think the first would be a very dry boring text about the histories of dragonborns as a whole and adding ldb's legacy onto it in a very #academic and dry fashion like this is how old they were when they became dragonborn this is what they did yada yada #then he has a more personal recount of his exploits with the dragonborn which admittedly are a lot more fun to read and the little personal #details and notes about the whole thing rlly add to the stories he tells in that book #though im sure a lot of members of team ldb would disagree with some of his own perspective of events in the notes LMFAO #but the third one i think would be his personal journal where he recounts experiences he had in skyrim with ldb that he wouldnt dream of #publishing in any capacity because theyre so personal #but he still wants to keep them in writing so he can look back on it later or have future flavius's enjoy the special stories within that #no one else gets to know #sentimental little bitch #AFGHFGHDFGHA

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Treat Your S(h)elf: A German Officer in Occupied Paris: The War Journals, 1941-1945 by Ernst Jünger (2019)

Keeping a journal: The short entries are often as dry as instant tea. Writing them down is like pouring hot water over them to release their aroma.

- Ernst Jünger,  A German Officer in Occupied Paris: The War Journals, 1941-1945 (2019)

Paris is very much my home these days and so I enjoy reading about the history of this beautiful city. It is difficult to live in Paris today and conjure up much sense of the city in the early 1940s. It is indeed, as it is called throughout the world, the City of Light. But back in 1940 when France fell and Paris occupied until its liberation on 24 August 1944, it was a city in darkness. Like so much else that happened in France during World War II, the Nazi occupation of Paris was something entirely more complex and ambiguous than has generally been understood.

We tend to think of those four years as difficult but minimally destructive by comparison with the hell the Nazis wreaked elsewhere in the country. But as recent historians have shown the Nazi occupation was a terrible time for Paris, not just because the Nazis were there but because Paris itself was complicit in its own humiliation. As the historian Ronald Risbottom has shown in his compelling book, ‘When Paris went Dark’, “Even today, the French endeavour both to remember and to find ways to forget their country’s trials during World War II; their ambivalence stems from the cunning and original arrangement they devised with the Nazis, which was approved by Hitler and assented to by Philipe Petain, the recently appointed head of the Third Republic, that had ended the Battle of France in June of 1940. This treaty - known by all as the Armistice - had entangled France and the French in a web of cooperation, resistance, accommodation, and, later, of defensiveness, forgetfulness, and guilt from which they are still trying to escape.”

It is almost certainly a unique event in human history, one in which a ruthless and unscrupulous invader occupied a city known for its sophistication and liberality, declining to destroy it or even to exact physical damage on more than a minority of its citizens yet leaving it in a state of “embarrassment, self-abasement, guilt and a felt loss of masculine superiority that would mark the years of the Occupation. To this day, more than one visitor or foreigners living in Paris are struck by how sensitive Paris and Parisians remain about the role of the city and its citizens in its most humiliating moment of the twentieth century.

Indeed bringing up the subject with French friends, my French partner’s family, or even relatives (by marriage - such as a French aunt married to my Norwegian uncle or the French partners of my cousins here in France) is like walking on egg shells. It brings up too many distant ghosts for many families. Nearly every household has a story. It can be one of resistance or one of collaboration or (more likely) one of passive indifference and acceptance.

And yet I remain fascinated and intrigued partly because of historical interest and partly out of curiosity about the human condition under stress. In Britain - despite the trauma of daily bombardment from German bombers - the country was never invaded. And so whilst war brings out the best and worst in people, it was altogether a different experience to the one experienced by mainland European countries. I don’t think we British truly have understood of life was really like under occupation and the choices people are willingly or not made just to survive the war.

The history of Paris from 1940 to 1944 gives the lie to the old childhood taunt: Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. The Germans for the most part spared Parisians sticks and stones (except, of course, Parisians who were Jewish), but the “names” they inflicted in the form of truncated freedoms, greatly reduced food and supplies, an unceasing fear of the unexpected and calamitous, and the simple fact of their inescapable, looming presence did deep damage of a different kind. It traumatised the city and its inhabitants in ways very little understood by others, especially Britain.

The carefully curated image of French resistance against the Nazis has been asked to serve critical functions in that nation’s collective memory. The manufactured myth served to postpone for a quarter of a century deeper analyses of how easily France had been beaten and how feckless had been the nation’s reaction to German authority, especially between 1940 and 1943. And yet the myth of a universal resistance was important to France’s idea of itself as a beacon for human liberty. It was also badly needed as an example of the courage one needed in the face of monstrous political ideologies.

There remained the ethical questions that would haunt France for decades: Which actions, exactly, constitute collaboration and which constitute resistance? It is still asking these questions over 70 years later. But behind such question lies a deeper and more haunting question of moral culpability that many are quick to throw responsibility - along with their own shame of inaction - onto others but not look inwards at their own guilt and passivity.

But what about the occupiers? What did they feel? Were the German Wehrmacht during the day simply tourists sitting in cafes, dining on gourmand food, buying silk stockings and the latest fashions for their wives back home and by night drinking and debauching on the cultural and seedy delights of Paris?

Moral culpability is a question that Ernst Jünger, the celebrated German author, never asks himself of his time as a German officer in Paris. But culpability is a question that looms large after reading the war journals of Ernst Jünger from 1941-1945, now published by Columbia University Press as A German Officer in Occupied Paris: The War Journals, 1941-1945. It should have been re-titled as a ‘A German writer pre-occupied by Parisian night life and his navel’.

Ernst Jünger (1895-1998) was what is sometimes called a “controversial” figure. A First World War hero who was wounded seven times, he was undoubtedly uncommonly brave. He also insisted that those who were less brave should play their part, forcing retreating soldiers to join his unit at gunpoint. His 1920 book Storm of Steel (In Stahlgewittern), recounting his war experiences and portraying war in a heroic light, made him famous. In the 1920s he became involved in anti-democratic right-wing groups like the paramilitary Freikorps and wrote for a number of nationalist journals. He remained aloof from the Nazis, however, and, while he boasted that he “hated democracy like the plague”, was more of a nationalist than a racist. 

Jünger spent much of the Second as an officer stationed in Paris, where these war journals are an almost daily record of the views and impressions of a well-read literary figure, entomologist, and cultural critic, now available for the first time in English translation in A German Officer in Occupied Paris. Posted in white-collar positions in Paris with the German military during the 1940-1944 occupation.

Nazi Germany produced two wartime diaries of equal literary and historical significance but written from the most different perspectives conceivable: Victor Klemperer and Ernst Jünger. Victor Klemperer wrote furtively, in daily dread of transport to an extermination camp, a fate he was spared by the firebombing of Dresden. Ernst Jünger, by contrast, had what was once called a “good war.” As a bestselling German author, he drew cushy occupation duty in Paris, where he could hobnob with famous artists and writers, prowl antiquarian bookstores, and forage for the rare beetles he collected. Yet Klemperer and Jünger both found themselves anxiously sifting propaganda and hearsay to learn the truth about distant events on which their lives hung.

For English-speaking readers who do not know his work, A German Officer in Occupied Paris shows the many sides of this complex, elusive writer.

In the judicious and helpful foreword by San Francisco-based historian Elliot Neaman, who says. “Like a God in France, Jünger operated on the edge of politics in Paris, rather like a butterfly fluttering among the resistors and collaborators. He didn’t trust the generals, who had taken a personal oath to Hitler, to be able to carry out a coup.”

Jünger had visited the city prior to the war, was fluent in French, and now had the contacts and the time to become even more familiar with the French capital. During his stay in Paris he met painters such as Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso as well as literary figures including Louis-Ferdinand Céline and Jean Cocteau, all of whom figure in his Journals, which reflect a view of Paris that had become a tourism mecca during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

To Jünger, Paris was “a capital, symbol and fortress of an ancient tradition of heightened life and unifying ideas, which nations especially lack nowadays” (30 May 1941). After wandering around the Place du Tertre, near the Sacré Cœur Cathedral in the Montmartre section of Paris, he wrote: “The city has become my second spiritual home and represents more and more strongly the essence of what I love and cherish about ancient culture” (18 September 1942). At the same time, Jünger was aware of the “shafts of glaring looks” with which he was sometimes viewed by locals as he wandered in uniform through the city’s streets and byways (18 August 1942, 89, and 29 September 1943).

A German Officer in Occupied Paris is divided into four parts: the “First Paris Journal,” his writings from 1941 through October 1942; “Notes from the Caucasus,” continuing his account through February 1943; the “Second Paris Journal,” covering the period from his return to Paris through the liberation of France in the late summer of 1944; and finally the “Kirchhorst Diaries,” his account of having been placed in charge of the local militia [Volkssturm] and his reflections on the bombings and imminent defeat of Germany.

The “First Paris Journal” reflects the comings and goings of a German officer and writer happy to rediscover Paris at a time when it seemed clear that Germany had won the war and would dominate France and perhaps Europe indefinitely. Closer physically to the fighting following his transfer to the East in October 1942, Jünger devoted greater attention to the fighting and the raw nature of the German-Soviet struggle in “Notes from the Caucasus.”

By the time he returned to Paris and began his “Second Paris Journal” in February 1943, the Germans had been defeated at Stalingrad and it had become increasingly evident that a titanic struggle loomed and that the Germans might well lose the war.

The final section, the “Kirchhorst Diaries,” is set against the backdrop of the Allied invasion of Germany, accompanied by intense bombing and the destruction of German cities and homes including Jünger’s own, and the seemingly countless numbers of civilian refugees seeking shelter and food. Through it all, Jünger continues his reading, including that of the Bible, his book collecting, and visits to antiquarian booksellers when possible, and his chats with various literary figures in Paris and, at times, in Germany.

Much of the material in the Journals is introspective, with Jünger addressing his innermost thoughts and dreams. Snakes also appear with some frequency in the Journals, for example, in the entry of 13 July 1943, where during a restless night because of air raid sirens in Paris, he recalls having dreamt of dark black snakes devouring more brightly colored ones. In the Journal entry, he linked snakes back to primal forces incarnating life and death, and good and evil. This connection, he noted, was the reason people fear the sight of a snake, “almost stronger than the sight of sexual organs, with which there is also a connection” (13 July 1943). Following a conversation with the “Doctoresse,” the name that Jünger used for Sophie Ravoux, with whom he was intimate and had an affair in Paris, he described his own manner of thinking as “atomistically by osmosis and filtration of the smallest particles of thoughts.” His thought process, he explained, ran not according to principles of cause and effect but rather at the “level” of the vowels of a sentence, on the molecular level; “This explains why I know people who couldn’t help becoming my friends, even through dreams” (22 January 1944). Addressing Eros and sexual organs, Jünger added that he wished to study the connections between language and physique. Colours also had spiritual values, “Just as green and red are part of white, higher entities are polarised in intellectual couples—as is the universe into blue and red”.

Jünger’s position as an army captain gave him a panorama of the war that left no room for heroes. Violence became a grim leveller that made ideologies interchangeable. Germans on the eastern front were reading On the Marble Cliffs as a condemnation of Soviet Russia rather than of Nazi Germany. Hitler had unleashed a dehumanising force on the world, one that made Russians, Germans, the French Resistance and Allied pilots all look the same, locked in an escalating cycle of cruelty. Jünger witnessed Allied planes strafing screaming children in the streets, releasing bombs timed to explode while presents were handed out on Christmas Eve. Accounts drifted in of Parisian friends, who had once tried to transcend national boundaries with him through measured discussion in the salons, being harassed as collaborators. His summary of this second war could have been a reverse of the first: ‘Inactivity brings men together, whereas battle separates them.’

The picture of Jünger’s political views that emerges in his Journals, however, is a highly chivalric and military elitist one in which a small number of bold idealists, for lack of a better term, struggle against demos and technocracy, democracy and technicians, who are destroying the soul of an older European society. Writing while back home in Kirchhorst on 6 November 1944, following the expulsion of the Germans from France and walking around viewing the destruction wrought by the Allied bombs in Germany, he observed: “As I walked, I thought about the cursory style of contemporary thinkers, the way they pronounce judgment on ideas and symbols that people have been working on and creating for millennia. In so doing they are unaware of their own place in the universe, and of that little bit of destructive work allocated to them by the world spirit.”

He went on to criticise “the old liberals, Dadaists, and free-thinkers, as they begin to moralise at the end of a life devoted to the destruction of the old guard and the undermining of order.” Jünger then referred to Dostoevsky’s novel The Demons, in which the sons of Stepan Trofimovich “are encouraged to scorn anything that had formerly been considered fundamental.” Having destroyed their father, these “young conservatives,” now sensing “the new elemental power” of “the demos,” are then dragged to their deaths. In the ensuing chaos, “only the nihilist retains his fearsome power.” Jünger mentions Hindenburg, and the destruction of the conservatives by the Nazis is clearly implied (6 November 1944).

In August 1943, he described his political views as a combination of Guelph (relating to the medieval supporters of the Pope against the Holy Roman Emperor), Prussian, Gross-Deutscher (in support of a Greater Germany including Austria), European, and citizen of the world “all at once.” As he put it, “My political core is like a clock with cog wheels that work against each other.” However, he added: “Yet, when I look at the face of the clock, I could imagine a noon when all these identities coincide” (1 August 1943).

While violence raged all around, Jünger continued his secret diary, for publication after the war. This ended for him when American tanks rumbled through his village in April 1945, Jünger proclaiming that the deeper the fall, the greater the ensuing rise. Jünger survived investigation in the immediate postwar period and went on to become a grand old man of German literature, with a considerable following at home and abroad. A year before his death he was – as the phrase goes – received into the Catholic church. Having lived through a violent century he expired in his bed in his 103rd year.

The war journals is a highly nuanced, albeit self-made, picture of a human being in the middle of World War II, who is a flirtatious fascist, yet who apparently seems to care for other human beings, regardless of their so-called social strata or race. Take for example this entry dated Paris, 28 July 1942, “The unfortunate pharmacist on the corner: his wife has been deported. Such benign individuals would not think of defending themselves, except with reasons. Even when they kill themselves, they are not choosing the lot of the free who have retreated into their last bastions, rather they seek the night as frightened children seek their mothers. It is appalling how blind even young people have become to the sufferings of the vulnerable; they have simply lost any feeling for it. They have become too weak for the chivalrous life. They have even lost the simple decency that prevents us from injuring the weak. The opposite is true: they take pride in it.”

Having said that, I found some of the contents repugnant as Jünger, a devout entomologist, easily writes about finding a new insect while fires are burning all around Paris in 1943. Indeed Jünger paints himself as the detached botanist-scholar, determined to survive and help the world recover in peacetime. For him, the best way to avoid being sucked into the vortex of violence was to disconnect from emotion and group mentalities: to feel nothing and be on no one’s side, only bearing witness. A detached eye in the storm.

His journal is a hedonistic carousel, as he frequented theatres, literary salons and Left bank bookstalls along the Seine, as well as having a meeting of artistic minds with Picasso, Braque and Cocteau. It’s possible to make your way through this collection and have a grand ole time, enjoying the moments when Jünger encounters celebrities like Picasso, or when Monet’s daughter-in-law gives him the key to the gardens at Giverny for his own private tour, or when he describes another gourmet meal with the well-heeled of Parisian society: “The salad was served on silver, the ice cream on a heavy gold service that had belonged to Sarah Bernhardt.” Jünger relishes his name-dropping and his contacts with the upper crust. He sees himself as one of the Übermenschen: “In this country the superior man lives like Odysseus, taunted by worthless usurpers in his own palace.”

The author himself gets lost in the fog of mystic self regard as all artistic writers are prone to do and confesses that in an entry labeled 26 Aug 1942: “At times I have difficulty distinguishing between my conscious and unconscious existence. I mean between that part of my life that has been knit together by dreams and the other.”

To read the diary in chronological order is to realise that Jünger’s submersion in art and literature was his way of preserving his humanity while serving the machinery of a lethally violent state. One way of doing this was through a voracious program of reading, chiefly literature and history, often reading two or three books at once. One is not surprised at the German and French reading but at the abundance of English writers, whom he read in the original—Melville, Joyce, Poe, Conrad, Kipling, Thomas Wolfe, Thornton Wilder, the Brontës, ad infinitum. The range is also remarkable. Jünger pivots from the 1772 fantasy Diable amoureux to a biography of the painter Turner to Crime and Punishment. And throughout the entire diary, one finds him reading the Bible, cover to cover, which he began shortly after his posting to Paris.

Over and over again I had to remind myself this is a diary. Diaries by definition have one eye on self serving posterity.  

So it’s not surprising that Jünger would tweak reality to create this image of poetic detachment. With his constant  stories of indulgence in Paris, the reader might assume he had no job while he was  there. In fact he was censoring letters and newspapers, a cog in the Nazi machine he so despised. He omits anything that would make him appear a villain. An ongoing extramarital affair in Paris is barely hinted at. But neither does he try to look a hero, omitting how he passed on to Jews information of upcoming deportations, buying them time to escape.

Should he have continued to enjoy his life as a flâneur for so long? He had solid proof of what was going on, debriefed as he was on the mass shootings and death camps on the eastern front. Throughout his career he had railed against inertia, lauding men of action who sacrificed themselves for a just cause. And then such a cause presented itself. Jünger’s colleagues in Paris were involved in the Stauffenberg plot of 1944, and asked for his help. He was one of the most influential conservative voices in Germany at the time, one of the few that Hitler’s followers might have taken seriously. Yet he refused to commit himself during the chaos. Instead, Jünger waited for evil to destroy itself: a fireman who fought the blaze by waiting for the building to burn down. As usual, he inhabited a grey area.

Jünger remains a problematic figure of controversy, perhaps even emblematic of the aged old question how does one respond to brutish evil? There are no easy answers. Addressing the French who collaborated with Germany during the war Robert Paxton, a well regarded historian of Vichy France wrote, “Even Frenchmen of the best intentions, faced with the harsh alternative of doing one’s job, whose risks were moral and abstract, or practicing civil disobedience, whose risks were material and immediate, went on doing the job. The same may be said of the German occupiers. Many of them were “good Germans,” men of cultivation, confident that their country’s success outweighed a few moral blemishes, dutifully fulfilling some minor blameless function in a regime whose cumulative effect was brutish.”

Was Jünger one of those they called a ‘good German’? Eating sole and duck  at the famous Tour d’Argent restaurant, while gazing down at the hungry civilians in the buildings below was the choice Jünger made. In his 4 Just 1942 diary entry he wrote, “upon the grey sea of roofs at their feet, beneath which the starving eke out their living. In times like this - eating well and much - brings a feeling of power”.

We are always told to speak truth to power. Before we can speak one must think. But thinking truth to power is never enough in itself unless one acts out truth to power. Words without action is nothing. So the question one has to ask even as one reads from the detached safety of distance and time: how would one act in his shoes or indeed a Frenchman’s shoes?

More than anything, the diary raises, for me at least, the question of moral culpability. It’s impossible to tell what Jünger was really thinking, and so perhaps one tantalising aspect of these war journals is psychological more than anything else. All this stuff is swirling around his life but we hear about the harmless social fluff for the most part. For example, he notes “In Charleville, I was a witness at a military tribunal. I used the opportunity to buy books, like novels by Gide and various works by Rimbaud.” I wanted to hear about the tribunal, but alas, it vanished into Jünger’s damn book buying.

And yet if you judge Jünger by his diary entries alone then it would be very easy to find him guilty. But diaries conceal as much as they reveal. For all the criticism that Jünger has served up a self-serving exculpatory diary, the truth is that he leaves his most selfless acts unmentioned. It is known that he gave advance warning to Jews facing deportation: The writer Joseph Breitbach was one, as he subsequently confirmed, and Walter Benjamin was possibly another.

None of this, for obvious reason, could be committed to paper, nor could the names of Adolf Hitler or any of his henchmen. Instead, their appearances are marked by Jünger’s felicitous code names. Joseph Goebbels, the Nazi chief propagandist, is “Grandgoschier,” a character from Rabelais’s Gargantua and Pantagruel meaning “Big Throat.” SS Chief Heinrich Himmler is “Schinderhannes,” the name of a notorious German highwayman but also a pun on horse knacker. And Hermann Goering is simply “Head Forester,” citing the most fatuous of his many official titles.

Jünger thought a great deal about the mystic and symbolic power of sounds, and he reserved his most apposite pseudonym for Hitler, “Kniébolo,” a name that is at once menacing and absurd. It suggests a kneeling demon (Diabolos), a leitmotif of the diary as Jünger became ever more convinced of Hitler’s essentially Satanic character- in the literal biblical sense.

So grey areas get more grey when we either try to step back and be detached to render a verdict on Jünger or if we step into his shoes to get inside his head. This is the limitation of a secret and coded diary, no matter how scrupulously written and how fascinating they are to read. Diaries are written for oneself or an imagined other; they play on the satisfactions of monologue. Letters are shaped by the contingencies of distance and time between writer and recipient; they become over time scattered in various places and must be "collected" to form a single body of writing.

