Category: Good Reads

If I could describe in one word how I’m feeling right now, the word would be “stressed.” I’m sure everyone at MSA can relate to that statement in some way, shape, or form. I thought I was at the pinnacle of stress at the start of senior year and even during some periods of my junior year; however, I’ve never been so stressed in my life.

It’s late November, and at this point, I’ve been working on my Fashion Magazine for about two months. I got inspired for the project early October while I was at a friends house one weekend(see previous blog to get the entire scoop), and since then I’ve been working on it daily. This is very rare for me. If you know me personally, you know that I get ideas, and if it isn’t something that can get done within a week or two, I usually drop it. The fact that I’ve been working on this for two months is an accomplishment in itself, but I have so much more to do.

I’ve decided that I want to be completely finished with the magazine by April 20th, 2020, which is the day of my showcase. By the way, the event is open to the public, so if you’re interested in this magazine or any of my work in general, you should most definitely come check it out. This deadline will also mean that the magazines will be completely printed and in my hands, ready to order by this date. From today, that is about five months from now. *internally screaming*

Within the magazine there will be photo shoots, shot by me, of students at MSA that have so graciously been willing to participate. There will also be interviews and articles about certain people at MSA that I find exceptionally rich in their specific art. Whether that be Vocal, Literary, Fashion Design, Theater, Visual, Dance, and even Cinematography. It will all be included.

I’ve even decided to design and create fashion pieces of my own. This took a lot of consideration in deciding to do this. I was scared that I wouldn’t have time or willing participants, but I decided that the magazine wouldn’t be my own if I didn’t include this. So far I’ve created one of my fashion pieces, and I’m so excited to create the other pieces.

Overall, I believe that the magazine will reflect the inspirations I’ve kept bottled up for so many years. I’ve always wanted to create something that showed who I am as a person and the things I care about. This magazine has already become so important to me, which is so exciting for me.

Working on my magazine along with applying for colleges, scholarships, and just everyday MSA routines has been causing me a lot of stress, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t happy. I’ve never been so happy in my entire life. I’ve never had so much fun while doing work. I realized that fashion and journalism is my passion because I’ve never been so stressed with something, yet still have the most fun I could possibly have. I already know that this project is going to help me learn so many things about myself because in a way, it already has.

I just want to thank everyone who is supporting me and supporting my vision. I know for a fact that if it weren’t for any of you, this really would not be possible, and I mean that wholeheartedly. I know that’s so cliche to say, but I’m so serious about it. I really mean it. I’m so excited to share this piece of myself with you guys. It will take a while, but I promise it will be so worth it. I won’t let you down!

Check back with me April 20th, 2020:)

If you would have asked me two months ago what I wanted to pursue as a career, I would tell you that I wanted to be an environmental lawyer. I would go on and on about how I wanted to save the planet from itself, and give random facts about how much time we have left until it’s impossible for human existence on earth. I did everything in my power to help the earth become more green. This is not a bad thing; I’m not saying it is, but I don’t believe I did it completely because I was passionate about it. I think I did it because I wanted my family and other people to be proud of me. I wanted to be enough for them.

I tried my absolute hardest to prove to people that I was smart and capable of making a difference. What I didn’t realize is that it caused me to detach from myself. It caused me to neglect my true talents and passions.

Earlier this year, in the second semester of junior year, I was completely unhappy with everything. I closed myself off from so many things. I completely isolated myself. Around mid-April, I realized that I needed to better myself. I knew that I wasn’t the best version of myself and I wanted to make a change. Throughout the entire summer I completely changed my outlook of everything, and I will be honest, I did feel so completely happy, but something else was missing. I couldn’t figure out what it was.

About a month ago, I stayed with a close friends house and we had a very deep conversation. We talked about how I wasn’t happy and how I was tricking myself into thinking I was happy. She told me, “you have to let go,” and that’s when my eyes were opened up to everything. I realized that I didn’t want to be a lawyer. I only wanted to be a lawyer so that my family and friends would be proud of me. I do care about the environment and I do think that we should do everything in our power to make some type of difference, but I also have my own passions that I want to be able to pursue as well. All along I had lived my life for others. That is why I wasn’t happy. I was neglecting what actually made me happy because of what others told me.

