#student writers

[scriptophillers]

Wishes Of Souls

~Wishes of Souls~

At night when the sun goes down. The souls began to stir. The go in search for things they'd lost Maybe a part of themselves they left behind. They're the shooting stars we see in sky The ones we wish upon We make our daydreams and wishes fly Hanging onto these dead souls But it gives them hope too, They feel alive again Before we know we're sharing dreams hopes and wishes with dead souls They're alert again and working for all that we wished for. While some die on their way, some make it till the end The second life meets death And they greet as old friends. Once again we stand as one wishing on dead souls again.

- Shay D.wood

[great-amazing-monument]

found a student run online magazine called HEM. It’s for student writers of the Indian diaspora from across the world! honestly think it’s a great opportunity for any of my fellow Indians to get published! it’s hem-magazine.com and hem.magazine on instagram.

[sunnydwrites]

Do you have any advice for writing as a student?

Absolutely, thanks so much for your ask!

Advice for Student Writers

Now that school is back in session, we students are faced with the daunting task of trying to juggle our author and academic lives. The very first piece of advice I have is to be aware of this throughout the school year. This is a time of striving for balance; that means that some days, your writing will have to take a step back, and you can’t hold that against yourself.

Schedule. Everything.

Keep your schedule organized! My personal favorite scheduling platform is Google Calendar — you can access it and make edits on both desktop and mobile. Maybe don’t schedule everything, like school days, unless there’s a change in your regular schedule. But you’ll want to record all of your due dates and important events, including any work shifts. (GC is especially helpful because you can use different calendar subsets for every different topic, like work/school/life/etc.) Once you have those all down, you can fit in some writing goals that make sense with the rest of your life.

Don’t overwhelm yourself with goals.

So, in direct correlation with the previous tip, keep your goals realistic and flexible. If you had time planned to finish writing a chapter before the end of the quarter but your math teacher dropped a massive, month-long project on you, there’s nothing you can do about that. Also speaking as a student, school should always come first. Our writing can wait, but for some reason what we do by the time we’re in our early-mid twenties affects literally the rest of our lives. Take the time to do some quality work on that project, and you can return to your writing later.

But also… don’t give up on your goals.

Be stubborn with your goals. (This kind of conflicts with the previous tip, I know.) But you want to finish that chapter, so you will. Perhaps it won’t be within the amount of time you had hoped for, but you can still be determined to reach that goal. For this specific reason, my quarterly goals during the school year are usually on a smaller scale. That way, there’s time to reach the goals in a reasonable way if school responsibilities interfere, and if/when you do, then you’re even more motivated to write.

Keep your mental health in mind!

And finally, take some time to de-stress. Taking a day for yourself every week or two is a fantastic route to take. Or even just a couple of minutes every day. You can do yoga, drink some tea, meditate, or do anything that you genuinely enjoy doing that doesn’t cause you any stress. My advice for this would be to avoid writing, even if you do enjoy it, because it’s often tied to so many goals. Whatever you do, don’t let your stress build up; it can get so bad that, speaking from experience, you can genuinely get sick and have to do nothing for a week, which may stress you out even more. So… do your best not to let that happen.

These are all of the methods that I have used and still used as both a student and as a writer, and I hope they help you, too! Best of luck in both writing and school!

[bu-ccd-erc]

Learning How to Change My Mind: Handling the Speed Bumps in my Academic Plan

By Kirstie Turnbull

When I applied to BU as a senior in high school, I had a very exact plan for how my life was would go. Throughout all of high school, I wanted to be a doctor, and adamantly refused to consider any other option. Naturally, I only applied to schools that had good pre-medical programs, and was accepted at, and chose to attend, BU. I lived in a happy fantasy bubble with my perfect, un-questioned future plan throughout the end of my senior year and the beginning of my summer, before arriving in Boston in July for freshmen orientation.

I had applied as a chemistry major, so when it came time to split off into our major groups during orientation, I found myself surrounded by other soon-to-be chemistry majors; other pre-medical students. I attended the pre-medical information session, and listened to all of the people around me discuss how excited they were to start their classes and begin their journey to become a doctor. I tried to muster up the same kind of anticipation, but the only definitive emotion I was feeling was doubt. Did I really want to be a doctor? Did I really want to go to school for so long? Did I really want to spend so much money on medical school in the future? Once I started questioning that one decision, I started questioning everything about my supposedly perfect plan: would I even really like studying science? Why did I choose this plan in the first place?