Diaries are shaped by moments of inspiration but also by habit; they are woven together by a single voice and usually are contained between covers. Diarists play with the tension between concealing and revealing, between "telling all" and speaking obliquely or keeping silent. Like letter writing, diarists inscribe the risks and pleasures of expression and trust. The diary is an uncertain genre uneasily balanced between literary and historic writing. The diary belongs to the woman where history and literature overlap. So it’s easy to conclude that we will always have ambiguity and tension between these two polar opposites.

After 1945, Jünger again withdrew into private life, but continued to publish. Seclusion encouraged attention. His reputation grew. Scholarly editions appeared. In three last decades, doubters aside, he enjoyed growing recognition, travelled the world, deepened his knowledge of nature and voiced concern about human damage to the planet. Jünger poured out books late into his nineties. By then he had swept Germany’s top literary prizes and been visited in his Swabian retreat by the statesmen of Europe, including Helmut Kohl and François Mitterrand.

Jünger’s experience of life did little to dent his loathing of liberalism and democracy. On a country walk along a bomb-pitted road near his home late in 1944, Jünger indulges a moment of conservative relish, telling himself that it is liberals who are to blame for all that has befallen. How wonderful it is, he writes sarcastically, “to watch the drama of the old liberals, Dadaists and freethinkers, as they begin to moralise at the end of a life devoted completely to the destruction of the old guard and the undermining of order”. “Blame the liberals!” was the reactionary’s charge at birth (there is a profound difference between true conservatism and the extreme reactionary). It hobbled the Weimar Republic and bedevils politics today. Politically, he had learnt nothing. Today Western Europe society is eating itself inwards through the corrosive influence of the woke-ness of cultural Marxism and the conservative now finds himself/herself in the sweetly ironic position of defending the tenets of true liberalism.

For English-speaking readers who do not know his work, A German Officer in Occupied Paris shows the many sides of this complex, elusive writer. These diaries are invaluable about the man and his times. Jünger is nowadays probably less read than read about. So these war journals are to be welcomed and to be read with great interest. 

For some these journal entries alone will still provide material to debate the moral choices made - and evaded - by Jünger. To critics, Jünger participated too much and judged too little. To defenders, he was indeed on the hard right, but no fascist and, besides, his prose was what mattered, not his politics. Not to pity Jünger’s personal travails would be defective. Not to respond to his prose would be deaf. But all of us can ponder Jean Cocteau’s final verdict, who liked Jünger and considered him a friend but whose aloofness troubled him: “Some people had dirty hands, some had clean hands, but Jünger had no hands.” Jünger may have washed his hands of his time in Paris but the hand of history forever tapping on his shoulder is less forgiving.

#treat your s(h)elf #books #review #reading #ernst junger #world war two #war #paris #france #history #germany #nazi germany #resistance #cocteau #collaboration #diaries #journals #culture #society #occupation

[theworldofotps]

Falling For His Guitar

Decided to post a kinda fluffy Finn that I had saved since the Becky one I’m working on isn’t done, enjoy!!

Pairing: Finn BalorxReader Word Count:2,738 Description: You meet Finn at your cousin Becky's get together and can't help but fall in love with how he plays the guitar. -Fluff ___________ Tag list: @biforbecky2belts @writtingrose @sjwrites22 @sassymox @detectiveramen @demonkingsangel @the-beastslayers-queen @thewrestlingwarehouse  @new-zealand-chic @reigns420  If you want added to the tag list just lemme know! ____________ "I'm not sure Becks what if none of them like me?"

"You'll be fine lass no worries I promise they're all excited to meet you I've talked about you a lot. Please come y/n you'll have a great time I know how much you love wrestling so here's your chance to meet some of them."

"I don't want to seem like that's the only reason I'm hanging out with you."

"You worry too much we all know I'm your favorite cousin now I'm not taking no for an answer I'll be there in five minutes I’m almost there so be ready."

"Alright, I'll be ready."

Deciding not to argue with her I hang up turning my attention to my suitcase I settle on a pair of (y/f/c) shorts and a black tee shirt. Sliding on a pair of sandals I grab my phone and hotel key knowing I would need it for when I came back.

Beck: What room are you in?

Y/n: 302 on the third floor.

Spraying on a little perfume and adding deodorant I check myself over in the mirror brushing my hair out a little. I was more than nervous to meet Becky's friends when I got the chance to come to LA for two weeks I jumped at the chance. When Becky found out she insisted I had to visit her and a bunch of her friends/coworkers at a get together she was throwing. We didn't see each other much with her traveling and myself working but the times we could meet up it was like we were never apart.

"Your favorite person is here open up."

Becky knocks on the door rushing over I pull it open nearly falling back as she throws herself at me in a tight hug.

"I've missed ya so much y/n you have no idea."

"I've missed you too Becks everyone back home told me to tell you, hello and your mum sent over a tin of your favorite sweets."

"Ahh can I have them?"

Nodding I walk over to my suitcase taking it out and handing it to her grinning as she excitedly opens the tin.

"Do you know how long it's been since I've had these forever I'll have to pace myself if I want them to last. Pack up all of your stuff up you're staying your two weeks with me."

"What?"

"When I found out you were in America for two weeks more specifically LA I went to Hunter and told him I was taking a week off. I don't get the chance to see you often enough we're going to have a blast and then your last week here you are going to experience the travel life of a wrestler. All of our house shows are within driving distance so you won't have to worry about flying on a plane."

"Have I told you that I love you?"

"At least twice a day every single day now lets get this packed and get you checked out Seth is waiting in the car."

Packing all of my things up and making sure that I haven't left anything behind we head to the front desk so I could check out. Putting my things in the back of her vehicle we get in the front music turned up and windows down.

"Hi, I'm Seth nice to finally meet you."

"Um hi, nice to uh meet you too."

"You have to give her a minute to get over her starstruck Seth you're one of her favorites."

"Becky!"

"What I'm not lyin."

Seth chuckles from behind the driver seat as he reaches a hand up between us I shake it with a smile.

"No need to be embarrassed I am honored."

"More like you enjoy having your ego inflated."

Laughing as he scoffs at her I feel myself relax if all of her friends were similar in their behavior like Seth I think I'd be fine. Chatting the whole way to Becky's I listen to Seth talk about the plans he has with a friend to open a wrestling academy while I explain about work.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"I can see the good genes run in the family you all look younger than you actually are."

"Thank you."

When we pull up I can't help but inwardly squeal in excitement I loved visiting Becky's house it was beautiful and always so welcoming. Grabbing one of my suitcases Seth grabs the other while Becky takes my hand pulling me to follow her.

"This will be your room while you're here."

"It's beautiful thank you so much."

Hugging her tightly for a few moments than pulling away I thank Seth for helping me bring my suitcases in.

"You're welcome so when does everyone get here?"

"I told them to show up at four I already have everything set up we'll just have to take out the food."

Walking down to the kitchen we grab the covered food and drinks setting them on the long table that is set near the patio covered with umbrellas.

"Doorbell yes come on y/n, Seth."

Taking both mine and Seth's hands we are dragged back inside by Becky speed walking to the front door.

"Sasha, Renee, Dean welcome this is my sweet cousin y/n."

"We've all been dying to meet you Becky has told us countless stories about the two of you."

Renee smiles pulling me into a hug followed by Sasha while Dean grins shaking my hand. I had to remember to breath it's not going to look good if I fangirl over him in front of everyone.

"It's nice to meet all of you to thanks for being okay with Becky inviting me to tag along."

"Are you kiddin doll? Like anyone could change Becky's mind when she has it set on something besides you're her family if she cares about you then you're probably a good egg."

Taking comfort in Dean's words we walk out to the patio Renee and Sasha asking everything they could possibly think of. More people soon arrive and each time Becky takes my hand giving it a squeeze before pulling me to meet her friends. Everyone is so relaxed and nice there are a few times I have to stop myself from screeching in excitement. When Roman walks in with Bayley and Auska I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. He was even better looking and sweeter in person I'm not sure how much more my heart can take.

"Is that everyone Becks?"

"No Finn, Karl, and Luke are supposed to be here I'll have to give them a call."

"Finn? Didn't you train with someone back home with that same name?"

"It's the same exact person I think you'll love him he's great."

Nodding my head I excuse myself to the bathroom while she makes the call I had heard of a Finn but hadn't been able to keep up with him much since he's been recovering from injury. Washing my hands I head back downstairs to join the party.

"Y/n come sit with us."

Bayley smiles patting a space in between her and Seth walking over I sit down listening to their stories recounting old matches, events, and parties.

"Becky throws some of the best get-togethers it's always a great time to unwind and just catch up on things that aren't wrestling."

"She threw pretty good ones back home one of the things I love about her is she's always willing to make those important to her comfortable and welcomed."

"Has she changed much from when she was last home."

"Yeah, but in a good way she's confident, not willing to let people walk all over her and she's gotten more determined to chase her dreams. There's a fire there that seems to get brighter every time I see or talk to her."

When I hear the bell I look over seeing Becky preoccupied excusing myself I walk to the door pulling it open.

"Hello."

"You must be y/n it's about time Becky got you over here I'm Karl, this is Luke and Finn is currently getting something out of the car."

"Nice to meet you too Becky is busy but everyone is on the patio."

Shaking hands I walk to the kitchen to get another bottle of water turning around I bump into someone dropping the bottle.

"I'm so sorry I didn't know there was anyone else in here are you okay?"

"I'm fine lass trust me ya couldn't knock me over I'm Finn by the way nice to meet you."

"Y/n it's nice to meet you as well."

Finn smiles grabbing my water from the floor handing it to me holding out the same hand that wasn't clutching a guitar.

"Pleasure is all mine I've heard a lot about you and seen hundreds of pictures courtesy of your cousin and let me say they definitely don't do you justice."

He grins pressing a kiss to the back of my hand I literally have to try not to swoon on the spot I was a sucker for simple sweet gestures.

"Finn? Have you seen, oh there you are y/n I wondered where ya had gone off too."

“You were busy so I answered the door I came to get a bottle of water and bumped into Finn."

"Well, I'm happy you two have finally met Finn we're all in the backyard so whenever you two are ready come join us."

Sending me a wink behind his shoulder Becky scurries off I had a feeling there was more to her words then she was letting on.

"Do you play?"

"A little bit yeah when I have the spare time."

"I would love to hear."

"Then it's your lucky day Becky asked me to bring it over so I could play a little after we eat."

"Great."

Grinning I walk out with Finn to the backyard his friends and coworkers greeting him everyone grabs a plate standing in a line to fill it with food.

 "Over here y/n."

Becky smiles pointing to a chair next to hear and angled towards Finn sitting down I chat with her about plans she wanted to do over the next few days. Smiling as the friends begin to banter and tease each other it felt good being surrounded by so much happiness.

"What do you do for a living y/n?"

"I work for a magazine company in London I moved there two years ago after I received my English and Journalism degree at university."

"Do you enjoy working there?"

"For the most part yeah it's great I kinda wanna stretch my wings out a bit tackle some of the journalism or something along those lines. Becky wants me to think about finding a job over here somewhere we were best friends growing up and it's hard being separated by different countries. Sure it would be hard still because she constantly travels but it would be a little easier ya know?"

"Yeah, I understand I have the same difficulties with not being able to see my family as often as I like. Did she ever talk to you about applying for a job working for WWE?"

"No, I don't think it's ever crossed her mind I'm not sure if I would even be qualified for it."

"Are ya kidding? It doesn't take that much I'll mention it to her later I'm sure she'll jump at it she can help you apply if you want then you could see her and everyone here as often as you like."

"That sounds too good to be true.”

"Trust me Becks will do everything in her power to convince Hunter to consider it and I can promise it won't be just because of Becky you get it. Hunter may tell her he'll look right away but he'll read over everything carefully speak with your current boss and if you're as talented as I imagine then it should be easy."

"Thank you so much."

"No worries at all love."

Finn winks throwing his things away I lean back in my seat letting the thought go through my mind. It would be wonderful to see Becky often and I wouldn't mind getting to see everyone here again the girls all practically stole my phone to put their numbers in it.

"Finn are you ready to play for us?"

"Sure thing."

Everyone gathers close as he picks the guitar up tuning it a little before looking at me.

"Any requests?"

"Oh um what can you play?"

"Quite a few songs."

"Play her Wildflowers by Tom Petty that was a favorite of ours growing up."

Becky smiles as I look at her with a grin before glancing back at Finn with a quick nod.

"Could you please?"

"Of course I'll give it my best shot."

We all clap as Finn's cheeks turn a slight red the rest of the evening is spent listening to music, the laughter of everyone and occasional more songs from Finn. The evening was better than I could have ever dreamed slowly everyone began leaving making Becky and I promise to come to one of the house shows so they could see me again. When all that is left is the two of us, Karl, Luke, and Finn we head inside once everything is cleaned up.

"We better get heading back to the hotel we have an early drive tomorrow."

Holding out a hand I have to hold in a yelp when I'm pulled into a group hug by Karl and Luke promising to see me again they head outside. Turning to Finn I see Becky made her escape standing in the kitchen humming.

"It was wonderful to meet you y/n I spoke to Becky about talking with Hunter and she nearly hugged the life out of me so prepare yourself."

"Thank you so much I'll be careful it was wonderful meeting you too."

"Could I maybe call you sometime this week coming up we have a show in LA at the end of the week. We could possibly get together for coffee or something?"

"I'd like that."

Smiling we exchange numbers than with a kiss pressed to my cheek Finn heads out the door closing it after they drive away I lean against it.

"Come on you we have a lot to talk about and that kiss to the cheek is one of them."

Becky smiles motioning me to follow her upstairs sitting in her room we spend the night reminiscing and chatting her promising to help me fill out an application later this week.

"You and Finn seemed to really hit it off."

"He's really sweet and I couldn't help falling in love with his guitar playing."

"Yeah, I could tell when I had to whisper your name five times before you heard me."

"Sorry about that."

I grin as I look around the room my phone goes off and I reach over taking it off her stand.

Finn🎸: The guys left it up to me to let you know we made it I'll message you in a few days about the coffee?

Me: Thanks for letting us now and sure sounds perfect.

Finn🎸: Great well sweet dreams y/n x

Me: Sweet dreams Finn x

Becky grins reading the messages between us before the two of us lay in her bed gossiping like school girls. My excitement for the next two weeks was high but I was just a tad little more excited to see Finn again for coffee.

#finn balor #finn balor x reader #finn balor one shot #wwe one shot #becky lynch #fluff

[writingdotcoffee]

#79: Not Feeling Like It

Today, I want to share something that I’ve been struggling with over the past few months. I’m still figuring it out, so don’t expect much advice in this post. But I’m curious if anyone will relate.

I like to think that I’m pretty good at habits. They change from time to time, but I tend to maintain several daily habits at any given time.

These days I get up before 7, meditate, journal, read a short story, read 50 pages from a book, write, do push-ups, post on the blog, run (every other day) and a few other things. Habits are basically how I run my life, and although it might seem like the most boring existence ever, I love it.

Lately, I've noticed that it’s getting increasingly more difficult to keep these going. It’s a classic procrastination scenario. Once I start things go pretty well. But I’m willing to do anything just so I don’t have to get started.

I might put on my running gear and then spend 20 minutes doing pointless tasks around the flat before finally heading out. I’ll read shitty news articles online instead of reading a book which is right there in front of me. Sometimes, I even have to talk myself into doing pushups in the morning which literally takes no more than two minutes to complete. I just don’t feel like doing it, and I don’t understand why.

I’ve done some of these on the daily for years and years. I know what I have to do. I understand the value of those habits. If anything, I thought that it will become easier over time, almost automatic. Isn’t that how habits are supposed to work? Why are things getting more difficult? Where is all this resistance coming from?

Honestly, I’m just bloody annoyed.

I guess this was one of Steven Pressfield’s point in War of Art. As you grow, your resistance grows with you. As if every time you get a little comfortable, someone turns up the heat. You have to develop systems and become better at fighting your monkey brain. Maybe it’s a good sign then?

What’s your experience with resistance? Does it get better or worse? Does it stay the same?

What I Am Reading

This week, I read A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway. It’s a collection of short anecdotes from the time he spent in Paris in the 1920s. He hung out with people like James Joyce and Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein and Ford Maddox Ford. He writes about his struggles with money and publication. In one story, he recounts how they organised a fundraiser for T. S. Eliot because he had to work for a bank and didn’t have enough time to write.

A number of writing quotes that float around the internet originate from this book, and it was cool to see them in context. Highly recommended.

Next, I’ll be reading A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles. This is one of the books that I got for Christmas—not something that I would pick up myself, and the more excited I am to read it. Expanding my horizons time.

Short Stories

I also read these short stories:

Asleep at the Wheel by T. C. Boyle

The Song by Erinn L. Kemper

Borderland by Olga Tokarczuk

Identity Crisis by Andrew Dicker

Gingerbread by Anthony Howcroft

The Meaning of Love by Daniel Abraham

A Better Way to Die by Paul Cornell

Want More?

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Past Editions

#78: Becoming Polynovelous, February 2019

#77: In Praise of Bad Fiction, February 2019

#76: The Negative Review Paradox, February 2019

#75: Winter, January 2019

#74: Audiobooks, January 2019

#writing #writers #write #writing update #writing life #amwriting #update #personal #me #writingcoffee #writingdotcoffee

[lilyjcollins-news]

Lily Collins :“I want to dig deep, tell the truth and be more brave” by Jane Mulkerrins.

(click here to see the photoshoot and here to go to the website.)

The day before we meet, Lily Collins had what felt like a breakthrough encounter. At the end of a short, on-camera interview, the journalist had asked where she lived. Los Angeles, she told him, where her mother was born and raised, and where she has lived since the age of five, when her parents divorced. He then asked where her father lived. England, and partly in the US now, too, she answered. And what did her father do for a living? After some stifled giggling from the crew, Collins, who has just turned 30, gently explained her parentage. “And the guy just looked at me with the biggest eyes,” she laughs. “He’s like, ‘I’m sorry, what did you just say? Oh God, now I feel silly.’”

She insists that she was very grateful for his ignorance. “I’m so proud of my family, but I have also worked really hard to carve my own path and to not have that define me.’”

The daughter of superstar musician Phil Collins and his second wife, Jill Tavelman, she admits that her famous surname has inevitably opened doors, but insists that nobody has ever “made a phone call” for her. “I did get told that I could have other ways in,” she shrugs, when we meet on a rainy New York afternoon. “but I never wanted to give anyone the opportunity to say: ‘Well, she only got X or Y because of that.’ I knew it would take longer to do it on my own, but it would be so much more worth it.”

Collins’s insistence on carving her own path is now paying off, with two high-profile films – Tolkien, and Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile, and the US launch of the BBC miniseries Les Miserables, for which her performance as the tragic Fantine is already creating some early awards buzz.

Tolkien, a biopic of the author’s early life, stars Nicholas Hoult as JRR Tolkien, the philologist and author of The Hobbit and the Lord of the Ringsseries, while Collins plays Edith Bratt, his childhood sweetheart and, later, his wife, who was the inspiration for Lúthien Tinúviel, the elvish princess in Tolkien’s Middle-earth. “I had auditioned to play an elven character in one of Peter Jackson’s movies, and I didn’t get it… but I’ve ended up playing the woman who inspired the elven princess,” grins Collins. It is her most mainstream, highly anticipated film to date, and a world away from the romcom roles she was getting five years ago. While there’s a heavy focus on Tolkien’s male friendships – the inspirations for his “fellowship” in his books, Bratt is fully fleshed-out and three-dimensional, too, not some flimsy, token love interest. “She was very creative and very passionate and driven, and he was intellectually stimulated by her,” says Collins. Bratt and Tolkien were both orphans. “At that time women of her status and in her position weren’t really afforded the opportunity to seek higher,” says Collins. “But she encouraged him to continue on his path. It’s very selfless, and, at times, heartbreaking.”

She sees a similar selflessness in Fantine, her once-vivacious character in Les Miserables, who becomes a prostitute and sells her hair and teeth in order to feed her child. “I died on day two of filming,” says Collins, with a laugh. She sent a picture of herself in character to her mother, who replied, “No one should have to see their daughter like this.”

“My choices have tended to go quite dark,” admits Collins of her recent roles. Just three days ago, she finished filming Inheritance, a forthcoming thriller in which she stars alongside Simon Pegg. “That’s incredibly dark, too. I really enjoy playing these characters that, under the surface, have so much more going on than they are saying, or who seem like they are barely keeping it together.

“I’ve always believed that asking for help is not a weakness, it’s a strength,” she continues. “I have a tattoo that says: ‘True delicacy is not a fragile thing.’ You can look delicate, but it doesn’t mean that you’re fragile.” I surmise, from her having it made permanent in ink, that people have, perhaps, underestimated her in the past.