Upon this discovery, I realized that I want to be a Fashion Journalist. I always have. I want to work on projects that make me happy, not projects that other people tell me will make me happy. Ever since that day I have been pursuing the things I love instead of the things other people think I would excel at. And that in itself has caused me to be joyful and excited for my future.

For the first time in a very long time, I am excited for the things to come.

I wrote this for Letters for Literature, and this speech is really incredible, so I thought I would use this as my blog.

(Here’s the link, if you want to listen to it.)

November 9, 2018

Dear Mr. David Foster Wallace,

How could you? In This is Water, you open our minds to breaking the boundaries of our brains, of shifting perspective of life and the little inconsistencies we find in our everyday routines-you speak of hope. This 2005 public speech at Kenyon University would later go on to be one of your most influential pieces, a speech that would leave all generations open mouthed and in awe of their own existence. And yet, police found you hanging from the rafters in your home not three years later. You hung yourself on September 12, 2008, you killed your ideals when you killed yourself and that, Mr. Wallace, makes you a hypocrite.
This is Water is a piece that reflects on human self-perseverance through seeing life’s negative attributes as a gift to each of us. You suggest within it a self-discipline, a mind-over-matter way of seeing the world. It is a piece meant to remind us of the “water” all around us, of our lives that are more beautiful than we now can comprehend, and of the self-awareness we all should have towards our external experiences and through our communications with others. And I knew as I listened in my bed and cried to this piece, that you must be a forever lonely man, having thoughts such as these. It is a very daunting task to chase intellect and nearly worship it, you said it yourself, so how could you let this same idea ruin you?
After hearing this speech, I noticed my shoes fit different. I watched my words fall from my mouth and found myself able to touch them with my fingers, to feel the power each syllable had once spoken into the air. I imagined my life and walked with open hands into it, palms outstretched and ready to gratefully tackle any obstacle. Shortly after practicing this lifestyle, I learned too of your death. Of your major-depressive disorder and the electroshock therapy. Of your struggles and your internal pain, though I had initially pictured you as this impenetrable force, a man with a more resilient mind than anyone I had the privilege to listen to before.
Mr. Wallace, I will forever be in awe of you, but you are a hypocrite, you are a liar. You cheated me, giving me false hope where even you couldn’t find any. You said once that “writing is what it means to be a f****** human being”, that writing has the potential to make the writer and reader “less alone inside.” Still, there was a hole in you-the writing wasn’t enough, the people you touched with your spirit through poetry, essays, and speeches was not enough for you. The hole was your heart and head aching in a constant and never-ending battle, depressive episodes racking through your bones and choking these sentimental, humble phrases from your mouth. You let your brain eat you from the inside out, and I don’t know if I can forgive you for it.
What did you worship, Mr. Wallace? Was it intellect, as I first imagined, that drove you? Perhaps not, as you did say it was incredibly useless to do so, but I still have notions that you said this knowing you would always return to look for more intellect, that you secret did in fact worship knowledge and knowingly let it break you into little pieces, running to a finish line that never existed.
As you said, “The one thing that is Capital T- true, is that you decide how you’re going to see it.” You were talking about life when you let these words tumble from your mouth. Maybe you were more selfish than I knew, only talking of your own life, but Mr. Wallace, when you said this, I considered my life and the lives of my friends, of my family, of strangers I would meet in the next. It was universal, and your words hit home. As a fish in water, as my seventeen-year-old self, I was hooked to this quote, and it still carries me through days. But, Mr. Wallace, can it even hold the weight it once did in my mind after discovering that you never fully invested into the idea yourself? You had chances, you have choices, and though your words were brilliant, I have trouble coming to terms with your death and simultaneously believing in them. I can barely believe in you anymore.
Mr. Wallace, I hope you found peace through your decision, but I also hope you know that because of your decision, I do not believe peace is something I will have for a very long time.

Best wishes, wherever you are,

Katherine Dian Westbrook

Welcome to the story of Tyler Renee, a literary artist.

So about 10 years ago, eight year old me sat down on a beige couch with a speckled composition book in my pink “writer’s robe” (a bathrobe that I only wore when writing at home) and wrote a 20 page story about three girls and a dolphin. Now, looking back on that story, I can honestly tell you that it was trash. But it succeeded in helping me find my passion for writing.