Before I left orientation, I switched into the undecided major group. I was confused and nervous and frustrated, and it felt like my entire future was one giant question mark. It felt like I didn’t even have a plan, and without a plan, I didn’t really have a future. Of course, that is not true. I am now a junior here at BU, and I have questioned everything that I am doing and changed my mind what feels like a thousand times. I went from being undeclared, to a math and statistics major with a computer science minor, to a mechanical engineering major in the College of Engineering and back to math and statistics major in the College of Arts and Sciences (and I recently added on an earth and environmental science minor but honestly, I think that I am going to change that again).

I have failed exams and surprise! The world didn’t stop spinning. I have had bad internship experiences and amazing ones. I have changed my academic plan over and over and over again, and rather than seeing each change as a catastrophe, I see them for what they are: speed bumps. Things change, we, as college students, inevitably change. We grow, and naturally, so will our plans for our future. As long as we keep calm and remind ourselves that it is perfectly okay to change our minds, we can take these speed bumps in stride.

[levisbae2]

Imagine this: you settle in to do work at a building. Securing the most sought after comfy chair and perfect sized table to ward off imposing company. Headphones charged you crush your creative tasks

Break 1: consume matcha

then boom into schoolwork.

Break 2: consume precisely 3 hits of penjamin.

Watch the Canadian winters sun set at precisely 4:51 pm.

I present you the perfect recipe for last day of finals

[rhlynd-blog]

The Next Best Thing

by Rhialyn Dadap

           This is not the piece I was planning to submit today. I planned to write something remarkable, something that will leave the readers gaping in wonder and astonishment. Something way out of my league, in other words. When I set out to write this, I envisioned the task to be smooth and easy, not anticipating the number of times I’d hit a wall, the hours I’d spend agonizing over a paragraph loaded with grammatical errors, and the frequent bout of laziness that tempted me to indulge in an hour or two of irresponsibility. To succumb to such temptation, however, entails a lot of consequences. The first is that my instructor will make a face again, the one that says she’s disappointed in me. The second is that the pile of schoolwork I have to finish just keeps growing with each day I delay. The third, the one that has convinced me again and again to get out of bed and face my computer is that mocking voice inside my head, echoing “Mao ra gihapon ka, wa gihapun ka nag-utro.” I have been battling with that voice for years now, ever since that fateful day in Borongan, Samar, when I resolved to be, pardon the cliché, the best version of myself.

           It was a hot and humid day in November. The gym was crawling with people—student writers in jeans and hoodies, coaches and teachers clutching thick folders and giving last minute pointers to their charges. The photo journalists stood in the distance, looking for the perfect spot to shoot, heaving their equipment with both hands lest they drop them in the melee. Everywhere there were clumps of students whispering excitedly among themselves, eagerly waiting for the game to start. In the middle of it all, I stood rooted to the spot, dazed and bewildered, growing panicky by the minute. I was part of the crowd but I was alone.

           I was a small girl, barely reaching five feet, unruly hair escaping a hastily pulled ponytail. In my left hand was a small tattered notebook where everything my teacher had told me was written. It wasn’t much but it was all I had. As I took in the commotion around me, I wondered how those notes could possibly help me win. My opponents all looked formidable, with their eyes framed with thick glasses and their fancy looking gadgets tucked in their elbows. Knowledge is power, and I knew I didn’t have that much. If only my coach was with me, I thought fleetingly. But no, I only had myself and my meager notes.