Undoubtedly the darkest of her recent projects is Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile, about the serial killer Ted Bundy, who murdered more than 30 girls and women in seven US states in the 1970s. The title comes from the judge’s summation of Bundy’s acts when sentencing him to death. Collins plays Elizabeth Kloepfer, the killer’s long-term girlfriend who is convinced of his innocence, with Zac Efron playing a charismatic and persuasive Bundy.

While preparing for the role, over the Christmas holidays, Collins recounts how she would wake every night at 3.05am. “I would go downstairs and have a cup of tea, trying to figure out why I had woken up again.” Then, she says, “I started being woken up by flashes of images, like the aftermath of a struggle.” She went to the internet to investigate. “I discovered that 3am is the time when the veil between the realms is the thinnest and one can be visited.” She began to believe women who were murdered by Bundy were, perhaps, trying to contact her. “I didn’t feel scared – I felt supported. I felt like people were saying: “We’re here listening. We’re here to support. Thank you for telling the story.”

Collins tells me all of this in a completely matter-of-fact manner, as if receiving messages from long-dead murder victims were a perfectly normal part of preparing for a film. It’s pretty much the only moment in our time together when she seems more Californian than British. Even her looks – porcelain skin, dark hair and dramatic eyebrows – are eminently more London than LA. And, while in person her accent is pure California, on screen in Tolkien, her clipped, turn-of-the-century English consonants and vowels are flawless, as are her more working-class ones for Fantine. She looks deeply relieved when I tell her so. “I did worry that people were going to be like, ‘Well, she is actually British, her accent should really be better,’” she laughs. “There’s an extra level of pressure. I worked with a dialect coach as I needed it to be absolutely spot-on.”

Collins was born in Guildford, Surrey, at the height of her father’s success – six months later he would release Another Day in Paradise. Is it true, I ask, that Elton John used to babysit her? “I’ve really got to sit my parents down and ask them questions about that. I’ve been hearing it for so long, but I really have no idea,” she says.

After relocating with her mother to LA at the age of five, following her parents’ divorce, she attended the prestigious Harvard-Westlake school, where former pupils include Maggie and Jake Gyllenhaal, and began auditioning for film and TV roles. “I was getting told ‘no’ all the time,” she says, which she puts down simply to a lack of experience. “I’d done musicals and plays at school, but I hadn’t studied acting or anything, and auditioning for film and TV is very different.”

At the same time, journalism held an appeal, too. “I wanted to be the youngest-ever talk show host,” she says. After pitching ideas to magazine editors, she began writing for Teen Vogue and Elle Girl, and scored a job as a reporter for the children’s channel Nickelodeon, covering the 2008 presidential election and Obama’s inauguration. “I was 18 and I could just vote, so I was like, ‘Oh great, I get to ask all the questions that I don’t know the answers to.’” What she liked less, however, were the questions she had to ask as a roving reporter on the red carpet. “I would think, oh, that’s not what I really want to ask this person, I would hate to be asked that,” she recalls. On the other side of the microphone now, there are questions she simply doesn’t answer, about her personal life, or about politics, on which she refuses to be drawn.

She studied broadcast journalism at the University of Southern California, but dropped out in her second year when, in 2009, after several years of auditioning, she won her first film role, as Sandra Bullock’s daughter in The Blind Side. Soon after, she was perfectly cast as Snow White in Mirror Mirror, followed by Rosie Dunne in Love, Rosie, the adaptation of Cecelia Ahern’s novel Where Rainbows End.

Though acting has clearly won out over journalism and talk show ambitions are on hold for now, Collins is still a keen writer. In 2017, she published Unfiltered: No Shame, No Regrets, Just Me, a collection of personal essays in which she opened up about her struggles and self-doubts, her relationship with her father, with partners, and with her own body, writing about the eating disorders she battled for some years. “A lot of young women write to me on social media [she has more than 14m followers on Instagram], saying, ‘I just wanted to let you know that this is my situation and my insecurity, not that you would ever be able to relate to it…’ and I’ll always be like, ‘No, I really can relate,’” she insists.

Collins describes in Unfiltered how, as a child, she had only positive associations with food, but that changed when she turned 16. Her father was separating from her stepmother, his third wife, while Lily was juggling school, a budding modelling career, a social life and trying to break into acting, too. “My life felt out of control,” she writes. “I couldn’t handle the pain and confusion surrounding my dad’s divorce, and I was having a hard time balancing being a teenager with pursuing two different grown-up careers – both of which I’d chosen myself, but which also focused heavily on how I looked.” She began starving herself, exercising obsessively and became addicted to diet pills and laxatives, habits which continued well into her early 20s.

She pitched the book proposal during a dry spell in acting. “I hadn’t booked anything film-wise for a while, and I was itching to do something. The idea for the book had been at the back of my mind for a while, and I thought, well, maybe now’s the time.” Soon after, she was also sent the script for To The Bone, a film about a young woman with chronic anorexia. “It was too big a message to ignore,” recalls Collins. She attended group therapy sessions with recovering anorexics. “I didn’t want them thinking that I was just coming in to be nosy. I wanted them to know that I actually could relate. It encouraged me to really dig deep and tell the truth, to be more brave. And it was freeing,” she says. Collins sent a copy of the book to Michelle Obama “on a whim. I wanted to reach out to certain people and just thank them for being an inspirational woman, someone who I look up to,” she says. “I certainly never expected to receive a letter back thanking me and saying the same thing. I need to get that letter framed.”

This summer, she’s heading to France to film Emily in Paris, the new comedy-drama from Sex and the City creator Darren Star. “I knew I had so much baggage that I needed to get rid of in order to take on the baggage of all my characters,” she says. “And the second I did that, my career and my personal life opened up in a whole new way.” Collins, it seems, having been drawn to the darkness, professionally and personally, is now heading towards the light.

vía The Observer Magazine.

#lily collins #interview #magazine #the observer #to the bone #Extremely Wicked Shockingly Evil and Vile #tolkien #unfiltered

[violetbeachpod]

1x01 / twelve oh one

TERESA:

Okay, so–it’s recording. Cool .

Um. It’s Wednesday. It’s been nine days since–eight days, maybe? –well, if you’re listening, at this point, you know what it was–Benji says we’re gonna publish this, but, like, no. That’s–that’s ridiculous. This is for science.

Or our memoirs. Whatever.

We’ve–the seven of us have decided to keep a log. Of what’s been going on.

Um. So. Cool. Name and deets, just in case some more weird memory shit goes down–My name’s Teresa. I’m eighteen. I’m an Aries, I like bowling and shitty pop music, and only mostly ironically. That enough fluff? I’m a freshman at, ah, Lands College, here in town, and. Studying journalism, with a minor in women’s studies, uh–anything else–I feel like this would be a better story if I start showing, rather than telling.

Or, like. Telling stories rather than just reading out my dating profile. Because that’s lame.

My dating profile’s actually–it’s a lot more detailed than that. I’m on, like, seven different sites, and every profile is. Very Different.

(text notification sound)

Anj, stop–stop listening in! You–you–dude, take a nap.

So. Anyway. Here’s what we know.

(long beat)

That was good, right? A good joke? That’s something. Um. Cuz we don’t know very much at all. There’s something there, I swear, like, I rehearsed that bit in the bathroom mirror this morning, and I was thinking, no, I won’t pull that, but–

But. Back to the point.

Y’know how, in movies, people are always like, “Nobody knows except for us?”

That’s so exclusive. So presumptuous. We don’t know if people are lying. We haven’t spoken to every person on the planet–we haven’t even spoken to anyone outside of Maryland. Outside of town. Like. We’ve watched news, but God knows, some of those conspiracies about hypnosis through CNN are real, or whatever. Y’know? Like–those conspiracies are almost exclusively believed in by, like, flat-earthing racists, so, like, they’re probably, definitely super wrong, but–I was making a joke and I’m overthinking it now. Cool.

Anyway. We don’t know who knows. Maybe someone in, like, Caracas, knows? Maybe someone in–you get my point–knows.

Or maybe we’re being Truman Showed. Wouldn’t be the worst theory to have come out of this.

I would–well, I’d hate it, but one time, back in middle school, the public library did these–these movie nights for teenagers, right? And, so, uh, a bunch of us were there, and I was sitting with Angie, cuz she was–she was the only person I knew there, of course, and she was sitting with these kids, like–uh, from the hippie school she had taken in, and–one of them was AJ, I know, and one was Charlotte. but the others, I don’t see anymore.

But anyway, she was, like, starry-eyed at the idea of her life being a TV show without her knowing. At the idea of unintentional stardoms. So maybe she’ll get a kick out of that theory.

Here’s something: I was working on my campaign notes earlier, cuz the group’s meeting tomorrow, should meet tomorrow  and I didn’t really–I didn’t like a few of the potentials, so, whatever. Irrelevant.

I checked the time, and–well. It was twelve oh one. And two minutes later, it was still twelve oh one. And now, it’s still twelve oh one.

I thought maybe my laptop was being bad again? But it said the same on my phone, and on the wall clock.

The app says time is passing. It’s been longer than fifty-nine seconds.

It’s still twelve oh one, though, is the thing. Which isn’t great, all things considered.

But, we’ll catch up on that later.

Here’s the big thing. I went back to the beach last night to see if I could recreate what happened alone, and, uh–at least. I think I did. I don’t remember going, but, uh, Angie says I did, and AJ said that when he was closing at work, he saw me walking towards it. But I didn’t–I didn’t go.

There are sixty-nine–which, yeah, nice, that’s the sex number, whatever–sticky notes on the bathroom mirror, and, like–I can make out letters on some of them them? Individual letters? But not words. And I know that they’re making words, and I know that it’s my handwriting, but my brain just–it goes somewhere else.

And other ones, that I can read, they have dumb stuff. One of them’s just a doodle of David Hyde Pierce with a caption that just says “HELL YEAH. LOOK AT THE MOON WEDNESDAY.”

It’s, like–in fairness to me, or the person I assume to be me, it’s a fairly good David Hyde Pierce. And there’s–there’s a new moon tonight, so–well.

Whatever.

It’s still twelve oh–oop. Nevermind. Twelve oh two now. Nice.

Benji wants me to take off work until this whole thing’s sorted out. Says he’ll still pay me, but, like–being yelled at by awful dudes about trivia that nobody knows is kind of the only constant in my life right now? So I said no. Obviously. Like. It sucks, but it makes me feel normal. Like the beach out by Angie’s place did, before–

Well. Maybe some recollection would be nice, I guess. Just so, like, Danny and company–like, if we end up showing them. Cuz I’m better at sticking to the facts than, say, Robin or Charlotte. So. Yeah.

So. Uh.

Most folks know that she transferred in after a semester at–well, I’m not allowed to say the name of the school in front of her, anymore, and she’s, like, giving me death-eyes out of the bedroom door. But. A certain Ivy League school. This is relevant–

Okay, maybe not, but it’s a nice set up to our establishing shot, which is, of course, her New Year’s party, nine days ago. At her parents’ place. Or, eight days ago, at her parents’ place, I guess. She told us on New Year’s Eve that she was starting at Lands on the fourth, and I offered her a stay in my dorm, cuz I had a single, and, uh, it sucked? But. Whatever.

So I said, “You know, I have a single.” And she said–wait, lemme find my journal–yes, I do write down conversations, Angie.

Alright. She said, “Oh, really, is it on–Bandcamp, Soundcloud, iTunes, MySpace? I didn’t know you–” And I said, “I meant dorm room, dude, you mentioned–MySpace?”

She said, “I still use it.” I laughed, “Of course you do.”

But, anyway. We agreed to live together, but. It was one AM. Robin Cabell dropped by with her new fiancee, said hi, and–well, like, our babysitter’s getting married, to, like, this gorgeous girl from DC, and the high school kids from the hippie school were there, and Benji was there, cuz he’s everywhere, and–

As folks left–Angie started playing Wonderwall around 3AM, so, uh, a little bit before then–it ended up just being the seven of us. Her parents are out of town–as always. Well, not always. But frequently.

They’re mad about–Blarvardgate.

I–I didn’t say it! I said something mildly close alluding to it. Stop texting me!

But. It was just the seven of us there, Angie still playing some terrible 90s song, and–Benji says, “I brought fireworks. Forgot about that til now.” Elaine, uh, Robin’s new fiancee, asked, “They legal?”

Benji said, “It’s New Year’s Day and I’m a–a bit of a town celebrity,” he said, because his podcast gets, like, seventeen downloads per episode.

“You are?” asked Elaine.

He got really proud, real fast, and he said, “Yes, absolutely, and also, I’m at some rich people’s house and it’s New Year’s Day, so, like. We’ll be fine.”

Which, fair.

And that’s about when things blew up?

Ironically, not literally, cuz he went to his truck, and brought out the fireworks, and he was–well. It was New Year’s, he wasn’t sober, so, he tripped, and those things went flying, landing in the water. It was a bad fall, he hit his head on a rock. And Charlotte was laughing, and she was wading right where the waves were breaking, and she fell backwards, so–AJ panicked, and he jumped in after her, cuz she wasn’t coming up.

And AJ came up, holding Char so she could stand, and she was coughing up water, looked like she was about to pass out. I was checking out Benji’s wound, even though, I’m, like,–blood? Not my thing, ever, at all, it’s–it’s weird and red, and Angie was getting up to check on me, and Rob and her fiancee were trying to help out the kids, and–

And the sky went bright purple.

Not, like, when it’s a sunset, and the sky’s kinda magenta? And that’s blending into the night-sky color, but–

Like, highest saturation on photoshop, highest brightness, makes-you-almost vomit cuz your eyes are burning, that bright purple.

And my skin, it felt like it was burning. I smelled salt, felt a breeze, and I tried to close my eyes, to breathe out, but I couldn’t.

And then there was nothing.

And then I woke up on the beach. I could smell salt, I was totally clear-headed–and Benji’s cut? It was gone.

My watch said it was around 4AM. My phone was dead, but–it was the first, still. The sun was rising, in–in normal sky colors.

And I woke up second. Elaine was already up.

She asked me if I saw it too.

I said I that did.

Neither of us needed to clarify what. But we did. Obviously. Because “it” could be, like, anything, like–could be that new reality show that everyone’s super into where eliminations are decided by arm wrestles–it’s, like–it’s got compelling storylines, I swear.

My phone died, Angie, so if you’re trying to communicate, I can’t help you.

Oh! Time’s passing normally now. That’s nice. That’s good.

The plan was to recount the past week’s events, as well as their psychological effect on us. That’s what we agreed on.

So. Time stopped for a little while today. That was weird. That’s important.

I guess–I’m first, so I should talk about my other big experience too.

I was the fourth of us to see something, after it all? It was the third. After work, I was walkin’ to Ramon’s? And as I passed the custard stand, I saw this woman.

She was shorter than me, uh, long sundress on that was way too summery for this weather, but she didn’t seem cold. I offered her my hoodie, cuz I at least had long sleeves, but she didn’t answer. Dark hair, big sunglasses. I’d wager maybe thirty.

She took off her sunglasses, yeah? And the sky flashed purple–the same purple, the same burning feeling all over me–

And then the same nothingness, same smell of salt, same breeze, but–

I was still standing. And we were in this space, this–this purple nothingness, no ground, no sky, no nothing, that’s a double negative, you get what I mean, and–I was still standing–more floating, which was–not as pleasant as you’d expect? But not unpleasant, either. And this woman, she looked at me,  dead in the eyes, and–

And she said–

(beat, uncomfortable)

What did she say?

(laughs)

It’s–it’s in my head, like. Tip of my tongue. I wrote it down, but it’s–it’s another individual letters making out a word I know but can’t–type situation.

But whatever.

What I’m most concerned about is my going to the beach. About the sticky notes. Like, that’s some sci-fi bullshit. Or some horror bullshit. Either or. Probably both.

Again, Truman Showed. Viable theory, here.

Or it has something to do with the Groundhog Day thing. Maybe.

I think what bothers me about this is how easy I’m accepting all this–that, like, I’m fairly sure all this is real. I know it’s–it’s weird. I know that this is sci-fi-esque, but, like–I never saw myself as a protagonist, or–any kind of tagonist, I guess, in those stories. But this–now, I think that I am.

So. Cool.

But why do I think that’s cool? I’m the–I’m the socially-stilted nerdy girl who either dies second or gets really good at guns, and I’m very afraid of guns.

So, therefore? I’m dying second.

Or, or or or, I’m Lois Lane. Charming and tough young journalist, swept off her feet by a charming stranger. Hopefully not a Superman, though, cuz–he’s not my thing. But. Yeah. I can deal with Lois.

I feel like I should know what happens next. Me or Benji, we gotta, we’re the ones who know genre like the backs of our hands. That’s why we’re friends, but–

This isn’t supposed to happen here. Like, I grew up here, and I’m–I wasn’t planning to stay here forever, obviously, but–This town, VB, it’s–it’s comforting in its boringness. Sure, it’s not– the people here are always cycling in-and-out, cuz tourism and school, and all that, but–Violet Beach is a normal-ass town. We don’t have ghost stories, we don’t have cryptids, we–we don’t have lore, or whatever. I don’t think there’s ever been a murder here, for God’s sake.

Okay, well–the hippie school’s headmaster, uh, the rebrander guy, Andrew Corielli, or–his son’s the mayor, right?–Shot that grocer, like, in the sixties. But everyone was a serial killer back then, if I can trust every true crime show ever.

But–my point is. What’s going on is not what happens in this town. What’s going on is what goes on in, like, Roswell, or–or Twin Peaks, or something.

I’m–I don’t have much else to say. That’s a conclusion if there ever was one. So. Uh.

Okay. I’m signing off. Thanks, guys. Hope to see you soon.

#script #season one #teresa

[baddasshistoricalmadams]

Elizabeth Blackwell

Medicine woman.

Birth: February 3, 1821                      Death: May 31, 1910

Women have been a longstanding part of healthcare in history. From wise women who offered remedies in the home made from herbs and salves to women who delivered babies in the home. Despite the services they offered, women were not allowed to enter universities or guilds to take formal education to be recognised medical practitioners. Wise women would see themselves be labelled as witches, those who delivered babies would find men gradually replacing them in their craft and soon only those with recognised medical certification were able to practise medicine. New medical journals written would soon begin to dismiss the old herbal remedies and traditional folklore medicine as old wives tales thus removing any legitimacy that it may have had.

In nursing is where women found a inlet into medicine. In the late 1700′s, reform began to emerge from various other civil areas that saw change. Institutions for training nurses began to emerge, the Deaconess Institute at Kaiserworth in Germany (1836) would inspire Florence Nightingale who would go on to reform army hospital standards during the Crimean war and Mary Seacole would set up her own nursing home on the front line. Nursing began to be seen as a respectable course of career for a young woman though for some it might have been seen as still closed to young women of colour or of the lower classes. Nursing was seen as a natural extension of a women’s attribute, a caring and nurturing role that women easily slotted into but the idea of women becoming trained physicians was not an open subject. Not to say that women did not try, Margeret Ann Buckley enjoyed a successful medical career as James Barry and their secret was only discovered when they died from dysentery. 

Elizabeth Blackwell was born in Bristol, England to a large and prosperous family, her father, Samuel Blackwell would move them to America in 1832 to take up residency in New York where he would become involved in the abolitionist movement. Elizabeth benefitted from private tutelage from an early age but her family would fall from wealth as her fathers business practises did not do well in the states and ultimately he would pass away in Cincinatti, Ohio. His daughters, Elizabeth, her mother and her sisters would go on to open a private school to make ends meet and would go on to teach in Kentucky and later in North and South Carolina. Elizabeth’s family were very progressive for the times, her brother Henry was a well known abolitionist and suffragist, her sister Emily would follow her into medicine and her sister in law became an ordained female minister. 

it was during the latter years of her teaching career that Blackwell would began reading medical journals. She would claim that her interest came at the experience of a terminally ill, close friend who stated that had her physician been female: it is likely her fate would have been much different. Elizabeth would apply to multiple medical colleges but ultimately was denied by all but one. Her application to Geneva eventually would be accepted. The board did not think that the all male student body would approve of the admittance of a woman into their ranks and thus put it to a vote. If one member of the student body voted no; Elizabeth Blackwell would be denied a place at the university. Unanimously the vote was a yes and Elizabeth was admitted. By what virtue did all 150 members vote in her favour?

Allegedly they thought it was a joke or an exercise.

Nevertheless the board wrote to Blackwell upon her acceptance;

“A quorum of the faculty assembled last evening for the first time during the session, and it was thought important to submit your proposal to the class (of students), who have had a meeting this day, and acted entirely on their own behalf, without any interference on the part of the faculty. I send you the result of their deliberations, and need only add that there are no fears but that you can, by judicious management, not only disarm criticism but elevate yourself without detracting in the least from the dignity of the profession.”

Despite a resolution that no conduct of the University would be detrimental to Blackwell's career, she nevertheless encountered resistance and difficulty upon her admittance. When discovered that her application was indeed serious, she was met with horror from the public and was even restricted from attending medical demonstrations. She was asked to leave operating theatres, advised to avoid a lecture on medical anatomy and many patients reacted poorly to her presence. She recounted in her biography that wives of doctors would not speak to her and often other ladies would stare at her with curiosity. However some noted that fellow students became quite friendly after a time and even some of the more uncouth students appeared to tighten their bootstraps and become more studious.