After  that, I started writing poetry. I filled many composition books with rhyming poems (I was a fan on the ABAB CDCD rhyme scheme at the time.)  It became more often that one would find me scribbling away in a composition book writing than reading AR books or doing my math homework. This of course caused some problems and for a couple years or so I didn’t write at all.

When I got to be 12 or 13, I picked up the  habit again (this time abandoning the rhyme scheme all together). I would write short fiction stories and create characters in my free time. I wrote about my religious beliefs and societal problems. I wrote of depression and happiness.

But then I started going through a hard time getting anywhere with my stories and would throw most away as soon as I broke away from them. I would tear pages upon pages of writing out of my notebooks before throwing them away because at the time I didn’t believe in my writing in the slightest bit.

Then when I was 15, I learned about Mississippi School of the Arts and I was once again inspired to write and I started to really believe that I could be a poet and write for a living. I practiced create several portfolios for the application for Mississippi School of the Arts. I was fully prepared to apply. But the year of my application, I was not in the best of mindsets. I lost full belief in my writing and myself. I threw away all of my poetry and fiction pieces that I had cultivated. I gave up writing and any dreams that I had that I could live the life of a literary artist.

However, my friend, Nakiejah Hickman, talked me into rewriting my pieces and applying anyways. The day I received my acceptance letter was the day that I fully accepted that my writing was not the trash I believed it to be. From that day forward, I have written many poems and fiction pieces. I have written plays and monologues (I mean they were not the best but they didn’t suck too bad).

I am proud to call myself a literary artist. And I am proud to say that I have come a long way from the 8 year old in a pink robe writing about dolphins. And while I lost years of my earliest works, I am proud to have struggled the way I had. It taught me to fully embrace my creativity and my art.

So here’s to a new year of literary growth.

Hey. If you’re reading this then you might need some cheering up in your life. Maybe you need something that makes getting up in the morning a little more worth it. Or something a little more soothing before work, school, or any other activities that vary throughout the day. Anyway, back to the topic at hand -inspiration, and my tangle with the people of the world.

Ever since my early childhood, my family has always found me a little odd. Not because of really anything out of the ordinary, it was mainly because I was a little shyer than my siblings. When they would openly greet people and shake strangers hands, I would hide behind my mom or dad’s legs and pray that I was small enough to go unnoticed.

This became my regular schedule despite reaching an age where that would be considered a little too much. Even at the thought of being in front of a crowd would send me into a shaking frenzy. My eyes would go big my legs would tremor my stomach would drop. It was like the very thought of dealing with anything like that was something that would put me in the grave. My fear seemed to grow as grew. It took up almost every single last bit of my life. So as you can imagine middle school was a living nightmare.

I’m going to skip any parts of elementary because my mom would warn the teachers of my fear and convince them not to force me in-front of the class for any reason.

But in middle school it was different. I can only assume she thought I was prepared to go through life without aide at this point. she thought wrong in this regard. Every single teacher assumed I was like any other student that had stage fright. That I could do it if they could, but alas that hardly happened. The second I was called tot he fronts I would attempt to refuse. or I would stay still and close my eyes and pray that they ignored me. Like a
T-rex to its prey. But on the more confident days of mine, I would actually make it tot he front of the class. I even at times stuttered out a word or two before my body went through its usual routine. I would freeze, the words on my page would blur, the floor would open up, everyone was nothing but giants pairs of judging eyes peering down at me. I was nothing but as insignificant bug ready to be squashed under their shoes.

Then came the shaking.