           The whistle blew. The game began. The players crouched in the middle of the court, waiting for the ball to be tossed in the air. What happened next was a series of dribbling, passing, shooting and rebounding. But that was all I could make sense of the confusion; my coach had taught me those words and what they meant. I didn’t like basketball, didn’t even watch the occasional game being played near our house. I was a girl after all, and girls, my mother would say, should stay in the house sweeping the floor and washing the dishes. All I knew about the game was its most basic rule—that the ball has to go through the hoop to score. I didn’t know why at one point, a player was allowed to shoot without his opponents guarding him, or why the ball was given to the other team when they took too long to shoot. But I watched and listened because what else could I do. I watched when a player hit a three-pointer for the fourth time and took note of his jersey number. When I couldn’t understand what was happening, I eavesdropped on the discussion of a nearby writer and his partner. I also glanced very surreptitiously at their notes, and just as silently scrawled them down on my own draft. If I sensed them giving me suspicious looks, I just feigned ignorance.

           The clock kept ticking. The ball kept rolling. But still I remained as clueless as when the match first started. So for lack of a better idea, I stuck to my original strategy—watch and listen. That was why, when chaos erupted five minutes into the third quarter, I saw everything from the very beginning. I saw when the guy in a number 35 jersey deliberately elbowed his defender on the way to the ring. I saw when the offended player with an almost murderous gleam in his eyes made his way toward guy 35 even after the shot was made. I looked for the referee and found him talking to another officer, completely oblivious to what was about to happen. It was only when a player was downed and both teams were involved in fisticuffs that the two managed to disengage what looked to be an ugly display of foul temper and unsportsmanlike conduct. The gym grew loud with the players throwing accusations against each other, pointing their fingers and trying to break free of the referees’ restraints. The atmosphere was ripe with excitement—cameramen clicking away at the sideline, student writers craning their necks to get a better look. “What happened? What happened?” they asked each other. They could only speculate. I didn’t bother asking the same question. Nobody would understand me anyway. I spoke Bisaya, and as far as I knew, everybody else spoke Waray.

           Finally, the gym quieted and the game continued. This time, while everybody else looked on, I kept on writing, only glancing up when a play was made. At last, something I completely understood, something I could write about. When the game ended, everybody flocked around the players, writers flinging questions after another, their answers barely audible in the din. The scene was much like those seen on television where journalists cluster around a celebrity trying to get his attention. I was jostled and shoved in every directions, almost knocked over when a writer forced his way to the front. I got my first taste of what it was like to be a journalist. Though I knew it was nothing compared to the real deal, and I might get some sore muscles afterwards, I loved every minute of it.

           We were given exactly one hour to write and polish our articles. Everyone got to work…well, everyone but me. I wasn’t sure what to write. Should I focus on the game? Or concentrate on the fight itself? Unlike the other contestants, I had no one to answer my questions, no one to compare notes with, no one to tell me what to do. The game was a blur to me. I had my secretly copied notes, but I didn’t know how to put them into words. When almost ten minutes had gone and my paper was still empty, I had no choice but to write about the only thing that made sense to me—the fight. At the back of my mind, I knew I should probably write about the game, how one team outscored the other, which team excelled in which quarter. But my hands had different plans. As I handed over my paper at the nick of time, I consoled myself with the fact that at least I finished it. I might not win, but I did what I was told to do.

           Awarding day came and I wore a blank face. I wished we didn’t have to attend but Ma’am Dora, my coach, had insisted. “Just in case,” she had said. The first category called was straight news writing—which I also joined. Nothing. My name wasn’t called and I pretended not to care. Inside though, I was a little embarrassed—straight news was the easiest category there was, or so the conference speakers had told us. I tried to tune out the names of the winners being called for the next categories. “Sports Writing in English category,” the emcee’s voice came back and still I tried to appear nonchalant. “Fourth place, from the Division of Southern Leyte,” I couldn’t hide my interest by that point. And then the most astonishing thing happened. I heard my name being called. I expected someone from another school to win, like Bontoc or Malitbog—their coach had been to numerous press conferences. To say that I was surprised would be a massive understatement. The next thing I knew, I was walking toward the stage, my coach beaming at me from where she sat with the other participants from our division. I was ecstatic. Proud. Overwhelmed. Sure, it was just fourth place, but I wasn’t about to forget that out of the sixty something who competed, my piece was ranked the fourth best. I was so sure I couldn’t do it, wasn’t cut out to be a writer, didn’t have what it takes, but the slip of paper I’ve been given on stage proved otherwise. I was thirteen at the time.