Elizabeth would graduate first in her class in 1849 with an MD; writing her doctoral thesis on Typhus fever. She would return to Europe and work for some time in the maternity sector and sadly would contract an illness that would leave her blind in one eye. Because of this, she gave up on the idea of becoming a surgeon. Nevertheless she eventually returned to practise in New York and faced further prejudice in her attempts to open up a practise. Hospitals and dispensaries ultimately refused her associated. Landlords would refuse to rent practise space to her so eventually she bought a house and set up a practise where she would see mainly women and children. During this period she would also go onto write and publish lectures on health including The Laws of Life; with Special Reference to the Physical Education of Girls. 

In 1853, she would open a dispensary in the slums alongside her newly qualified sister and Dr Marie Zakrewska, a polish doctor whom Blackwell had encouraged to continue her studies. Emily Blackwell, her younger sister became the third women to qualify in America. Leading medical practitioners would go onto to aid the practise as well. In her personal life, it was during this time that Elizabeth chose to adopt a child as she had chosen to never marry. Katherine ‘Kitty’  Barry and Elizabeth remained close friends into Blackwell’s old age. Eventually the dispensary would be incorporated into the New York Women’s and children infirmary by the sisters and Dr Zakreska who would later leave to continue her career in Boston. Towards the end of the 1850′s, Elizabeth would go on to tour Britain lecturing on medicine, many women would go onto be inspired by Elizabeth’s pursuit of a medical career and Elizabeth would be the first woman to have her name on the British Medical register. During the civil war they would aid in the organisation of Womens central organisation of relief which selected and trained nurses  for service in war.

Elizabeth would also meet Florence Nightingale, with her sister Emily as well; they would open the Women’s medical college at the infirmary which Elizabeth would be the Chair of Hygiene for a number of years but would directly guide the college herself. In 1875, Elizabeth was appointed the professor of gynaecology at the London School of Medicine for Women which had been founded by a fellow female doctor, Elizabeth Garrett Anderson. She would retain this position until she retired in 1907 due to a bad fall she had sustained and later in 1910, she would pass away in her home in Hastings. Elizabeth Blackwell is generally labelled as the first female doctor in America and certainly was a visionary in medicine and helped lead the charge of women entering the profession. Certainly after two world wars, more opened up to the idea of women entering the medical profession as the need for more medical staff arose. The influence of the first wave of female doctors is certainly felt, in 1881 there were 25 female doctors but by 1925; there were approximately 425. Elizabeth fought for her career and certainly earned the respect - albeit sometimes begrudging- respecting of her male peers and the acceptance of women in the profession.

Stuff:

http://broughttolife.sciencemuseum.org.uk/broughttolife/themes/practisingmedicine/women

https://www.medicaldaily.com/most-influential-women-medicine-past-present-270560

https://www.womenshistory.org/education-resources/biographies/elizabeth-blackwell

http://time.com/5131961/elizabeth-blackwell-facts/

https://www.britannica.com/biography/Elizabeth-Blackwell

https://cfmedicine.nlm.nih.gov/physicians/biography_35.html

https://www.thoughtco.com/elizabeth-blackwell-biography-3528555

https://www.biography.com/people/elizabeth-blackwell-9214198

http://www.bristol.ac.uk/blackwell/about/elizabeth-blackwell/elizabeth-blackwell-biography/

#doctors #women in medicine #elizabeth blackwell #female physicians #female doctors #they thought it was a joke and she turned around and said 'nah mate #i'm going to show you hows its done' #badassdoctors #amazing women #medicine #doctor #history #short biography #biographies

[easyhairstylesbest]

Priyanka Chopra Jonas Says Writing Her Memoir Gave Her the Closure She Needed

Priyanka Chopra Jonas comes from a culture that doesn’t exactly encourage women to talk publicly about their personal lives—much less publish books about them. “It was ingrained in me from a young age not to air my dirty laundry in public,” she relates. “What’s another way to say it?” she asks, but answers her own question: “How about, people shouldn’t see you polishing your dirty armor—or something along those lines,” she laughs. “I grew up with that one, too.”

When Chopra Jonas was thinking about writing her memoir, her plan was to let people read between the lines. “I initially thought the book would be a series of letters to my younger self,” she recounts to me via Zoom. It’s a mid-January evening in London and Chopra Jonas is sitting serenely in front of a large burning fireplace wearing a two-tone silk shirt, her hair pulled back from her face. “I started the process in early 2020 thinking I would talk about my achievements, my laurels, give advice to my younger self—that sort of thing. I thought I would scratch the surface and skim over the more difficult parts of my life,” she muses dryly, shaking her head at her own naïveté. But when she sat down to write, that’s not what came out. “The process became more like writing in a journal,” she says. “As I started thinking about everything, writing became a dissection of my emotions, my failures, and my pain. There was so much that flowed out of me that I hadn’t thought about in years or even realized that I remembered.”

The task of immersing herself completely into Unfinished, her autobiography, came at the right time. “I was approaching 20 years of being in the entertainment industry and it was something I personally wanted to acknowledge,” she explains. “I also realized that I was at a place where I was self-assured enough to look introspectively into my life—something I wasn’t capable of at the time these things were happening.”

“From my earliest years, my dad and I had an understanding: Whenever he was performing at the army club he would look me in the eye during the first song. The New Year’s Eve I was five he forgot, so I started to leave in a huff. Dad jumped off the stage and pulled me up onto it with him, coaxing me into a duet—a nursery rhyme—and winning my forgiveness.”

Courtesy

The child of military doctors, Chopra Jonas grew up moving from one army base to the next. “Then, as an adult, I was always running from one project to the next. There was never any time to look back and reflect.” I nod, thinking of her plethora of Bollywood roles over the past two decades—70 and counting. “It has always been about the next thing. In many ways, I feel as if I have been running from myself for most of my life.”

True to form, our conversation comes on the heels of Chopra Jonas having just wrapped the Sony Pictures romantic comedy Text For You co-starring Celine Dion and Scottish actor Sam Heughan. With barely a break in between, she’s about to start work on the Amazon series The Citadel with actor Richard Madden (Bodyguard; Game of Thrones) for showrunner team the Russo Brothers; the project will have her stationed in London until November. “My job doesn’t have the luxury of consistency,” she says. “So when COVID happened it forced me to sit down and address the things I had bottled up for many years.”

Boarding school was an emotional place Chopra Jonas felt she needed to revisit. “Being sent away to school in the third grade was something I thought I had put to bed, but I was compelled to reconcile with for the book,” she tells me. During her first week at La Martiniere Girls’ Private School in Lucknow, India, a four-hour train ride from her hometown of Bareilly, she recalls sitting on a merry-go-round in the school’s playground clutching the cold, rusty bars, her eyes fixed squarely on the gate. She willed her mother to come back and take her home. “What I remember vividly is the feeling of being abandoned—a feeling that lasted for a long time.” After months of heartache (including one episode that made her physically sick) and clingy visits with her mother that pushed back any progress, Chopra Jonas says she slowly started to adjust.

“Whether heading to work in a chiffon sari or gliding through the house in a cloud of Dior perfume, my mother was always impossibly glamorous.”

Courtesy

But as the seesaw between emotion and numbness subsided, the confusion remained. “I didn’t understand why I had been sent away,” she says. “I also didn’t understand why she couldn’t visit as often anymore.” Some days Chopra Jonas blamed the arrival of her little brother, Sid, for taking away her mother’s attention. Other days, she blamed it on her own “bad behavior”—recalling the tantrums might have triggered the decision for round-the-clock discipline. “My mother didn’t explain her reasons for sending me to boarding school,” she writes, “maybe because she didn’t fully understand them herself”. Eventually, Chopra Jonas stopped questioning why she had been sent away and started settling in, thriving in extracurriculars such as singing, dancing, drama, and public speaking—a sign of things to come. She also made close friends. “I never thought about it, but maybe it gave me a stability I didn’t know I was craving,” she tells me.

The boarding school also gave Chopra Jonas a taste of independence—something she wanted more of as a teenager. At age 13, during her first-abroad trip to visit relatives in Cedar Rapids, Iowa with her mother, she loved the sense of autonomy she witnessed during a visit to her cousin’s high school. “In India, we wear uniforms in school, but in America I could dress the way I wanted,” Chopra Jonas says. “Girls wore makeup and wore their hair down. They also wore shorter skirts. That was exciting.” When her Kiran Masi (maternal aunt) asked her if she would like to live and go to school in Cedar Rapids, Chopra Jonas didn’t have to think about it: America could offer the brand of freedom she was looking for. She wasn’t afraid of being away from home this time: “Really it felt like just the next step in my education. I felt like boarding school prepared me for America.”

What it didn’t prepare her for was the bullying and racism that cast a shadow over her new life. During her sophomore year in Newton, Massachusetts, where she lived with her Vimul Mamu (maternal uncle) and his family, a peer in the ninth grade and her squad of “hecklers” started targeting Chopra Jonas. At first, she did her best to ignore the racist slurs and casual shoving. “I stopped taking the bus because I knew they would be on it,” she writes in the book. “I took different routes to classes even though they were longer; I stayed away from where they congregated at the lockers.” Chopra Jonas tried to manage the situation by herself for a year, but her self-esteem suffered. “I was tired of being pushed around and seeing vile things written about me in the girls’ bathroom.” She called her mother and told her she wanted to come home. “I broke up with America,” she tells me.

“I broke up with America,” she tells me.

The experience woke Chopra Jonas from the juvenile, sitcom-induced infatuation for the country she thought she knew. But she’s grateful she had the opportunity to escape. “There are so many kids this happens to, but they don’t have the choice I did to get out of their circumstances,” she says. “I was lucky that I could leave and that I didn’t have to deal with it. I think that if I had stayed it might have chipped at my confidence a lot more than it did. I feel blessed that I could go back home to the support and safety of my parents.”

But she knows that “not having to deal with it” isn’t always a blessing. When her father passed away from cancer in 2013, Chopra Jonas says she never really examined or dealt with her grief. “Instead I just powered through it.” She had just finished training for the title role of the Indian film Mary Kom, the true story of the Indian female boxing champion. “Distracting myself with work has always been my modus operandi,” she emphasizes with a gesture of her hand. “Any kind of heartache, failure, grief, or loss—I always just turned to my work. Work engulfed me whenever I needed it to. I was like an ostrich: I always just buried my head in the sand.”

“Vimal Mamu (my maternal uncle), my mother, and me in 1998, when she traveled to Newton, Massachusetts, to bring me home.”

Courtesy

While the physicality of the role helped to channel some of her grief, suppressing her feelings resulted in a depression that would surface a few years later. It was the spring of 2016 and Chopra Jonas had just moved from Montreal to New York to shoot the second season of Quantico. “I thought I had moved past it,” she says when I share a little of the ebb and flow of my own grief after losing my father three years ago—who, like Chopra Jonas’ dad, was also in his sixties. She nods in understanding. “In reality, I was always carrying it with me.”

Unfinished: A Memoir

Ballantine Books bookshop.org

$25.76

There were more unhappy endings. Quantico wrapped its final season and a romantic relationship also came to a close. “I was fortunate to be able to work because it was my salvation.” When she wasn’t on set or on location, Chopra Jonas says she was mostly alone. “I would eat alone, watch TV alone. I got very little sleep, and I put on about 20 pounds.” She doesn’t believe she was clinically depressed, “but the time felt like a never-ending slump, a long sigh of sadness, a sort of pause on life that lasted three years,” she writes. There was one notable bright spot during Chopra Jonas’ intermission from life: “It was when I met Nick, even if it was very briefly,” she recalls, referring to her now-husband, singer-songwriter Nick Jonas.

Reflecting on her past through her book has been a lot like getting therapy, says Chopra Jonas. “It was a healing process,” she says. “For once in my life, I allowed myself to feel the feelings that I should have felt at the time.” In typical Indian fashion, her worrying has found a new outlet: the book’s release. “I’m terrified. There’s so much in there that I’m not comfortable sharing, even though I just did!” she laughs heartily. “The book is still fresh in my mind—raw even—especially since I just finished listening to the audio version. The whole time I was thinking, Oh my God, how am I even talking about these things?” She jokes that there are at least 25 things she wishes she had taken out. “But you know what? It’s okay,” Chopra Jonas says. “I understand that I can’t always be in control of everything.” She pauses, then adds: “It’s also too late to stop the presses.”

Wendy Kaur Wendy Kaur is a Toronto-based lifestyle, beauty and fashion writer whose work has been published in British Vogue, ELLE Canada, InStyle, FASHION, FLARE, and others.

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Priyanka Chopra Jonas Says Writing Her Memoir Gave Her the Closure She Needed

[jessiyl]

The Smurg- Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Africa was amazing. It was large and open, with so many different landscapes to see. The jungles and the savannah were her favorites. The people were colorful and kind, with cultures that were so different from everything she was used to. Magic was used in ways she never considered before. She could really see what the appeal of a world travel would be to a young powerful wizard. In a different world, perhaps it would have been something she would have done herself.

When they finally approached the village on foot after nearly a month of travel, Draco and Hermione were immensely excited albeit exhausted. They walked in the midst of their village and were immediately surrounded by warrior wizards. It was one of the possible scenarios they anticipated while on their journey. After she recounted Voldemort’s experience, they had leaned towards the village casting first and asking questions later. Both were happily surprised they weren’t killed on sight. Something that was also on their possibility of outcome list.

Hermione and Draco had agreed that their best chance of seeing The Smurg was by not occluding or acting suspicious or secretive in any way. With that in mind, they walked into the village, minds open and their wands safely tucked in their packs. Some would call that vulnerable or foolish, but Hermione needed to see the Smurg. If she couldn’t, was there really any point in living?

Immediately, they were brought to a crude hut that could only boast the barest of walls and a thatched roof. It was not her idea of comfort, but she guessed that was the point. At least they anticipated on letting the two of them leave alive. If staying in a bare hut for a while was the price to pay to be there and try to convince the villagers that they were worthy enough to speak with the Smurg, then who was she to disparage their accommodations?

Hermione sat on the edge of a straw pallet and pulled her small beaded bag onto her lap. Draco sat heavily next to her, watching as she drew out the long thin box that they had brought as a gift to bribe their way into the Smurg’s presence.

“When do you think would be a good time to give them the gift?” Hermione mused out loud. She couldn’t have asked a better person for gift giving advice as Draco had an extensive etiquette upbringing enforced by his mother, the socialite and once debutante.

"Now, before they kill us. A gift, it may be, but don't forget this is a bribe." He smirked, looking so much like the old Draco Malfoy that Hermione was thrown back to their third year to the moment where her fist landed on his smarmy face and couldn't help but smirk in return as she remembered the way he collapsed like a card house after being disturbed by a gust of wind. Hermione focused once more on what was in front of her and rolled her eyes, knowing that though he learned etiquette from his mother, his bribery experience was completely his father’s doing.

“I guess now is as good a time as any,” She muttered and stood, turning to look at Draco as he laid out on the straw cot and closed his eyes. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

“I think you can handle giving a gift all on your own,”

“They might kill me on sight just because of what it is.”

“You are right,” He said, sitting up and concern wrinkling his brow, “don’t forget to ward the door on your way out,” he laid back down, that infuriating smirk growing the longer she fumed silently, hovering over his seemingly relaxed body. He was damn lucky that she was working on learning restraint in hexing her allies. Namely him.  

Hermione pivoted on the balls of her feet and walked out of the hut. She had taken a mere three steps before she was immediately surrounded again.

“We have brought a gift for the Smurg,” She said, holding up the small wooden box. When no one moved, she removed the lid and showed them the innocent length of wood that sat inside on a bed of velvet. A sudden intake of breath from the elders was her only indication that they recognized the unbroken and unaligned Elder Wand.

A ripple of unease swept through the villagers as the elders moved as if one to box her in against the small hut.

“How do you know about the Smurg?” a man of dark skin and shockingly white kinky hair muttered dangerously, never taking his eyes off of the deadly wand that she offered them.

“My best friend defeated Tom Riddle and our losses were incredibly high. It was he who won the allegiance of the wand and died of his injuries shortly after, leaving the wand without a master.

After the battle, there were few wizards living and I know given the chance, I could make things better for everyone. I began my research into time travel. After days of scouring through books, I was desperate and ended up going through Tom Riddle’s personal items. He kept a journal of his travels as a young man and I read about his stop here. I was hoping the Smurg could help us.”

“She isn’t a fortune teller to fix your life. Her services are for the betterment of all.”

“Would you ask her if she would see us? Please?” Hermione ignored his previous comment and remained dogged

“I can promise no more than that. If she does not wish to meet you, you both will leave.”

“Alright.” Hermione agreed and went back into the hut where Draco was already spread out on his straw cot snoring. She snorted. He wouldn’t have lasted five minutes on the hunt for Horcruxes.

She laid down to wait, hoping that the Smurg would agree to meet them. Hermione really didn’t know what she would do if they were turned away. And before she knew it, her lids weighed heavily and it was longer times between each time she blinked them open.

She was awoken by rough hands that shook her vigorously. She gasped as she reflexively reached for her wand and only hit a solid wall of muscle.

“She summons you.” A deep voice murmured.

They walked as a group towards the center hut. Hermione could feel the shimmer of spells gliding over her skin as she passed through the doorway and there the warriors stayed standing guard just inside the wards. They silently pushed her through the doorway and shut the door behind her.

Hermione was left alone in the dead of night, in a dark and warded hut, in the center of the village with no way to defend herself. Fear coiled in her stomach as she wondered if Voldemort’s journals were wrong. Perhaps the parasite needed new hosts to suck the life out of. Maybe it just told him something to make him go away. But the one thought that was niggling at the back of her mind was the date that the Smurg had given him as the date of his death was accurate.

“Come closer.” A high girlish voice beckoned.

“I don’t know the way. It’s too dark.” Hermione said.

A small ball of light appeared in the palm of the hand of a very young child. She was only five or six years old. Her long white hair hung loosely to her shoulder blades as her milky white eyes focused on Hermione’s approaching form.

Hermione was horrified, and her hand covered her mouth.

"Do not mourn for me. I may not be a normal child, but I have the lives of a thousand Smurgs in my head. I have never just been a child. I have always been the chosen. I am blessed.” The child said, voice devoid of emotion.

"I lost my childlike innocence early and I will always mourn the loss of the same in any other." Hermione stood in front of the girl who was seated on a throne made of a living tree that had been twisted as it grew into the shape of a grand and imposing living throne.

“I was told that you knew of me from a journal of Tom Riddle’s.”

“Yes.”

“He was a blight on the world but even blights are needed to strengthen future crops and the will of man. I know why you are here. I don’t think it would do any good to change this.”

“If I had the chance, I could change things for the better.”

“If you have the chance you may lose your hard-won victory.”

“This was no victory.”

“For the whole world, it was.”

“Not for my world.”

“No, I suppose it wasn’t, but it could have been a lot worse. It almost was.”

“What does that mean?”

“If your blond companion had embraced his familial role, Voldemort would have triumphed.”

“Good thing he didn’t then.”

“The world is very fortunate.”

“Tom’s journal said that everyone leaves either with a curse or a blessing. What will I leave with?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“If I send you back, can you put all of your prejudice aside?”

Hermione was indignant. She was not the prejudiced one, but after a second of reflection, she thought about it. If she went back in time, those horrible things wouldn't have happened yet. Could she set all of that aside and treat her enemies as if she was meeting them for the first time? Could she give them all a second chance?

“I would try very hard.” Hermione finally said.

The Smurg smiled in approval.

“If you had said yes, you would have been unworthy because of your lie. If you would have said no, you would have been unworthy because of your inability to do the right thing. You are worthy of my blessing.”

The Smurg smiled and reached out a fist. Hermione held her hand flat, palm up as the little girl dropped three seeds into Hermione’s hand.

“Plant them in a magical garden and watch it grow. When the seedling glows blue, you must give it a blood sacrifice. If it accepts your offering, it will bear a single piece of fruit in three days. This first fruit will have the magic in it that you seek. The barren tree left behind will eventually produce a Smurg of its own. Once the tree has its blood sacrifice, it will not be able to be undone. Do you accept the price of your blessing?”

“The Smurg will select a host among the available women?”

"The Smurg will choose its host from the family that cares for the garden it resides in. A Smurg will always choose a child."

“What would happen if I don’t offer the tree a blood sacrifice?”

“It would become an ever-bearing pomegranate tree that would sprout fruit in even the harshest winters.”

“But it would never become a Smurg.”

“Correct.”

“Thank you for your blessing. I hope you achieve great longevity.”

The little girl nodded her head with a smile and dropped the ball of light, a clear dismissal from the hut. Hermione turned and walked out blindly, heavily laden with moral conundrums. Would going back in time be a good enough reason to condemn a line of girls into hosting a powerful parasite? Hermione couldn't help thinking that it wasn't very much like a blessing at all.