Some people would call it seizure-like, others demon possession for a short period of time. I went into overdrive, everything became too much or not enough, I could hear a pin drop in Africa, but someone could be shouting in my ear and they would only pick up static and the occasional mumble. Any attempt to pick me up would result in my body seizing and the shaking to get worse. So I would be left until someone called a nurse or a principle, or a friend to help me off the floor, they had things to present this was becoming a common occurrence. But why?  Anyone would think that the teachers would have stopped calling on me, or forcing me to do anything after all of that, and you would be correct. I stopped being called on. Teachers hardly looked at me when I meekly put up my hand to answer questions. surprisingly enough I was the one that persisted. I was the one that told them I was capable of during the presentation, or answering the question or reading out-loud. It was possible, it was completely possible, but only to me. No one else saw that after a period so I became my own hype man. I’d practice speaking in the mirror. I’d practice speaking in my room to my stuffed animals, I’d practice while I was laying in bed half asleep. I didn’t stop and I didn’t quit. Because I had a  goal. I wanted to stand in front of a class and give a presentation and finish one. Not even make it half way but to finish one in its entirety.

This took my years, literal years, but there is a reason I started it in middle school because it was the first time I actually did it. It was the very first time I stood in front of a class of people and spoke. This was major.  Yes I still shook and I still cried and I still needed to be comforted after but I finished that power point and it felt like the whole world had been lifted off my shoulders. I physically wanted to jump up and down and scream out of pure joy.

(I think the only reason really that I finished the power point was because I made a mistake and said “Koo Koo Klan” instead of “Ku Klux Klan” and couldn’t stop laughing.)

That was my very first step into improving my confidence, social skills, and communicative skills as well. 6th to 8th grade was the dawn of a new era for Timera Gaston and I still roll with it today. Yes, i do still have my downfalls and my bad days but overall I think I’ve down way better now that I ever had in the past, and I know for a fact that if little me ever met me now she would be proud, and we’d fist-bump and I’d show her BTS videos so she could have a head start. What I’m saying is that sometimes you have to fail a lot to make an improvement, sometimes you have to inspire yourself to keep reaching for your goals and sometimes all you need is a little misstep down a cliff to find a pot of gold.

You see those words blaring at you, the blue screen illuminating, trying to irritate your eyes even more, “I love you, but I can’t be with you anymore.” It feels like you’re being crushed. Like your surroundings are being sucked into a black hole, and you’re in the center of it. It’s dramatic, and you feel dramatic, but it’s okay. Let yourself feel. Let yourself have the biggest cry session you’ve ever had. Cry in your bed alone with the lights off, cry in your best friends car, cry on your mom’s shoulder; just cry whenever the feelings start to seep and overflow. Reminisce, but don’t linger. Detox your life for all traces of them, so that when a sinking sense of false reality hits, you don’t go back to try and re-feel. Leave the past in the past. Realize you’re not a bad person for needing to be distant. Also realize you’re not a bad person when you’re ready to let that past sneak back in. Just make sure you’re not wearing rose colored goggles. Don’t make demons out of angels. Do deeper delving before you place blame. But also don’t make angels out of demons. When months go by and you’re still in the same pit of missing them, don’t get frustrated. It’s easy to get frustrated over the fact it’s been two months and you still can’t shake the thought of them. Maybe it will be that third month that you start to bloom out of that cocoon of brokenness. Some days you will wake up with them on the mind, and go to bed in the same state. Any then suddenly one day, you wake up, and you’re thoughts are focused on the day ahead, not the person left behind. It’s gradual. Become aware that this process can’t be forced. Trust the process. You can’t make yourself unlove someone, simply because they don’t love you anymore. That’s the cruel nature of it. But eventually, it will hit, that you do not love them anymore. It could be weeks, maybe months, but it will come. You will hear this from a million people and not believe them; not until it happens to you. It might still hurt to hear their name, or see pictures, but your love for them will have fallen with the autumn leaves. Don’t feel bad if they’re trying to wiggle back into your life, and you’re not ready. If you are ready, be polite, but don’t be overtly giving. Your time is up and that isn’t your job anymore. You’re the CEO of your own life. You call the shots. Be fearless and fearful at the same time about new prospective relationships. Be honest and open about how you feel with that new person. Don’t have the mindset of “Am I ready to do this again?” This new relationship is not the old one. It may have similarities, and it may not have any. Realize over and over again that you are in control. You decide what happens next. You may have not been in control with the break-up, the aftermath is all you. The ball is in your court.

I remember constantly being worried about how others felt about me. Whether I was funny, if my shoes were nice, or whether people thought I was the kindergarten equivalent to cool at that time. A five year old me was so worried about being accepted that I developed the habit of second guessing myself no matter what I did. If I thought someone else wouldn’t like it, I refused to continue. And that habit affected me in everything I did. The habit developed and got worse and it became my worst enemy when I started to write.