           Since then, I poured myself into journalistic writing. I borrowed books from my English teachers, photocopied pages of good articles, bought newspapers whenever I happened to be in a city. It wasn’t the best training, but it was the best I could do.

           The next school year, I was chosen to be a part of the radio broadcasting team. Even then, I was a fast-talker, my friends had to literally stop me whenever I get carried away. I have learned, in a very painful way, that reporting was not about how fast you speak, but how you speak and deliver a lot of information in a short amount of time and still be understood. I almost got ejected from the team for speaking too fast. We didn’t make it into the regional level, but I was named Best Reporter.

           It was then that I started dreaming. Someday, I’d become a journalist. I’d go into places where the action was taking place, write about famous people and interesting things, perhaps even risk my life in my quest to report to the world what was happening. Someday, I’d have my dream job and my father would no longer need to cut trees and destroy forests for a living. I loved my father but I couldn’t help but wish a different kind of work for him, one in which he couldn’t get arrested for illegal logging. Forget the survey that ranked a journalist as the fifth worst job to have. It was the best job for me, and I would become one someday.

           When someday came, it wasn’t quite like I’d imagined. April 2014, about five months after Yolanda, while the rest of the world was slowly recovering from the super typhoon’s devastation, my worst nightmare occurred. My father and my uncle Junjun were caught felling a tree branch, almost the size of a utility pole up on the mountain we called bulhang. The DENR had received an anonymous call reporting the distant sound of chainsaw on a Good Friday, which, for them was a grave offense. The police came, confirmed the report was true, loaded the chainsaw, shuffled my father and uncle inside the mobile car, and held them in the precinct. When we heard the news, I couldn’t bring myself to go to the police station. I couldn’t look at my dear father, so kind and loving, held inside a cell. A tree branch, that was what troubled me the most. My father has cut down so many enormous trees in his life, and he got arrested for cutting a branch. The irony was painful.

           A family friend had asked my father earlier that week to help him repair his hut if he’s got time. My father had readily agreed. He was going to do it for free. He did a lot of helping without asking for anything in return. During the wreckage after Yolanda, my father had volunteered himself and his chainsaw in clearing the streets of demolished trees. He’d worked for days, not caring that his own yard was also a wreck, and that his back would be sore at the end of the day.

           After a series of negotiations with the chief of police and the mayor, they were released from jail. An arrest was made so the police had to file charges, using false names on the papers. But although they were freed, the chainsaw has to remain in custody. The authorities saw it as a just punishment. I saw it as the end of a dream. That chainsaw was our livelihood. It was the reason we had food to eat, clothes to wear, money for school expenses. That same equipment would have helped send me to a good university. It was my last year in high school and we’ve talked about our plans. My father would continue cutting trees—legally since it was allowed after the super typhoon. I would enroli either in Tacloban or in Ormoc, we haven’t decided yet, and pursue my dream. But with the stable source of income yanked away from the family, I had to look elsewhere. I had to forget my dream.

           Now, as I write this story, I feel like the same thing has been happening all my life, in different scales. I would plan something big, imagine something wonderful, envision something beautiful only to have life snap me out of my illusion. Dreams are tricky that way. They’d lure you with the promise of a perfect future beyond the horizon and you’re helpless against the pull to get there. But when you finally arrive, if you get there at all, you fall off the cliff called expectation and land on your hide in the tide of reality. Studying to become an English teacher and writing an autobiography may be a far cry from my dream of writing features and articles and sports stories, but at least it’s something. I didn’t get perfect,  but I have this chance to write and express myself. I still get the pleasure of accomplishing something. Still, if there is a small part of me that still yearns for the kind of thrill I experienced that momentous day in Samar, that insists there’s more for me out there, I ignore it and embrace the next best thing.

Thank you for reading! Show some love, hit like and/or reblog. Also, check me out on Instagram and Twitter.

[eduregard]

6 Tools to Develop Creative Writing for Students

6 Tools to Develop Creative Writing for Students

6 Tools to Develop Creative Writing for Students

Synopsis: Writing does not do itself but requires knowledge, skills, and tools. This article will introduce you to various creative writing tools to help you get started.

It is a constant debate on whether a writer is born or made although experience would suggest that it is the latter. After all, creative writing does not just simply spring from…

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