Hermione gently wrapped the seeds in a silk scarf that she brought along and put it in her beaded bag. The warriors stood like sentinels around the hut only watching Hermione as she slowly made her way back to the hut that they village had given her and Draco. Once there, she crawled back onto the straw and fell asleep, hoping that her unconscious mind would give her an answer. On one hand, she could go back in time, on the other hand, she would be giving over the lives of countless girls to do it. If she went through with it, would she be any better than Voldemort?

When Hermione woke up the next morning, Draco was gone. She poked her head out of the hut and was greeted with bowls and dishes of various food, busy women and men going about their day, and children running about, freely playing together as good friends do.

Hermione joined the gathering with a smile and watched with interest, the employment of many of the people, noticing that they bowed their head and called her ‘Muumba’ as she passed. She smiled not knowing what it meant but taking social cues, she assumed it was something positive. She shrugged and moved on, hoping she would see Draco soon.

A little girl, the same age as the Smurg ran up to her and tugged on Hermione’s shirt.

“They are waiting for you, Muumba.”

“Who is?”

“Your companion and the Elders. Come.”

“What does Muumba mean?” Hermione asked curiously.

“The one in the beginning, the creator.”

Hermione sputtered in shock.

“Why are they calling me the creator?”

“You will create the new Smurg and ours will no longer be alone. They will be connected.”

“In what way?”

“The seeds are of the tree and the trees are special. Once, long ago, there were whole forests of trees and they were all connected. Not anymore. Ours is the last.” She said sadly.

“Then are all Smurg’s connected?”

“Yes. The more there are, the stronger they are, the more they can do for the world.”

“But one person has to give up her whole life for it. Why are the hosts always girls?”

“The chosen are gifted extremely long lives; the only sacrifice is their innocence. They grow knowing the best and worst of the world. Girls are the bearers of life, so are the Smurg’s.”

“Their only sacrifice…” Hermione spat. “Innocence should not be an acceptable sacrifice.”

“She gains much and only one of us is chosen. The rest of us are blessed to protect her. She lives a satisfying life.”

“But is she happy?”

“What is happiness? Happiness is not the same for everyone and is not the same thing throughout one's life. ”

“How did you become so wise in your young life?”

“We are taught the lessons of the tree. The Smurg sings the songs of a time where they were many. We learn from her.”

They reached the small enclosure that the little girl gestured to, bidding Hermione to enter.

“Aren’t you coming too?” Hermione asked the little girl.

“Only the blessed may enter here.”

“And you are not blessed?”

“Not everyone can be worthy.”

“But you protect her.”

“We are still human, and we have our own fears and vices. Very few are actually worthy. We celebrate because two have come to us. The Muumba and the Mlinzi.”

“What is the Mlinzi?”

“He is the protector.”

“The protector of the Smurg? Will he be forced to stay?”

“He will sire daughters who will host the new Smurg. His tribe will protect her. He will protect the tree. The Smurg has already seen it.”

“I don’t believe in prophecy.”

“Neither do we.”

“What does that even mean?” Hermione asked, frustrated.

The little girl walked away with an enigmatic little smile. Hermione frowned as she watched the dark-skinned child rejoin her playmates before turning around and walking into the hut. Draco was sitting in a circle with five other people. Their ages varied from ancient to child. Draco smirked, enjoying Hermione’s confusion. He patted the ground next to him in the same manner that she had that day in his library, his eyes danced with humor.

“Come in Granger, we were just about to begin.”

“Begin what?”

“Breakfast.”

“Right.”

The moment she sat down, two women joined the group carrying bowls and flasks filled with food and drink.

Their day went by fast, the whole village was welcoming and celebratory. It wasn’t often that they entertained guests and even less when those guests were blessed. It was a lovely day spent before they left in the morning.

Their trip back to Malfoy Manor was much quicker and easier. Since they had already visited several waypoints, they were able to apparate back to Wiltshire in four short bursts. Tanzania to Algeria, Algeria to Spain, Spain to France, and France to Wiltshire.

**HG**

Hermione and Draco were in the small sitting room off of the conservatory, each laying on a couch on opposite sides of each other.

“What did she tell you?” Hermione asked.

“She asked me if I had to do it all over again would I make the same decision to flee the Manor.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her I wasn’t sure. I don't think my father would have been forced to kill me. The Dark Lord was fond of forcing his followers into doing things they didn't want to do to test their loyalty. Often they had to go through with whatever he came up with but sometimes, especially in the case involving pureblooded children, they did not. Although, my mother would have been killed and I couldn't have survived losing her that way."

"The Smurg likes indecisive people." She snorted.

“Mmm.” He agreed.

"She gave me seeds but if I use them to go back in time, it will create a new Smurg. I don't think I can condemn innocent children to that fate."

“Did she tell you why she looks the way she does and why she is blind?”

“It’s part of being the host for the Smurg, right?”

“No. She was born blind and the hair was an abnormality. She is actually the great niece of the previous Smurg. Did you know that the last Smurg wasn't born blind?  They claimed she was one of the happiest people they had ever met."

“What are you trying to tell me?”

"I'm trying to show you that you are as blind about the Smurg as you are about House-elves. You are pushing your thoughts and feelings onto them without considering what makes them happy. Your happiness is not the same as theirs."

Hermione stared at him in shock. That was basically what the little girl in the village had told her.

“So, you would be okay with having your daughter be the host of a new Smurg.”

“Sure, it’s a great honor.”

“Did she give you seeds?”

"No, she told me who my future wife would be and that she would give me five children, three of them, girls."

“What’s her name?”

“Ginevra Weasley.”

Hermione drew in a great breath and held it, desperately trying to hold back a sob. With an angry release, she narrowed her gaze.

“Ginny would never in a million years chose you over Harry,”

“If you go back, things will change, she will marry me. That is what the Smurg said.”

“If I go, Ginny lives to marry you?”

“Yes. I don’t know how or why but that is what was promised.”

“How did you take that, being told you would marry a Weasley?” Hermione snickered.

“Relieved and mildly intrigued.”

They chuckled for a moment. Draco rolled onto his side, a hand under his head as a pillow.

“If you stay, this is what the rest of our life will look like. You’re decent Granger but I would only marry you out of duress. We would be like siblings and would fight all the time. We would waste our lives searching for a way to go back in time without the severe consequences of the time turners. I don't think that is possible. So, tell me, is your life so great here with me that you can't let me go?"

“This is not about you, Malfoy. This is about your children and how they deserve a proper childhood.”

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

“But we cannot forget the man for the crowd.”

“I see we are at an impasse.” He said flopping on his back.

“I don’t even know if I can control the year. What if I end up in the founders’ era?”

“I think it will take you where you can do the most good.”

“You have a lot of faith in this. Why?”

“Do you know what the tree portion of the Smurg is called?”

She shook her head.

“It is an Ent. They used to be all over the world. My father used to tell me stories about the Ents when I was a kid. I don’t know how accurate they are, but I used to love them.”

“Don’t Ent’s walk?”

“The Smurg walks not the Ent. Ent’s are rooted to the ground. They are trees for goodness sake. Merlin, Granger!" He huffed as if he had to explain something obvious that a two-year-old would know. She stayed quiet, lips thinning in silent disapproval thinking of all the Tolkienesque dreams that were now shattered. "What I am trying to say is that this doesn't seem so out of the ordinary for me. I grew up in a world of magic. It’s all I’ve ever known, and magic is fluid and unpredictable. Not everything can be explained or reasoned out. Some things just are. Do you reason out the cause and effects of jumping into a lake? Your body oils could kill the ecosystem, but you go swimming anyway.”

“I can either choose to jump or to stand still.”

“Exactly.”

“What would you do?”

“Me? I would jump.”

**HGHG**

Hermione stood on a slight rise in the west gardens of Malfoy Manor. A unicorn watched from the field on the other side of the low hedge, a dazzling white among the sea of green. Hermione looked down at the silk cloth she clutched in her hand. It was time to make a decision. Was she going to sacrifice the lives of generations of Malfoy girls to come and go into the past, or was she going to plant a tree that will bear fruit year-round and stay to have Draco’s children?

She unfolded the material and stared at the seeds. Guilt twisted in her stomach, her decision was made days ago when she talked to Malfoy about it in the conservatory. The only problem was that she just wasn’t prepared to knowingly sacrifice someone else so that she could go back in time. She would gladly lay down her own life for her friends but for her to offer up another’s life? It was a hard pill to swallow.

Gritting her teeth, Hermione gently poked the seeds into the hole that Draco had dug for her and covered it before sitting on the ground to wait. Malfoy brought her a tray of sandwiches and a thermos of tea after the first hour.

“Thanks.” She murmured, digging into the first sandwich.

They sat silently chewing and watching in bemusement as the seeds sprouted at an accelerated pace. The tiny seedling grew fast. It wasn’t long before a sapling stood where before it was merely a covered hole.

It pulsed with a strong blue iridescence that shone from the very core of the tree. Hermione took a deep breath, this was it. She was going to do it.

“Diffindo," Hermione muttered, slicing her hand open before cupping the welling blood. The pulse seemed to feel her blood and small wispy tendrils reached out from its trunk. The delicate lines snaked around her wrist and writhed just above her exposed wound. It was as if it were waiting for her consent. Hermione rubbed the soft bark, coating it with her blood.

"I'm sorry, so sorry." She muttered. Not to the tree, to it, she was bestowing life, but to the hosts that haven't even been born yet.

Once the blue light faded she pulled her hand back and let the remaining drops of blood drip from her fingertips, splashing onto the grass.  

Malfoy grabbed her hand, healed and cleaned it, before letting it drop back to her side.

“All we have to do now is wait.” He said. She nodded. She had three days to get her shit together.

**HGHG**

The first thing that Malfoy insisted on was visiting Gringotts, but Hermione was understandably hesitant. She had stolen something from one of the vaults that they protected. She was expecting to be murdered the moment she crossed the threshold. He waved away her concerns with a ringing laugh.

"Look, Granger, I promise that they won't attack you."

In the end, he won, and Hermione was now standing in a back office of one of the head goblins, with Malfoy lounging arrogantly in one of the seats by the desk.

“We don’t know what time she will arrive in, but she needs to have access to funds.”

"Almost all of her assets were seized as a fine for her theft, as was quite a bit of the Potter wealth. Upon the death of Harry James Potter, Hermione Jean Granger acquired the remaining Potter and Black fortunes. The remaining totaling five million galleons, various jewels, and artifacts that are detailed in full on this list." The Goblin handed over a thick ream of paper.

Malfoy plucked it out of her hand and began studying her assets.

“What I am asking is, is it possible to make this available to her at any time? In any time?"

“Not these treasures in particular but we have ancient vaults with no living relatives to claim them. We would choose a familial vault that is worth the same as her current vault. We would only need to set the inclusion wards. Once that is done, it won’t matter when she comes, just that she does first thing. The Goblins of the time, will give you no trouble. We have policies in place."

"And the fee?"

"A Goblin-made artifact that would be signed over to me specifically." A greedy glint entered his eye.

“Only if everything is changed over first.”

“Alright.”

“I also wish to bequeath the contents of vault thirty-four to Miss Hermione Jean Granger.”

Surprise colored the faces of the other two.

“It is my wish to see Granger well taken care of in her endeavor.” Malfoy finished.

“Very well.”

With little more discussion, the paperwork was signed, and Hermione was the proud owner of Vault Seven. The vault of the lost house of Slytherin.

They rode the deathtrap that the goblins affectionately called the cart to the lowest and oldest section of Gringotts. The minecart flipped and rolled and spun, going fast and slow at different intervals making Hermione quite ill. By the time they reached vault seven, Hermione was seriously considering kissing the ground.

Her eyes went wide as she looked at the large red chimera guarding the entrance. The goblin rang a tiny high-pitched bell that made the chimera cringe away from the trio.

Using his gnarled finger, the goblin turned over the vault to Hermione, her blood and magical signature now marking it as hers. The door melted away as she stood staring at a great amassment of treasure.

"Everything has been cataloged and put on a new list that I will send to you." The goblin said looking at Malfoy.

Malfoy nodded before turning to look into the newly opened vault.

He looked just as entranced as Hermione did as they studied rare tomes, wands, jewels the size of eggs, mounds and mounds of galleons, and other oddities.

"You are a very wealthy witch," Draco mumbled, running his fingers over the neglected leather spines of the books.

Hermione scooped up some of the galleons and retreated. She had to keep reminding herself that she was able to access this at any time.

Once they were back up to the main lobby, the Goblin stopped them and pulled Hermione close enough so that the other goblins wouldn’t be able to hear what he said.

“You adopted the name Slytherin to get that vault. Do not forget that. It is a very powerful name with many advantages and consequences. Good luck Miss Slytherin and don’t break into any more vaults.”

Hermione stood in shock. It was a perverse kind of irony. Malfoy shook his head muttering unintelligibly under his breath.

“Well, you won’t have to convince anyone of your blood status.” He whispered to her as they stepped out onto the deserted street. Diagon Ally was a caricature of what it used to be. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes stood abandoned, the bright purple paint starting to peel on the north face of the building.

Hermione spent the next day and a half packing, unpacking, and repacking everything she planned on taking with her. She exchanged the small beaded bag for a newer yet identical one that Malfoy found among his mother’s possessions. She perfected the undetectable extension charm and with Malfoy’s help, she turned the whole thing into organized chaos. By the time the small pomegranate from the tree was ready to be eaten, Hermione was overprepared.

#update #harry potter fanfiction #Hermione Granger #gellert grindelwald #time travel #Writing fanfic

[2700fstreet]

THEATER / 2018-2019

CARTOGRAPHY

TEACHER AND PARENT GUIDE

World premiere Kennedy Center co-commission Written by Christopher Myers Directed by Kaneza Schaal

Student Guide: Cartography

Parents, Teachers, and Caregivers: Get the Conversation Going

Human migration is an ongoing theme in human history. Whether the people on the move have been refugees fleeing war or natural disaster, or migrants relocating somewhere they hope will offer greater opportunity, much of humanity’s story has been about people seeking a new home in a new land.

Today’s stories of refugees and migrants are no different. Cartography, written by Christopher Myers and directed by Kaneza Schaal, invites people to make the connection. “I really want young people to see themselves in that context, whether their stories are personal or farther back in their family’s history,” says Myers. (You can find an interview with Myers below.)

For this production, 2700 F St. invites teachers, parents, and caregivers to take a break from interpreting “the big picture” of today’s news coverage about refugees and migrants, coverage that often presents these people and their circumstances in simplistic ways. Instead, we can let the documentary voices of young people onstage speak directly to young people in the audience.

This adult guide is designed to facilitate the start of a conversation.

The Human Journey

The play Cartography is one in a series of programs in The Human Journey, a season-long artistic collaboration among The Kennedy Center, National Geographic Society, and National Gallery of Art. These identified performances and exhibits invite audiences to investigate human experience through the performing arts, science, and visual art.

Cartography features all of the main themes that form the framework for The Human Journey project—namely migration, exploration, identity, and resilience. These four themes are described here:

Migration is the movement of people from one place to another, whether by force or choice, in search of a better living situation. “This movement of people has historically brought together cultures from around the globe, shrinking our planet and bringing the cultural identities that define us into sharper focus,” said Tracy Wolstencroft, chairman and CEO of the National Geographic Society.

Exploration is the human endeavor to discover and better understand the world. The urge to discover can mean turning inward to reveal the mysteries of human biology and psychology, outward to explain secrets of our planet and universe, or toward each other to untangle the jumble of humanity and its relationships and social systems.

Identity relates to how we see ourselves and others, and how we form and apply ideas about who we are. In Cartography, this theme is central as the identities of these young refugees leave their familiar lives and cultures behind.

Resilience describes our ability to endure and function, especially under pressure and stress. Cartography dramatizes the various ways the characters stay strong and hopeful under life-churning circumstances.

With migration and refugees frequently in today’s news, the central ideas of The Human Journey programs are very relevant. Keeping them in mind can help us relate the stories in Cartography to our own lives.

Video: “What Does It Mean to Be a Refugee?” by Benedetta Berti and Evelien Borgman. June 16, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=25bwiSikRsI

A Different “Kind” of Theater

Cartography is a type of theater known as “devised documentary theater.” This style of stage performance is developed by a collective where performers collaborate and improvise on specific topics or themes—that’s the devised part. For example, the director may call out a word and have the performers act out their responses. As a group, they see and discover effective scenes and onstage moments and craft them into a script. New York’s Wooster Group and Elevator Repair Service are two well-known theater companies that specialize in devised theater.

“Documentary theater” draws on news stories and interviews with real people. The performance dramatizes a story by portraying events, sometimes using people’s actual words. Documentary theater includes “investigative theater” that is based on investigative/exploratory journalism. The Laramie Project (2000)—which recounts the murder of gay college student Matthew Shepard based on interviews with people in Laramie, Wyoming—is a frequently produced example. “Verbatim theater” is another form of documentary theater, performed using only the words of people interviewed. The works of Anna Deavere Smith are examples, including Fires in the Mirror and Notes from the Field.

Using Open-ended Questions

To set the tone for discussions with young people, consider sharing something from your personal experience that relates to the play and its themes. The intention is to start conversations and keep them going. However, avoid putting any students on the spot about their own identity or family history.

You can use open-ended questions to help students spot details they may have missed, to dive deeper into the play’s content and themes, and engage with potentially controversial content that may come up in discussions such as issues of religion, race, and poverty. When necessary, encourage students to back up their interpretations or views with supporting evidence from the play itself or a trustworthy third-party source.

Here are several open-ended points of discussion to consider:

Have students describe the set of Cartography and how it is used.

As a collaborative exercise, recount notable moments in the performance: What got your attention or surprised you?

How did you feel when the cast left the stage and interacted with audience members?

What new information or ideas came to mind by the end of the performance?

What are examples of major human migrations in history? What factors contributed to them?

Before the Show

Along with your young people, discuss and decide how they want to prepare for attending Cartography. First stop, review the Student Guide with them. Then ask: What do they already know about human migration? What more would they like to learn? Do they want to research their family’s own migration history? Are they interested in the asylum process? Do they want to learn more about documentary theater? Would they like to take an online tour of the Kennedy Center?

Consider following their lead on how they want to prepare, from theater etiquette and stagecraft to background research on human migration to themes in Cartography. Below are some ready resources to draw on.

After the Show

Collaborate with your students or young people to determine how they want to process the play afterward. Let them brainstorm ways to get the most out of the experience and make the subject relevant to them. Do they want to go deeper into the play’s themes? Talk about acting and stagecraft? Learn more about migration and refugees in their community or state?

The Student Guide

Revisit the two sections from the Student Guide: “Check This Out…” and “Think About This….” Use them to stir discussion about the production, scenes in the play, and its characters and themes.

Consider Activities on Three Main Themes in Cartography

Cartography zeroes in on three main themes, or big ideas: Migration, Home, and the Role of Storytelling. Review activities in the “Take Action” section of the Student Guide, such as creative writing, geography, and artistic projects that students can use to explore these ideas in relation to their own lives. These themes overlap with those of the Human Journey series: migration, exploration, identity, and resilience.

The activities in the Take Action section of the Student Guide are designed to be easily scalable for a diversity of learning styles and/or abilities. For example, the acrostic poem exercise can use shorter words and the identity collage activity can be presented with a limited scope, say five pictures and five favorite things.

A Classroom of Pen Pals

Refugees and detained asylum-seekers face a long and often lonely road as they seek to start a new life in a new land. Receiving a letter in the mail can be a highlight of their day, even from someone they may never meet. To find out how your young people can use their writing to connect with other young people who could use a friend, check out: https://www.care.org/get-involved/letters-hope.

Q & A with Christopher Myers

Christopher Myers is an American author and illustrator of children’s books. His illustrations in Harlem won a Caldecott Honor in 1998, and Black Cat earned a Coretta Scott King Award in 2000. He has illustrated and/or written some 20 books and is also a visual artist who designs clothing. Cartography is his first play. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, but travels worldwide. You can visit his website at https://www.kalyban.com.

Kennedy Center: How did the idea for Cartography take shape?

Christopher Myers: In 2016, there was a massive influx of refugees into Europe from Afghanistan, Syria, Somalia, Eritrea, West Africa. I was spending time at the International Youth Library in Munich, Germany, and that area was receiving thousands of refugees every day. I had this thought, that while there was obviously a need for social services, there was also a need for storytellers, too. The act of migration is an act of storytelling, an imagination of a future, a rewriting of the past. Storytelling is central to the process of moving, and it is essential that alongside medical assistance and social assistance that we think about the stories that have drawn our borders and our needs to cross them.

The library provided space and support for myself and my collaborator Kaneza Schaal to talk with and work with these young refugees. They ranged from 11 to 17 years old and came from all across the world.

KC: What role did director Kaneza Schaal play in developing the play?

CM: Kaneza is an ideal collaborator. We were working with young people who spoke Arabic, Pashto, French, and other languages, and communication presented its own challenges. But Kaneza brought the language of theater and performance which is more than just words—it’s movement and action and sound and images. She created a framework to allow these young people from a mix of cultures to express whatever they wanted to say. It was her idea that we could build a community around the conversations we had seen the need for in Munich, take the work we were doing outside the walls of the library, and that her art form, theater, would be an ideal way to do that. Our process is very collaborative. I write scenes and texts and then bring them to her and she asks for more or less, hones the vision of the piece, brings the team of performers together, makes the piece truly breathe as theater, and not just as words on a page.

KC: The importance of stories is a recurring theme in the play. Why is storytelling important, especially for refugees?

CM: These young people urgently wanted to share the stories about their lives, and I think young people in general are desperate for stories—to tell as well as hear them. In a very real sense, they all are in the process of writing their own.

What I found is that, more than most people, these young people must contend with stories being told about them in newspapers and other news coverage. They, themselves, rarely have a chance to tell about their experiences. Journalism is important, but it can have a flattening effect on the human side of the experience of being a refugee or migrant. It has a way of erasing their individuality and humanity. That’s why I say it’s important to have storytellers on the front lines of any crisis, to shape both our human reaction to the crisis, and to shape our understanding of the people who are undergoing such radical change in their own lives.

In the end, we are the sum total of the stories that have come before us and the stories we tell about our futures. That’s true of anyone. We’re also hungry for stories to help us make sense of what’s happening to us and around us. For a young person, it’s about having the opportunity and ability to write the next chapter of their lives, and by developing this show we want to have a part in that. Storytelling is a source of empowerment. If you don’t write your own story, someone will come along and write it for you.

There was a young man from Syria. I asked him what he wanted me to bring back to the world from our time working together. He told me he didn’t want to be invisible anymore. He wanted us to make a place for people in crisis like himself to be seen.

KC: Often, we don’t think of the stories of refugees as having much humor in them, and yet there are laugh-out-loud moments in the show. Were you surprised at all by the jokes and humor shared by the young people you worked with?

CM: I think too often when we create art about people in crisis, we focus on the crisis and not the people. So many people who I’ve met, who are going through a crisis have had a way of finding the humor. Humor is a kind of a way out, an escape or safety valve. Humor is how we fully acknowledge the challenges we face but still give ourselves agency.

These young people we worked with used humor as a tool. They are not simply poster children with tears in their eyes. We want nothing more from this piece than to remind ourselves and our audience of the personalities behind the statistics.

KC: You have mainly written and illustrated children’s books in the past. Why create Cartography as a play?

CM: Theater has all kinds of unique storytelling devices. It combines light and sound, spoken words and action. It can communicate in ways that pictures and the written word can’t. These stories are better told on stage.

Every theater audience is an instant community. It gives us a chance to think about these and other issues as a community and not just as individuals, and that is super important to Kaneza and me.

KC: Stories of human migration run throughout human history. Why is this show particularly timely now?

CM: Everyone has a story of migration in their past. My grandfather came to the United States from Germany in the 1920s. Kaneza’s family fled strife and genocide in Rwanda. We are all on the continuum of migration; we are all part of this story.

Movement is part of what it means to be human. It helps us see our place in the grand scheme of things and in relation to each other. I really want young people to see themselves in that context, whether their stories are personal or farther back in their family’s history.

I was visiting an art museum in Germany with Makhtar, a boy from Mali [in West Africa]. And there was this painting from the 1700s of Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus. I explained it was the story of their flight into Egypt. They were fleeing great violence. Makhtar looked at that painting, that story, and said, “They were refugees, too.”

This interview has been edited for clarity.

Data Bank

Here are a handful of graphs to help you and students examine the context and the bigger picture of migration patterns. They present some of the numbers behind the news coverage as well as the play.

A clear definition of what constitutes a refugee was adopted after World War II as part of the United Nations’s 1951 Refugee Convention. According to Article 1(A) of the convention, a refugee is a person:

who owing to a well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group or political opinion, is outside the country of his nationality and is unable or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to avail himself of the protection of that country; or who, not having a nationality and being outside the country of his former habitual residence as a result of such events, is unable or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to return to it.

Today, there are more than 63 million refugees in the world, according to the United Nations High Commissioner on Refugees. That figure surpasses the estimated 60 million Europeans displaced during World War II (1939-1945).

Online source: https://www.vox.com/world/2017/1/30/14432500/refugee-crisis-trump-muslim-ban-maps-charts

Refugees and people seeking asylum 2017, by country of origin

Online source: https://www.refugeecouncil.org.au/getfacts/statistics/intl/global-trends-2017/

Refugees and people seeking asylum 2017, by country of asylum

Online source: https://www.refugeecouncil.org.au/getfacts/statistics/intl/global-trends-2017/

Where Migrants and Refugees Are Coming from and Going, 2015

Source: Human Rights Watch: https://www.hrw.org/report/2015/06/19/mediterranean-migration-crisis/why-people-flee-what-eu-should-do

Video: “UNHCR Global Trends 2017 Report.” UNHCR, The UN Refugee Agency. Overview of the world’s refugee crisis. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1MGRB5ZmKpU&t=41s

Standards Connections:

English Language Arts - Reading: Literature (RL.7, RL.9)

-

Writer: Sean McCollum

Content Editor: Lisa Resnick

Logistics Coordination: Katherine Huseman

Producer and Program Manager: Tiffany A. Bryant

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Cartography is part of the Kennedy Center's Human Journey www.kennedy-center.org/humanjourney

The Human Journey is a collaboration between The Kennedy Center, National Geographic Society, and the National Gallery of Art, which invites audiences to investigate the powerful experiences of migration, exploration, identity, and resilience through the lenses of the performing arts, science, and visual art.

David M. Rubenstein Chairman

Deborah F. Rutter President

Mario R. Rossero Senior Vice President Education

Bank of America is the Presenting Sponsor of Performances for Young Audiences.

Additional support for Cartography is provided by A. James & Alice B. Clark Foundation; the Kimsey Endowment; The Morris and Gwendolyn Cafritz Foundation; Paul M. Angell Family Foundation; and the U.S. Department of Education.

Funding for Access and Accommodation Programs at the Kennedy Center is provided by the U.S. Department of Education.

Major support for educational programs at the Kennedy Center is provided by David M. Rubenstein through the Rubenstein Arts Access Program.

Kennedy Center education and related artistic programming is made possible through the generosity of the National Committee for the Performing Arts.

© 2019 The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts

#theater #forteachers #cartographyat2700f

[violetbeachpod]

TRANSCRIPT: 1x01 - Twelve Oh One

Hey, folks! Bee here. Y’all reached out to me about transcripts awhile back, and, hey, since the season’s over, I’m gonna start posting them! As a person with attention issues, I super get the need for transcripts, and I’m sorry for not delivering on them sooner.

I’m also reediting episodes right now, so. Those corrections will be posted about as they happen. Anyway. Here we go. Episode one, which you can listen to here, if you so please.

TERESA: 

Okay, so--it’s recording. Cool .

Um. It’s Wednesday. It’s been nine days since--eight days, maybe? --well, if you’re listening, at this point, you know what it was--Benji says we’re gonna publish this, but, like, no. That’s--that’s ridiculous. This is for science.

Or our memoirs. Whatever.

We’ve--the seven of us have decided to keep a log. Of what’s been going on.

Um. So. Cool. Name and deets, just in case some more weird memory shit goes down--My name’s Teresa. I’m eighteen. I’m an Aries, I like bowling and shitty pop music, and only mostly ironically. That enough fluff? I’m a freshman at, ah, Lands College, here in town, and. Studying journalism, with a minor in women’s studies, uh--anything else--I feel like this would be a better story if I start showing, rather than telling.

Or, like. Telling stories rather than just reading out my dating profile. Because that’s lame.

My dating profile’s actually--it’s a lot more detailed than that. I’m on, like, seven different sites, and every profile is. Very Different.

(text notification sound)

[lean away from mic]

Anj, stop--stop listening in! You--you--dude, take a nap.

[and we’re back]

So. Anyway. Here’s what we know.

[long beat]

That was good, right? A good joke? That’s something. Um. Cuz we don’t know very much at all. There’s something there, I swear, like, I rehearsed that bit in the bathroom mirror this morning, and I was thinking, no, I won’t pull that, but--

But. Back to the point.

Y’know how, in movies, people are always like, “Nobody knows except for us?”

That’s so exclusive. So presumptuous. We don’t know if people are lying. We haven’t spoken to every person on the planet--we haven’t even spoken to anyone outside of Maryland. Outside of town. Like. We’ve watched news, but God knows, some of those conspiracies about hypnosis through CNN are real, or whatever. Y’know? Like--those conspiracies are almost exclusively believed in by, like, flat-earthing racists, so, like, they’re probably, definitely super wrong, but--I was making a joke and I’m overthinking it now. Cool.

Anyway. We don’t know who knows. Maybe someone in, like, Caracas, knows? Maybe someone in--you get my point--knows.

Or maybe we’re being Truman Showed. Wouldn’t be the worst theory to have come out of this.

I would--well, I’d hate it, but one time, back in middle school, the public library did these--these movie nights for teenagers, right? And, so, uh, a bunch of us were there, and I was sitting with Angie, cuz she was--she was the only person I knew there, of course, and she was sitting with these kids, like--uh, from the hippie school she had taken in, and--one of them was AJ, I know, and one was Charlotte. but the others, I don’t see anymore.

But anyway, she was, like, starry-eyed at the idea of her life being a TV show without her knowing. At the idea of unintentional stardoms. So maybe she’ll get a kick out of that theory.

Here’s something: I was working on my campaign notes earlier, cuz the group’s meeting tomorrow, should meet tomorrow  and I didn’t really--I didn’t like a few of the potentials, so, whatever. Irrelevant.

I checked the time, and--well. It was twelve oh one. And two minutes later, it was still twelve oh one. And now, it’s still twelve oh one.

I thought maybe my laptop was being bad again? But it said the same on my phone, and on the wall clock.

The app says time is passing. It’s been longer than fifty-nine seconds.

It’s still twelve oh one, though, is the thing. Which isn’t great, all things considered.

But, we’ll catch up on that later.

Here’s the big thing. I went back to the beach last night to see if I could recreate what happened alone, and, uh--at least. I think I did. I don’t remember going, but, uh, Angie says I did, and AJ said that when he was closing at work, he saw me walking towards it. But I didn’t--I didn’t go.

There are sixty-nine--which, yeah, nice, that’s the sex number, whatever--sticky notes on the bathroom mirror, and, like--I can make out letters on some of them them? Individual letters? But not words. And I know that they’re making words, and I know that it’s my handwriting, but my brain just--it goes somewhere else.

And other ones, that I can read, they have dumb stuff. One of them’s just a doodle of David Hyde Pierce with a caption that just says “HELL YEAH. LOOK AT THE MOON WEDNESDAY.”

It’s, like--in fairness to me, or the person I assume to be me, it’s a fairly good David Hyde Pierce. And there’s--there’s a new moon tonight, so--well.

Whatever.

It’s still twelve oh--oop. Nevermind. Twelve oh two now. Nice.

Benji wants me to take off work until this whole thing’s sorted out. Says he’ll still pay me, but, like--being yelled at by awful dudes about trivia that nobody knows is kind of the only constant in my life right now? So I said no. Obviously. Like. It sucks, but it makes me feel normal. Like the beach out by Angie’s place did, before--

Well. Maybe some recollection would be nice, I guess. Just so, like, Danny and company--like, if we end up showing them. Cuz I’m better at sticking to the facts than, say, Robin or Charlotte. So. Yeah.

So. Uh.

Most folks know that she transferred in after a semester at--well, I’m not allowed to say the name of the school in front of her, anymore, and she’s, like, giving me death-eyes out of the bedroom door. But. A certain Ivy League school. This is relevant--

Okay, maybe not, but it’s a nice set up to our establishing shot, which is, of course, her New Year’s party, nine days ago. At her parents’ place. Or, eight days ago, at her parents’ place, I guess. She told us on New Year’s Eve that she was starting at Lands on the fourth, and I offered her a stay in my dorm, cuz I had a single, and, uh, it sucked? But. Whatever.

So I said, “You know, I have a single.” And she said--wait, lemme find my journal--yes, I do write down conversations, Angie.

Alright. She said, “Oh, really, is it on--Bandcamp, Soundcloud, iTunes, MySpace? I didn’t know you--” And I said, “I meant dorm room, dude, you mentioned--MySpace?”

She said, “I still use it.” I laughed, “Of course you do.”

But, anyway. We agreed to live together, but. It was one AM. Robin Cabell dropped by with her new fiancee, said hi, and--well, like, our babysitter’s getting married, to, like, this gorgeous girl from DC, and the high school kids from the hippie school were there, and Benji was there, cuz he’s everywhere, and--

As folks left--Angie started playing Wonderwall around 3AM, so, uh, a little bit before then--it ended up just being the seven of us. Her parents are out of town--as always. Well, not always. But frequently.

They’re mad about--Blarvardgate.

I--I didn’t say it! I said something mildly close alluding to it. Stop texting me!

But. It was just the seven of us there, Angie still playing some terrible 90s song, and--Benji says, “I brought fireworks. Forgot about that til now.” Elaine, uh, Robin’s new fiancee, asked, “They legal?”

Benji said, “It’s New Year’s Day and I’m a--a bit of a town celebrity,” he said, because his podcast gets, like, seventeen downloads per episode.

“You are?” asked Elaine.

He got really proud, real fast, and he said, “Yes, absolutely, and also, I’m at some rich people’s house and it’s New Year’s Day, so, like. We’ll be fine.”

Which, fair.

And that’s about when things blew up?

Ironically, not literally, cuz he went to his truck, and brought out the fireworks, and he was--well. It was New Year’s, he wasn’t sober, so, he tripped, and those things went flying, landing in the water. It was a bad fall, he hit his head on a rock. And Charlotte was laughing, and she was wading right where the waves were breaking, and she fell backwards, so--AJ panicked, and he jumped in after her, cuz she wasn’t coming up.

And AJ came up, holding Char so she could stand, and she was coughing up water, looked like she was about to pass out. I was checking out Benji’s wound, even though, I’m, like,--blood? Not my thing, ever, at all, it’s--it’s weird and red, and Angie was getting up to check on me, and Rob and her fiancee were trying to help out the kids, and--

And the sky went bright purple.

Not, like, when it’s a sunset, and the sky’s kinda magenta? And that’s blending into the night-sky color, but--

Like, highest saturation on photoshop, highest brightness, makes-you-almost vomit cuz your eyes are burning, that bright purple.

And my skin, it felt like it was burning. I smelled salt, felt a breeze, and I tried to close my eyes, to breathe out, but I couldn’t.

And then there was nothing.

And then I woke up on the beach. I could smell salt, I was totally clear-headed--and Benji’s cut? It was gone.

My watch said it was around 4AM. My phone was dead, but--it was the first, still. The sun was rising, in--in normal sky colors.

And I woke up second. Elaine was already up.

She asked me if I saw it too.

I said I that did.

Neither of us needed to clarify what. But we did. Obviously. Because “it” could be, like, anything, like--could be that new reality show that everyone’s super into where eliminations are decided by arm wrestles--it’s, like--it’s got compelling storylines, I swear.

My phone died, Angie, so if you’re trying to communicate, I can’t help you.

Oh! Time’s passing normally now. That’s nice. That’s good.

The plan was to recount the past week’s events, as well as their psychological effect on us. That’s what we agreed on.

So. Time stopped for a little while today. That was weird. That’s important.

I guess--I’m first, so I should talk about my other big experience too.

I was the fourth of us to see something, after it all? It was the third. After work, I was walkin’ to Ramon’s? And as I passed the custard stand, I saw this woman.

She was shorter than me, uh, long sundress on that was way too summery for this weather, but she didn’t seem cold. I offered her my hoodie, cuz I at least had long sleeves, but she didn’t answer. Dark hair, big sunglasses. I’d wager maybe thirty.

She took off her sunglasses, yeah? And the sky flashed purple--the same purple, the same burning feeling all over me--

And then the same nothingness, same smell of salt, same breeze, but--

I was still standing. And we were in this space, this--this purple nothingness, no ground, no sky, no nothing, that’s a double negative, you get what I mean, and--I was still standing--more floating, which was--not as pleasant as you’d expect? But not unpleasant, either. And this woman, she looked at me,  dead in the eyes, and--

And she said--

[beat, uncomfortable]

What did she say?

[laughs]

It’s--it’s in my head, like. Tip of my tongue. I wrote it down, but it’s--it’s another individual letters making out a word I know but can’t--type situation.

But whatever.

What I’m most concerned about is my going to the beach. About the sticky notes. Like, that’s some sci-fi bullshit. Or some horror bullshit. Either or. Probably both.

Again, Truman Showed. Viable theory, here.

Or it has something to do with the Groundhog Day thing. Maybe.

I think what bothers me about this is how easy I’m accepting all this--that, like, I’m fairly sure all this is real. I know it’s--it’s weird. I know that this is sci-fi-esque, but, like--I never saw myself as a protagonist, or--any kind of tagonist, I guess, in those stories. But this--now, I think that I am.

So. Cool.

But why do I think that’s cool? I’m the--I’m the socially-stilted nerdy girl who either dies second or gets really good at guns, and I’m very afraid of guns.

So, therefore? I’m dying second.

Or, or or or, I’m Lois Lane. Charming and tough young journalist, swept off her feet by a charming stranger. Hopefully not a Superman, though, cuz--he’s not my thing. But. Yeah. I can deal with Lois.

I feel like I should know what happens next. Me or Benji, we gotta, we’re the ones who know genre like the backs of our hands. That’s why we’re friends, but--

This isn’t supposed to happen here. Like, I grew up here, and I’m--I wasn’t planning to stay here forever, obviously, but--This town, VB, it’s--it’s comforting in its boringness. Sure, it’s not-- the people here are always cycling in-and-out, cuz tourism and school, and all that, but--Violet Beach is a normal-ass town. We don’t have ghost stories, we don’t have cryptids, we--we don’t have lore, or whatever. I don’t think there’s ever been a murder here, for God’s sake.

Okay, well--the hippie school’s headmaster, uh, the rebrander guy, Andrew Corielli, or--his son’s the mayor, right?--Shot that grocer, like, in the sixties. But everyone was a serial killer back then, if I can trust every true crime show ever.

But--my point is. What’s going on is not what happens in this town. What’s going on is what goes on in, like, Roswell, or--or Twin Peaks, or something.

I’m--I don’t have much else to say. That’s a conclusion if there ever was one. So. Uh.

Okay. I’m signing off. Thanks, guys. Hope to see you soon.

#transcripts #season 1 #teresa #violet beach #violet beach podcast

[williamlwolf89]

Stuck? Try These 72 Creative Writing Prompts (+ 6 Bonus Tips)

I bet you just asked Google to search for creative writing prompts.

Or was it writing ideas? Short story ideas? Or maybe writer’s block?

Boy, are you stuck!

But don’t worry. It doesn’t matter if you’re halfway through writing a book, sweating over social media posts, or journaling about your own life, all writers get stuck for creative ideas sometimes.

So, it’s great to have you here.

This is your go-to source of story starters, writing prompts, and bonus writing tips guaranteed to improve your writing skills, power up your passion, and get your creative juices flowing in 2020.

Here’s what we’ll cover:

Writing Prompts Q&A

72 Writing Prompts (Broken into Categories)

6 Bonus Tips (to Sharpen Your Writing Skills)

We’ll start with a few common questions and answers…

What are Writing Prompts?

A writing prompt can be a phrase, an image, or even a physical object that kick starts your imagination and motivates you to write. It provides a spark of an idea as a starting point to stimulate a natural flow of writing.

Writing prompts are ideal for any form of writing, like fiction or nonfiction, journaling, copywriting, blogging, or poetry. They usually contain two parts: an idea or a potential topic to write about, and the instructions on what you should do next.

For example, a creative writing prompt for fiction writers might be:

Your main character has a car accident and starts to hear voices while in the hospital. Write a short story about the conflict between the character and the voices and what really happened at the time of the car accident.

While journal prompts tend to focus on topics of self-awareness, such as:

Write about a turning point in your life. How different would things be now if you had made a different decision at the time?

What is the Purpose of Writing Prompts?

Writing prompts are like a pre-match warm-up. They help to relax your creative muscles, unblock your imagination, and free up your mind to focus on the main game of writing without fear or hesitation.

Instead of wasting time by thinking of a topic to write about, writing prompts get your creative juices flowing straight away, compelling you to put pen to paper.

Writing prompts also help you see things in a new light. They force you to think outside your comfort zone and use your imagination and creativity like never before.

Without them, we can become permanently sidelined by our inner critic. Or worse still, the gripping cramp of writer’s block.

How Do You Use Writing Prompts?

Like all muscle-building exercises, writing prompts are most effective when you make them a daily habit. Over time, with repetition, you’ll find your flow of writing becomes more natural, and your ability to write for longer strengthens.

But don’t feel you have to follow a prompt to the letter. If the prompt suggests you write about romance, but it sparks an idea for a poem, write a poem. Let your imagination guide you through the writing process.

Here are some other hot tips:

Don’t overthink it. Just start writing.

Don’t edit as you go.

If it’s not working for your style of writing, move on to another prompt. Find the prompts that make you want to write.

The creative writing prompt is a starting point. The finish is up to you. You don’t have to write a complete story, a poem, or an essay. Feel free to discard your work halfway through and move on to something else.

Adopt the Ernest Hemingway approach: Accept that most of what you write is likely to be crap, and you’re going to toss it. This isn’t about producing ready-to-publish work for your latest freelance writing job. It’s about the practice of writing.

How Else Can I Improve My Creative Writing Skills?

Improving your skills takes lots of writing practice. And using creative writing prompts is one of the best ways to do just that. But it’s not the only way. Here are a few other techniques you might want to explore:

Freewriting

This is when you write about anything that pops into your head. Take a blank page, set a timer for 30 minutes, and start writing. Write whatever your brain tells you to, and don’t worry if it’s nonsensical.

This writing exercise is great for pushing through writer’s block and allowing your mind to head off in spontaneous directions.

The Adjectives Game

List 5 things you like or dislike tasting, and then list 5 adjectives for each item. For example, you might like the taste of cake. The 5 adjectives might be: sweet, gooey, yummy, nutty, and scrumptious. Now do the same for your other senses.

This builds your sensory vocabulary and ability to write with flair and color.

Perspectives

Write about a recent incident you were involved in, from the point of view of someone else who was involved. Empathy is hugely important in writing and this exercise forces you to step into the shoes of another person and understand their point of view.

Dialogue

Writing authentic dialogue is notoriously hard to master, so this writing exercise will help.

Write about 300 words of a conversation between two people without using ‘he said/she said’ tags. Show the difference and relationship between the two speakers only through the words they use. It’s more challenging than it sounds.

Observation

Think of a color. Now go for a walk or a ride on the bus and note down everything you see of that color. When you get home, write up what you remember (take notes as you go to make it easier).

How many different hues of the color did you see? What did the things you saw make you feel? Was there any connection between them?

Brevity

Think of an anecdote you like to recount. Write it up in less than 500 words. Now rewrite the same story in 100 words. Now in 50 words. And finally, in 25 words or less, if you can achieve it.

This exercise shows how filler words, background, and context can sometimes get in the way of a good story. It will help you choose your words carefully.

If you’ve got the time and energy, here are a few more exercises to really help flex those writing muscles.

Now, let’s explore those creative writing prompts we promised you.

Back to Top

72 Writing Prompts to Help You Kickstart Your Imagination

Fiction Writing Prompts

Fantasy Writing Prompts

Romance Writing Prompts

Comedy Writing Prompts

Horror Writing Prompts

Persuasive Copywriting Prompts

Poetry Writing Prompts

Journal Writing Prompts

Blog Writing Prompts

Non-Fiction Writing Prompts

Random Writing Prompts

Fiction Writing Prompts

“It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.” Use this famous opening line to start your own novel.

Rewrite your resume as a short story, either in the first or third person.

Open the dictionary at any page and select the first word that catches your eye. Write the opening few paragraphs of a thriller using that word at least three times.

Write a synopsis of your version of the movie, Groundhog Day. What would your day look like and why?

Write a short story using these words: Mountainous, parched, field mouse, time travel, and Black Forest Gateau.

Sit in a café and write a short story about the person or couple at the next table. Take note of their body language and clothing, what they’re eating, or doing. And if you can eavesdrop, let their conversation inspire you too.

Write about a person who is arrested for committing a crime, but they can’t remember anything about the night the crime occurred. What is the crime, why can’t they remember and what happens next?

Fantasy Writing Prompts

If you could come back to life as any person, animal or thing, what or who would you be and how would you live your second life?

The world’s oceans dry up. Who or what survives?

You open the bathroom door and find the room’s disappeared. In its place is another world. Describe what you see and hear, and what you do next?

You’re sitting at a bar talking to a giraffe. What’s the conversation about?

You live in a fantasy world where people communicate without talking. Write about an average day in this sci-fi, fairy tale world.

You are the inventor of a popular video game. One day the main character from your game knocks on your front door. What does he want?

Write about a character who has a superhuman power. The problem is, they don’t want it. Write about the conflict between the character, his or her power and the everyday life they are forced to lead.

Romance Writing Prompts

What is the most romantic season of the year and why?

 Write a story about love at first sight. It doesn’t have to be about young people, or even about people.

 “Last Christmas” was a song by George Michael that inspired a movie by the same name in 2019. Think of your favorite romantic song and write a film synopsis for it.

If you are a woman, write a short love story about the most romantic experience you could imagine, as a man. If you are a man, reverse the exercise.

The song “Summer Nights” from Grease is about the summer romance between two high school students, with their friends begging to hear more. What memory does that evoke for you about the first time you fell in love, and who did you tell?

Next time you visit a grocery store make a note of the first person you see. What are they wearing, what are they buying, are they alone? Write a description of them as the main character for your next romantic novel.

Your protagonist is about to marry the man she has been in love with for years. A week before the wedding she meets a stranger and falls madly and hopelessly in love. What does she do?

Comedy Writing Prompts

You are a bartender on a quiet night, listening to man drown his sorrows as he tells you how his wife has recently left him for a neighbor. A second man enters and sits at the other end of the bar. It’s the neighbor. Describe the comedy of errors that happens next.

What makes you laugh out loud?

What’s the funniest joke you know? Write the backstory to the main character in the joke.

What’s the funniest thing that’s happened to you in real-life? Write it as a stand-up comedy anecdote with lots of observational humor thrown in.

Your shopping bag rips apart, and all the contents tumble out at the feet of the girl or guy who lives in the apartment below you, who you have fancied for some time. What does your shopping reveal about you and why are you so embarrassed?

List posts are one of the most popular forms of blogging. Write a funny list post about all the things you are not going to do in 2020.

Horror Writing Prompts?

Write the opening chapter to a story that begins: “I stared at my beautiful, evil wife and realized the horror had only just begun.

 “Terror made me cruel” is a line from Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. Write about a situation where terror might make you cruel.

You’re walking home alone late one night when you realize several cats are stalking you. Then the streetlights go out. What happens next?

There’s a locked door at the top of the house you’re staying in. What’s behind it?

What are you really, really scared of? Put yourself in that situation and describe how it feels.

Write a horror story set in either a bar or a graveyard (or both). Include a blue-veined hand, a serial killer, and the phrase “all that spit and sweat.”

Persuasive Copywriting Prompts

Your best friend doesn’t much care for Chinese food. Write down all the reasons why they need to reconsider their opinion and join you tonight at your favorite Chinese restaurant.

Your mother’s always nagging you to clean your room. Write an account of the last time she nagged you, but from her point of view.

Have you ever seen a ghost, or sensed a ghostly presence? Write an account of your experience knowing it will be read by a skeptic.

Talk the Christmas Grinch out of being a Grinch.

A man finds a letter in a bottle while walking on the beach. Where has the bottle come from, how old is it, and what does the letter say? What does it compel the man to do?

Think of a cliché and write an argument against it. Here are a few to start you off:

Time heals all wounds

It’s better to be safe than sorry

Money is the root of all evil

Ignorance is bliss

Poetry Writing Prompts

Open the dictionary at any page and select the first word that catches your eye. Set a timer for 5 minutes and write a list of rhyming words. Now write a poem using as many of those words as you can.

Write a poem about rhythm. It might be about music, or the flow of a river, or the clattering sound of a train. Weave the rhythm you hear in your head into the tempo of your poem.

Write a poem about a feast. Describe how it looks, smells and tastes. Include the different sensations of spices and flavors, the texture and feel of the dishes and how each one made you feel as you ate more and more.

 Write a poem about the “Thrilla in Manila.”

Journal Writing Prompts

Write about your plans for tomorrow and how you hope they’ll turn out.

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.” This is a famous quote about self-sacrifice from A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. Write an honest journal entry about how far you would be prepared to go to sacrifice your wealth, happiness, health, or safety for a person or principle.

Write about a single day — either the first or last of your life.

Think about the last time you woke up at 4am, in a cold sweat. What was on your mind and how did you resolve it? Did you feel differently about it in the daylight?

Write a letter in your journal to each of your family members, telling them what your love (and/or hate) about them.

What is your personal manifesto? What are the core principles and values that guide everything you do in life?

Make a list of all the things you’d like to say no to, and then write down the reasons why you don’t — or can’t — say no. Is there a pattern? Is there something you can change?

Blog Writing Prompts

Write about the biggest challenge you have faced and how you overcame it.

Write an open letter to a person or group of people you strongly disagree with and explain why. Use reason not emotion.

Write about the best writing or weight loss tips you can share.

Interview your favorite fictional character.

Describe social media to someone who has never heard of it before. Include advice on which platform might be best for them.

Think of the 3 most unhealthy habits you indulge in and write about how you might be able to break those habits.

What are the top 10 style trends you would like to see make a comeback in 2020?

Further Reading: 255 Blog Post Ideas That’ll Tantalize Your Readers in 2020 by Annaliese Henwood

Non-Fiction Writing Prompts

Write about your views on climate change. Are you a believer or a skeptic? Is the world doing enough? What facts do you know?

Write about a time you had to swallow your pride and do something that made you uncomfortable, either morally or physically.

There is no such thing as a truly unselfish deed. Defend this statement.

If you were to write an autobiography, how would it start?

Random Writing Prompts

Write a fantasy story based on the last dream you had.

Write about your favorite place and how it makes you feel. Use all the sensory language you can muster to describe the place.

If you were a dog, what type would you be and who would own you?

If you had the opportunity to turn back time what would you change about the course of your life and why?

What is your favorite thing to eat and what memories does it evoke?

Write a list of your three most prized possessions (inanimate objects, not people or animals). Imagine you are forced to discard one. Which one would it be and explain the reasons for your choice?

Write your own eulogy as a diary entry. What would you like people to know and say about you?

Write 500 words on what financial freedom looks like to you?

Select a book from your bookshelf and open it to any page. Write out the last sentence of the last complete paragraph on that page and continue writing.

Think of your favorite book or film. Now rewrite the ending to something completely different.

If you were to buy a plane ticket today — no expense spared — where would you go and why?

There they are. A compact list of 72 writing prompts. And when you’ve worked your way through these, you might want to move on to the motherlode of creative writing prompts over at Reddit.

Reddit is part social media platform, part community, part media curator, with 520 million monthly visitors subscribing to message boards across 1.2 million sub-categories. Phew!

One of these subcategories is Writing Prompts, with over 14 million subscribers who have posted years’ worth of prompts, so you’ll never run out of inspiration again.

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6 Bonus Writing Tips to Power Up Your Passion and Sharpen Your Skills

Before we let you go…

If you’re looking for creative writing prompts or story ideas, there’s an excellent chance you’re looking for other ways to hone your skills and improve your craft.

Here are 6 bonus writing tips to help you on your journey:

1. Make Time to Write

If you’re not setting aside time to write, you may as well ignore every other piece of advice in this post. Make your writing time sacred and block it off in your calendar. Turn off your phone. Disconnect the internet, close your door, and write.

This is the single best thing you can do if you want to be a writer.

2. Set Writing Goals

We set goals for everything in our life: losing weight, saving for a dream holiday, growing our business, and so on. So, do the same for your writing. Measure your progress.

Start with, say, a 300 or 500 word count in a daily session. Once you consistently reach this goal with ease, up the ante and shoot for more challenging targets. 1,000 words a session; 25,000 words a month, and so on. But make sure your goals are not overwhelming.

Writing goals will help you write faster and with more confidence. Over time you will recognize when you are most productive and can use this to your advantage.

3. Pack Your Writing with a Powerful Punch

Fill your writing with passion from an arsenal of power words. Or supercharge your reader’s imagination with a well-aimed metaphor.

Use these two writing devices to turbocharge your prose and watch the words burst off the page with intention.

4. Harness the Power of Grammar

Grammar reduces confusion and brings clarity and confidence to your writing. It’s a good thing and you need to learn the rules.

But grammar can sometimes get in the way of creativity and turn fluid prose into a turgid swamp of clunky awkwardness.

If starting a sentence with a conjunction feels right, go for it. If you want to brazenly split an infinitive to avoid mangling a sentence, split away.

So, learn the grammar rules, but then learn how to break them. Effectively.

5. Copy Your Writing Heroes — Literally

Pick a writer you’ve always admired, even envied. Now, put pen to paper and rewrite exactly what they wrote by hand. Don’t think too hard about it. Just go with it.

As you write out their words, you’ll absorb their writing style, their pace and rhythm, their grammar, their word choice, and their sentence structure.

This is one of the most effective ways to sharpen your writing skills and inspire your own writing voice.

6. Read Your Way to Writing Stardom

Every great writer is a great reader. There are no exceptions.

Read daily.

Read fiction and biographies, or read books, blogs and articles. But read in an active way. Stay alert to what grabs your attention and how the writer has crafted his words. Then consciously apply the best techniques to your own writing process.

A Final Word on Writing Prompts

The purpose of a writing prompt is to kickstart your creativity and spur you into writing something… anything.

Initially, the process may seem a little intimidating. But that’s OK. Most writers draw a blank when they first start with writing prompts.

Keep pushing through, because something thrilling will start to happen.

The more you practice using the prompts in this post, the more your creative juices will flow, and the more words and ideas will start pouring out of you.

So, let yourself go. Abandon yourself to the power of writing prompts and let the magic happen.

Happy writing!

The post Stuck? Try These 72 Creative Writing Prompts (+ 6 Bonus Tips) appeared first on Smart Blogger.

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Bad Blood: Secrets and Lies in a Silicon Valley Startup by John Carreyrou

Bad Blood: Secrets and Lies in a Silicon Valley Startup by John Carreyrou

One of the Best Books of 2018: NPR • New York Times Book Review, Inc. • TIME • Wall Street Journal • Washington Post

“Chilling…Reads like a West Coast version of All the President’s Men.” — The New York Times Book Review

The full inside story of the breathtaking rise and shocking collapse of Theranos, the multibillion-dollar biotech startup, by the prize-winning journalist who first broke the story and pursued it to the end, despite pressure from its charismatic CEO and threats by her lawyers.

In 2014, Theranos founder and CEO Elizabeth Holmes was widely seen as the female Steve Jobs: a brilliant Stanford dropout whose startup “unicorn” promised to revolutionize the medical industry with a machine that would make blood testing significantly faster and easier. Backed by investors such as Larry Ellison and Tim Draper, Theranos sold shares in a fundraising round that valued the company at more than $9 billion, putting Holmes’s worth at an estimated $4.7 billion. There was just one problem: The technology didn’t work.

A riveting story of the biggest corporate fraud since Enron, a tale of ambition and hubris set amid the bold promises of Silicon Valley.

In Bad Blood, the Wall Street Journal’s John Carreyrou takes us through the step-by-step history of Theranos, a Silicon Valley startup that became almost mythical, in no small part due to its young, charismatic founder Elizabeth Holmes. In fact, Theranos was mythical for a different reason, because the technological promise it was founded upon — that vital health information could be gleaned from a small drop of blood using handheld devices — was a lie. Carreyrou tracks the experiences of former employees to craft the fascinating story of a company run under a strict code of secrecy, a place where leadership was constantly throwing up smoke screens and making promises that it could not keep. Meanwhile, investors kept pouring in money, turning Elizabeth Holmes into a temporary billionaire. As companies like Walgreens and Safeway strike deals with Theranos, and as even the army tries to get in on the Theranos promise (there’s a brief cameo by James “Mad Dog” Mattis), the plot thickens and the proverbial noose grows tighter. Although I knew how the story ended, I found myself reading this book compulsively. — Chris Schluep

Review

“You will not want to put this riveting, masterfully reported book down. No matter how bad you think the Theranos story was, you’ll learn that the reality was actually far worse.”  — Bethany McLean, bestselling coauthor of The Smartest Guys in the Room and All the Devils Are Here

“[A] chilling, third-person narrative of how Holmes came up with a fantastic idea that made her, for a while, the most successful woman entrepreneur in Silicon valley… Prizewinning Wall Street Journal reporter John Carreyrou tells [this story] virtually to perfection… [His] description of Holmes as a manic leader who turned coolly hostile when challenged is ripe material for a psychologist… His recounting of his efforts to track down sources — many of whom were being intimidated by Theranos’s bullying lawyer, David Boies — reads like a West Coast version of ‘All the President’s Men.’”  — Roger Lowenstein, The New York Times Book Review

“Carreyrou blends lucid descriptions of Theranos’s technology and its failures with a vivid portrait of its toxic culture and its supporters’ delusional boosterism. The result is a bracing cautionary tale about visionary entrepreneurship gone very wrong.”  — Publishers Weekly (Starred)

“Eye-opening… A vivid, cinematic portrayal of serpentine Silicon Valley corruption… A deep investigative report on the sensationalistic downfall of multibillion-dollar Silicon Valley biotech startup Theranos. Basing his findings on hundreds of interviews with people inside and outside the company, two-time Pulitzer Prize-winning Wall Street Journal reporter Carreyrou rigorously examines the seamy details behind the demise of Theranos and its creator, Elizabeth Holmes… [Carreyrou] brilliantly captures the interpersonal melodrama, hidden agendas, gross misrepresentations, nepotism, and a host of delusions and lies that further fractured the company’s reputation and halted its rise.”  — Kirkus

“A great and at times almost unbelievable story of scandalous fraud, surveillance, and legal intimidation at the highest levels of American corporate power. . . . The story of Theranos may be the biggest case of corporate fraud since Enron. But it’s also the story of how a lot of powerful men were fooled by a remarkably brazen liar.”  — Yashar Ali, New York Magazine

“In Bad Blood, acclaimed investigative journalist John Carreyrou, who broke the story in 2015, presents comprehensive evidence of the fraud perpetrated by Theranos chief executive Elizabeth Holmes… He unveils many dark secrets of Theranos that have not previously been laid bare… The combination of these brave whistle-blowers, and a tenacious journalist who interviewed 150 people (including 60 former employees) makes for a veritable page-turner.”  — Eric Topol, Nature

“Engrossing… Bad Blood boasts movie-scene detail… Theranos, Carreyrou writes, was a revolving door, as Holmes and Balwani fired anyone who voiced even tentative doubts… What’s frightening is how easy it is to imagine a different outcome, one in which the company’s blood-testing devices continued to proliferate. That the story played out as it did is a testament to the many individuals who spoke up, at great personal risk.”  — Jennifer Couzin-Frankel, Science

“Crime thriller authors have nothing on Carreyrou’s exquisite sense of suspenseful pacing and multifaceted character development in this riveting, read-in-one-sitting tour de force…. Carreyrou’s commitment to unraveling Holmes’ crimes was literally of life-saving value.”

Buy Bad Blood: Secrets and Lies in a Silicon Valley Startup by John Carreyrou

from Stories by No1GeekFun on Medium https://ift.tt/2Ph0Aa9 via Bad Blood: Secrets and Lies in a Silicon Valley Startup by John Carreyrou

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New Post has been published on OmCik

New Post has been published on http://omcik.com/maggie-haberman-the-new-york-times-reporter-trump-cant-quit/

Maggie Haberman: The New York Times reporter Trump can't quit

Several days before Donald Trump announced his bid for the presidency in June 2015, he invited New York Times reporter Maggie Haberman to lunch at Trump Grill.

Haberman was late. Trump waited, as did his soon-to-be campaign aides: Corey Lewandowski, Michael Cohen, Hope Hicks and Sam Nunberg, the latter of whom recounted the details of the lunch in an interview with CNNMoney this week.

At lunch, Trump and his aides laid out the framework of their soon-to-be campaign: the messaging, the media strategy, the staff they were building in early states. “We wanted her to get a taste that we were serious,” Nunberg said.

The fact that Trump decided to reveal all this to Haberman surprised no one at the table. She had known Trump and his people for a long time. She was a New York journalist, born and raised by New York journalists; a veteran of both major tabloids who was now writing at the Times, the most prestigious paper in town. As Jonathan Martin, a longtime colleague at the Times and Politico, put it, “All these are credentials that mean something to him.”

“Trump knows that she means business and knows that she’s respected,” Martin said, “knows that people look to her as an important voice.”

“She’s always going to have a special place with the president,” said Nunberg. “She’s one of the most influential political reporters, and it’s the New York Times. It may be ‘the failing New York Times’, but it’s also the crown jewel, and he loves it.”

There may be no reporter Trump respects, and fears, more than Haberman. He may bash and beat up on the Times, and her, but he inevitably returns to her to share his thinking and participate in interviews. He does so because, in addition to having known her for so long, he knows that she matters, that she will not treat him with kid gloves but not be unfair either, that she commands the respect of the political communities in both Washington and New York.

Related: Media basher Trump calls media to defend health care failure

“I think he respects her diligence, her fairness, her intelligence and the investment she’s put into the relationship,” said Michael Barbaro, a colleague of Haberman’s at the Times.

At Trump Grill, Haberman listened, asked questions, took notes. She insisted on paying her own bill. Days later, Nunberg followed up and offered her the chance to break the news about Trump’s announcement.

It was the kind of major scoop any reporter would covet, the chance to get ahead on what would quickly become the biggest story in politics.

Haberman declined. She had covered Trump in 2011, when he teased a presidential bid to create a media circus and garner attention, and she wasn’t going to get played again.

“She said she wasn’t going to write anything til he actually ran,” Nunberg recalled.

As one of the best-sourced journalists in the game today, Haberman — who is a CNN political analyst in addition to her day job at the Times — gets to pick her scoops. Many journalists have marveled at the way she includes several new revelations in one story that other reporters would have spread out over many articles. It’s because she has so much information.

“There isn’t a reporter in the game better at working sources, breaking news and calling BS on both parties, all day, every day for what seems like forever,” said Jim Vandehei, the CEO of Axios and, formerly, Politico, where Haberman worked before joining the Times. “If you could clone her you could build a journalistic empire around Maggies.”

When Trump did announce, Haberman’s first item for the Times was brutal. She questioned his credibility and suggested the only way for him to win New Hampshire was by buying the state. In the section meant to explain how he might actually win the presidency, all Haberman wrote was, “We are stumped. And we really tried.”

“I don’t know if he was insulted,” Nunberg said of Trump’s reaction to the piece, “but it showed us the way the media was going to treat us.”

Over the course of the next two years, Trump repeatedly criticized the Times as a “failing” paper, a “dishonest” paper, “fake news,” “total fiction,” “irrelevant,” even “the enemy of the American people.” On Christmas Eve 2015, he singled out Haberman and one of her colleagues as “third rate reporters” who were biased in favor of Hillary Clinton.

Related: Reporters, White House debate whether Trump can be trusted

And yet time and time again, Trump came back to Haberman. He granted her at least a dozen news-making interviews, just counting the ones that were on the record.

Reached for comment, Haberman was modest: “I’m a reporter who is covering him, and I don’t think there’s more of a relationship than that – he has known me awhile and I think he values the familiar in a lot of ways, and that helps. But since he became president, I’ve asked for the time.”

Nunberg and Haberman’s colleagues say Trump talks to her because he knows she’ll be responsible — tough but fair.

“I’ve marveled at how attentive she is to questions of fairness,” said Barbaro. “This is a moment in journalism where a lot of people can be a little loose with things, and Maggie wakes up every morning and says, ‘I am going to be fair,’ and she is. People really trust that.”

The price of such proximity to power can often be one’s credibility. Many reporters in American politics have traded objectivity for access, eagerly accepting what a president or politician gives them simply because they know it is new and exclusive.

Haberman is not that reporter.

“It’s hard to think of a reporter who has balanced that better than her — who gets access to Trump because he needs her, not because she needs him,” said BuzzFeed editor-in chief Ben Smith, who has known Haberman since 2001, when they were young reporters sharing a work space in the basement of New York’s City Hall.

Smith attributes that to Haberman’s experience working at The New York Post and The New York Daily News: “In New York tabloids you have a sense of your own power, and the impact you have on the people you’re writing about,” he said. “She combines a very contemporary sense of the responsibilities of journalism with a very old school tabloid aggression and affect.”

At no time was Haberman’s power and responsibility on greater display than earlier this week, when she and her colleague Glenn Thrush interviewed Trump in the Oval Office.

Early on in the interview, Trump tried to hit the Times for not paying enough attention to a story that the White House and its allies had been pushing about President Obama’s national security adviser, Susan Rice, requesting to unmask the identities of Trump associates who’d been caught up in surveillance of Russians during the Obama administration.

“I think the Susan Rice thing is a massive story,” the president said. “I think it’s a massive, massive story. All over the world. I mean, other than The New York Times.”

Without skipping a beat, Haberman fired back: “We’ve written about it twice.”

Later, Trump made a joke about NBC’s Andrea Mitchell being “Hillary Clinton’s P.R. person,” then added, “Course, you’ve been accused of that also.”

Haberman, again unfazed: “Mostly by you, though.”

Listening to the tape, it’s clear Trump took no offense to this. It’s clear he respects Haberman, and even enjoyed the back-and-forth.

“He obviously respects her and probably fears her too,” said Martin.

Everyone who knows Haberman knows that this is her time. She is thoroughly sourced in Trump’s world, fearless but fair, and also understands intimately who Trump is and how he operates.

“She was made for this moment,” said Smith. “She has a better handle on the most important story in the world, which is Donald Trump, than any other reporter.”

CNNMoney (Los Angeles) First published April 7, 2017: 1:40 PM ET

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Stuck? Try These 72 Creative Writing Prompts (+ 6 Bonus Tips)

I bet you just asked Google to search for creative writing prompts.

Or was it writing ideas? Story ideas? Or maybe writer’s block?

Boy, are you stuck!

But don’t worry. It doesn’t matter if you’re halfway through writing a book, sweating over social media posts, or journaling about your own life, all writers get stuck for creative ideas sometimes.

So, it’s great to have you here.

This is your go-to source of story starters, writing prompts, and bonus writing tips guaranteed to improve your writing skills, power up your passion, and get your creative juices flowing in 2020.

Here’s what we’ll cover:

Writing Prompts Q&A

72 Writing Prompts (Broken into Categories)

6 Bonus Tips (to Sharpen Your Writing Skills)

We’ll start with a few common questions and answers.

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What are Writing Prompts?

A writing prompt can be a phrase, an image, or even a physical object that kick starts your imagination and motivates you to write. It provides a spark of an idea as a starting point to stimulate a natural flow of writing.

Writing prompts are ideal for any form of writing, like fiction or nonfiction, journaling, copywriting, blogging, or poetry. They usually contain two parts: an idea or a potential topic to write about, and the instructions on what you should do next.

For example, a creative writing prompt for fiction writers might be:

Your main character has a car accident and starts to hear voices while in the hospital. Write a short story about the conflict between the character and the voices and what really happened at the time of the car accident.

While journal prompts tend to focus on topics of self-awareness, such as:

Write about a turning point in your life. How different would things be now if you had made a different decision at the time?

What is the Purpose of Writing Prompts?

Writing prompts are like a pre-match warm-up. They help to relax your creative muscles, unblock your imagination, and free up your mind to focus on the main game of writing without fear or hesitation.

Instead of wasting time by thinking of a topic to write about, writing prompts get your creative juices flowing straight away, compelling you to put pen to paper.

Writing prompts also help you see things in a new light. They force you to think outside your comfort zone and use your imagination and creativity like never before.

Without them, we can become permanently sidelined by our inner critic. Or worse still, the gripping cramp of writer’s block.

How Do You Use Writing Prompts?

Like all muscle-building exercises, writing prompts are most effective when you make them a daily habit. Over time, with repetition, you’ll find your flow of writing becomes more natural, and your ability to write for longer strengthens.

But don’t feel you have to follow a prompt to the letter. If the prompt suggests you write about romance, but it sparks an idea for a poem, write a poem. Let your imagination guide you through the writing process.

Here are some other hot tips:

Don’t overthink it. Just start writing.

Don’t edit as you go.

If it’s not working for your style of writing, move on to another prompt. Find the prompts that make you want to write.

The creative writing prompt is a starting point. The finish is up to you. You don’t have to write a complete story, a poem, or an essay. Feel free to discard your work halfway through and move on to something else.

Adopt the Ernest Hemingway approach: Accept that most of what you write is likely to be crap, and you’re going to toss it. This isn’t about producing ready-to-publish work for your latest freelance writing job. It’s about the practice of writing.

How Else Can I Improve My Creative Writing Skills?

Improving your skills takes lots of writing practice. And using creative writing prompts is one of the best ways to do just that. But it’s not the only way. Here are a few other techniques you might want to explore:

Freewriting

This is when you write about anything that pops into your head. Take a blank sheet of paper, set a timer for 30 minutes, and start writing. Write whatever your brain tells you to, and don’t worry if it’s nonsensical.

This exercise is great for pushing through writer’s block and allowing your mind to head off in spontaneous directions.

The Adjectives Game

List 5 things you like or dislike tasting, and then list 5 adjectives for each item. For example, you might like the taste of cake. The 5 adjectives might be: sweet, gooey, yummy, nutty, and scrumptious. Now do the same for your other senses.

This builds your sensory vocabulary and ability to write with flair and color.

Perspectives

Write about a recent incident you were involved in, from the point of view of someone else who was involved. Empathy is hugely important in writing and this exercise forces you to step into the shoes of another person and understand their point of view.

Dialogue

Writing authentic dialogue is notoriously hard to master, so this exercise will help.

Write about 300 words of a conversation between two people without using ‘he said/she said’ tags. Show the difference and relationship between the two speakers only through the words they use. It’s more challenging than it sounds.

Observation

Think of a color. Now go for a walk or a ride on the bus and note down everything you see of that color. When you get home, write up what you remember (take notes as you go to make it easier).

How many different hues of the color did you see? What did the things you saw make you feel? Was there any connection between them?

Brevity

Think of an anecdote you like to recount. Write it up in less than 500 words. Now rewrite the same story in 100 words. Now in 50 words. And finally, in 25 words or less, if you can achieve it.

This exercise shows how filler words, background, and context can sometimes get in the way of a good story. It will help you choose your words carefully.

If you’ve got the time and energy, here are a few more exercises to really help flex those writing muscles.

Now, let’s explore those creative writing prompts we promised you.

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72 Writing Prompts to Help You Kickstart Your Imagination

Fantasy Writing Prompts

Romance Writing Prompts

Comedy Writing Prompts

Horror Writing Prompts

Persuasive Copywriting Prompts

Poetry Writing Prompts

Journal Writing Prompts

Blog Writing Prompts

Non-Fiction Writing Prompts

Random Writing Prompts

Fiction Writing Prompts

“It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.” Use this famous opening line to start your own novel.

Rewrite your resume as a short story, either in the first or third person.

Open the dictionary at any page and select the first word that catches your eye. Write the opening few paragraphs of a thriller using that word at least three times.

Write a synopsis of your version of the movie, Groundhog Day. What would your day look like and why?

Write a short story using these words: Mountainous, parched, field mouse, and Black Forest Gateau.

Sit in a café and write a short story about the person or couple at the next table. Take note of their body language and clothing, what they’re eating, or doing. And if you can eavesdrop, let their conversation inspire you too.

Write about a person who is arrested for committing a crime, but they can’t remember anything about the night the crime occurred. What is the crime, why can’t they remember and what happens next?

Fantasy Writing Prompts

If you could come back to life as any person, animal or thing, what or who would you be and how would you live your second life?

The world’s oceans dry up. Who or what survives?

You open the bathroom door and find the room’s disappeared. In its place is another world. Describe what you see and hear, and what you do next?

You’re sitting at a bar talking to a giraffe. What’s the conversation about?

You live in a fantasy world where people communicate without talking. Write about an average day in this sci-fi world.

You are the inventor of a popular video game. One day the main character from your game knocks on your front door. What does he want?

Write about a character who has a superhuman power. The problem is, they don’t want it. Write about the conflict between the character, his or her power and the life they are forced to lead.

Romance Writing Prompts

What is the most romantic season of the year and why?

 Write a story about love at first sight. It doesn’t have to be about young people, or even about people.

 “Last Christmas” was a song by George Michael that inspired a movie by the same name in 2019. Think of your favorite romantic song and write a film synopsis for it.

If you are a woman, write a short love story about the most romantic experience you could imagine, as a man. If you are a man, reverse the exercise.

The song “Summer Nights” from Grease is about the summer romance between two high school students, with their friends begging to hear more. What memory does that evoke for you about the first time you fell in love, and who did you tell?

Next time you visit a grocery store make a note of the first person you see. What are they wearing, what are they buying, are they alone? Write a description of them as the main character for your next romantic novel.

Your protagonist is about to marry the man she has been in love with for years. A week before the wedding she meets a stranger and falls madly and hopelessly in love. What does she do?

Comedy Writing Prompts

You are a bartender on a quiet night, listening to man drown his sorrows as he tells you how his wife has recently left him for a neighbor. A second man enters and sits at the other end of the bar. It’s the neighbor. Describe the comedy of errors that happens next.

What makes you laugh out loud?

What’s the funniest joke you know? Write the backstory to the main character in the joke.

What’s the funniest thing that’s happened to you in real-life? Write it as a stand-up comedy anecdote with lots of observational humor thrown in.

Your shopping bag rips apart, and all the contents tumble out at the feet of the girl or guy who lives in the apartment below you, who you have fancied for some time. What does your shopping reveal about you and why are you so embarrassed?

List posts are one of the most popular forms of blogging. Write a funny list post about all the things you are not going to do in 2020.

Horror Writing Prompts?

Write the opening chapter to a story that begins: “I stared at my beautiful, evil wife and realized the horror had only just begun.

 “Terror made me cruel” is a line from Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. Write about a situation where terror might make you cruel.

You’re walking home alone late one night when you realize several cats are stalking you. Then the streetlights go out. What happens next?

There’s a locked door at the top of the house you’re staying in. What’s behind it?

What are you really, really scared of? Put yourself in that situation and describe how it feels.

Write a horror story set in either a bar or a graveyard (or both). Include a blue-veined hand and the phrase “all that spit and sweat.”

Persuasive Copywriting Prompts

Your best friend doesn’t much care for Chinese food. Write down all the reasons why they need to reconsider their opinion and join you tonight at your favorite Chinese restaurant.

Your mother’s always nagging you to clean your room. Write an account of the last time she nagged you, but from her point of view.

Have you ever seen a ghost, or sensed a ghostly presence? Write an account of your experience knowing it will be read by a sceptic.

Talk the Christmas Grinch out of being a Grinch.

A man finds a letter in a bottle while walking on the beach. Where has the bottle come from, how old is it, and what does the letter say? What does it compel the man to do?

Think of a cliché and write an argument against it. Here are a few to start you off:

Time heals all wounds

It’s better to be safe than sorry

Money is the root of all evil

Ignorance is bliss

Poetry Writing Prompts

Open the dictionary at any page and select the first word that catches your eye. Set a timer for 5 minutes and write a list of rhyming words. Now write a poem using as many of those words as you can.

Write a poem about rhythm. It might be about music, or the flow of a river, or the clattering sound of a train. Weave the rhythm you hear in your head into the tempo of your poem.

Write a poem about a feast. Describe how it looks, smells and tastes. Include the different sensations of spices and flavors, the texture and feel of the dishes and how each one made you feel as you ate more and more.

 Write a poem about the “Thrilla in Manila.”

Journal Writing Prompts

Write about your plans for tomorrow and how you hope they’ll turn out.

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.” This is a famous quote about self-sacrifice from A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. Write an honest journal entry about how far you would be prepared to go to sacrifice your wealth, happiness, health, or safety for a person or principle.

Write about a single day — either the first or last of your life.

Think about the last time you woke up at 4am, in a cold sweat. What was on your mind and how did you resolve it? Did you feel differently about it in the daylight?

Write a letter in your journal to each of your family members, telling them what your love (and/or hate) about them.

What is your personal manifesto? What are the core principles and values that guide everything you do in life?

Make a list of all the things you’d like to say no to, and then write down the reasons why you don’t — or can’t — say no. Is there a pattern? Is there something you can change?

Blog Writing Prompts

Write about the biggest challenge you have faced and how you overcame it.

Write an open letter to a person or group of people you strongly disagree with and explain why. Use reason not emotion.

Write about the best health or weight loss tips you can share.

Interview your favorite fictional character.

Describe social media to someone who has never heard of it before. Include advice on which platform might be best for them.

Think of the 3 most unhealthy habits you indulge in and write about how you might be able to break those habits.

What are the top 10 style trends you would like to see make a comeback in 2020?

Further Reading: 255 Blog Post Ideas That’ll Tantalize Your Readers in 2020 by Annaliese Henwood

Non-Fiction Writing Prompts

Write about your views on climate change. Are you a believer or a sceptic? Is the world doing enough? What facts do you know?

Write about a time you had to swallow your pride and do something that made you uncomfortable, either morally or physically.

There is no such thing as a truly unselfish deed. Defend this statement.

If you were to write an autobiography, how would it start?

Random Writing Prompts

Write a fantasy story based on the last dream you had.

Write about your favorite place and how it makes you feel. Use all the sensory language you can muster to describe the place.

If you were a dog, what type would you be and who would own you?

If you had the opportunity to turn back time what would you change about the course of your life and why?

What is your favorite thing to eat and what memories does it evoke?

Write a list of your three most prized possessions (inanimate objects, not people or animals). Imagine you are forced to discard one. Which one would it be and explain the reasons for your choice?

Write your own eulogy. What would you like people to know and say about you?

Write 500 words on what financial freedom looks like to you?

Select a book from your bookshelf and open it to any page. Write out the last sentence of the last complete paragraph on that page and continue writing.

Think of your favorite film or book. Now rewrite the ending to something completely different.

If you were to buy a plane ticket today — no expense spared — where would you go and why?

There they are. A compact list of 72 writing prompts. And when you’ve worked your way through these, you might want to move on to the motherlode of creative writing prompts over at Reddit.

Reddit is part social media platform, part community, part media curator, with 520 million monthly visitors subscribing to message boards across 1.2 million sub-categories. Phew!

One of these subcategories is Writing Prompts, with over 13.3 million subscribers who have posted years’ worth of prompts, so you’ll never run out of inspiration again.

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6 Bonus Writing Tips to Power Up Your Passion and Sharpen Your Skills

Before we let you go…

If you’re looking for creative writing prompts or story ideas, there’s an excellent chance you’re looking for other ways to hone your skills and improve your craft.

Here are 6 bonus writing tips to help you on your journey:

1. Make Time to Write

If you’re not setting aside time to write, you may as well ignore every other piece of advice in this post. Make your writing time sacred and block it off in your calendar. Turn off your phone. Disconnect the internet, close your door, and write.

This is the single best thing you can do if you want to be a writer.

2. Set Writing Goals

We set goals for everything in our life: losing weight, saving for a dream holiday, growing our business, and so on. So, do the same for your writing. Measure your progress.

Start with, say, 300 or 500 words in a daily session. Once you consistently reach this goal with ease, up the ante and shoot for more challenging targets. 1,000 words a session; 25,000 words a month, and so on. But make sure your goals are not overwhelming.

Goals will help you write faster, with more confidence. Over time you will recognize when you are most productive and can use this to your advantage.

3. Pack Your Writing with a Powerful Punch

Fill your writing with passion from an arsenal of power words. Or supercharge your reader’s imagination with a well-aimed metaphor.

Use these two writing devices to turbocharge your prose and watch the words burst off the page with intention.

4. Harness the Power of Grammar

Grammar reduces confusion and brings clarity and confidence to your writing. It’s a good thing and you need to learn the rules.

But grammar can sometimes get in the way of creativity and turn fluid prose into a turgid swamp of clunky awkwardness.

If starting a sentence with a conjunction feels right, go for it. If you want to brazenly split an infinitive to avoid mangling a sentence, split away.

So, learn the grammar rules, but then learn how to break them. Effectively.

5. Copy Your Writing Heroes — Literally

Pick a writer you’ve always admired, even envied. Now, put pen to paper and rewrite exactly what they wrote by hand. Don’t think too hard about it. Just go with it.

As you write out their words, you’ll absorb their writing style, their pace and rhythm, their grammar, their word choice, and their sentence structure.

This is one of the most effective ways to sharpen your writing skills and inspire your own writing voice.

6. Read Your Way to Writing Stardom

Every great writer is a great reader. There are no exceptions.

Read daily.

Read fiction and biographies, or read books, blogs and articles. But read in an active way. Stay alert to what grabs your attention and how the writer has crafted his words. Then consciously apply the best techniques to your own writing process.

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A Final Word on Writing Prompts

The purpose of a writing prompt is to kickstart your creativity and spur you into writing something… anything.

Initially, the process may seem a little intimidating. But that’s OK. Most writers draw a blank when they first start with writing prompts.

Keep pushing through, because something thrilling will start to happen.

The more you practice using the prompts in this post, the more your creative juices will flow, and the more words and ideas will start pouring out of you.

So, let yourself go. Abandon yourself to the power of writing prompts and let the magic happen.

Happy writing!

About the Author: Mel Wicks is a seasoned copywriter and newly minted digital nomad. She helps clients bring the ‘OMG! Where do I sign up?’ oomph to their online marketing; and blogs about the highs and lows of being a nomadic freelance writer.

The post Stuck? Try These 72 Creative Writing Prompts (+ 6 Bonus Tips) appeared first on Smart Blogger.

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