In middle school, I obsessed over writing novels and I had composition notebooks filled with different story ideas and starts to the novels I had in mind to write. I was inspired by so many authors like James Patters and Sarah Dessen. However, I didn’t write necessarily based on what I liked. Instead of just self-critiquing and figuring out what I wanted in it or out of it, I would consistently ask my classmates and teachers to read over it. I was in need of approval and a say-so from people. I had never thought about how I wanted the reader to feel or the general audience I was looking for. I just wanted it to seem good enough so that I could get a pat on the back and a well done.

So what if they didn’t like it? I’d throw away ideas that I had. Even if I got the approval that I wanted from those people, I would irrationally think of all the worst possible outcomes if I were to continue on with the work. That’s when I just gave up. Many pages that had brilliant ideas and great starting points were pushed aside and abandoned all because I second guessed myself and doubted my abilities.

As an artist, a part of our job and the future of it is, sometimes, based on people’s opinions about you. Given. However, there is a completely fine line between making your work okay for yourself and others and just making work specifically for everyone else and not giving yourself a chance to incorporate risky, original ideas. It’s not fair and you’re robbing yourself. Writing or any other art is based off of what you feel is right. It’s a form of self expression. Meaning it belongs to you and what is yours is yours.

Consistently wondering whether millions of people read or see what you’ve created can lead to so many hinderances. That’s where second guessing often occurs. You continue to throw out ideas and work that seemed perfect to you at first but just because a couple people didn’t enjoy it, you decided to throw it away. You shouldn’t throw away art that easily. Whether many people like it or just a handful of them do, what matters is if you feel content. Does it make you feel happy? Does it make you feel sad? Does it strike the intended audience the way you wanted it to? You are apart of that intended audience, regardless of if you realize it or not. Never second guess yourself if you feel in your heart that your work has served its purpose to you. Just continue to edit, push, and release.

this isn’t really a story, but a series of personal revelations.

i’m just gonna get this out of the way now: existence is exhausting. it’s not really me trying to be hashtag-edgy or whatever else anyone may want to cast unto me, more of just a general fact of nature. i’m tired all the time, humanity is in shambles all the time, and i really just dislike being confined to this single physical plane all the time. if my outlook on life is so bleak and horrible, then what’s the point, right? well let me tell you, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows (she says, meaning not quite the opposite, but landing somewhere in the middle).

lesson one: it’ll all be alright, probably, and here’s why.

believe it or not, i’m actually a bit of an optimist. okay, let me clarify: when it comes to a general outlook on the world as a whole, i’m pretty sure things will all work out in the end. i essentially feel the same way about my own life specifically, but it’s a little more convoluted and wonky to get to those conclusions. i go back and forth between bouts of idealism and realism, pessimism and optimism – some of the few things i don’t actually have hard opinions on. i have days where i feel like there’s no real hope for the state of the world we live in just as much as i feel like there’s so much hope for it.

overall, i think our world is growing and changing so much and so quickly, and nine times out of ten, i think it’s for the better. but our lovely little friend social media really really knows just how to put a damper on things. i see so much good and creation and innovation all through this little electronic window into the rest of humanity, but it seems like there’s a new tragedy every time i refresh the page. is this awareness of world news and events important? absolutely. does that mean i need to immediately hear about 30 dead in such-and-such or five dead in so-and-so? not in the slightest.

lesson two: it’s the little things that count, i guess.

rest assured, there are some big things, too. new technologies are being developed every day to cure diseases, provide clean drinking water, and over all just improve the quality of living for people all over the world. i put my name on that probe nasa just sent to the sun – just because i could! just because it felt cool to say something with my name on it is currently in space! studying the sun! tell me that’s not at least a little cool, i dare you.

i place a lot of extra value in things that subjectively don’t matter. i save knick knacks and trinkets that probably would find a better home finally being thrown away, which is part of why it’s so hard for me to keep my room clean for very long. but i like having the memories of the little moments, like a friend’s prop from when we presented student plays in my oral communication class freshman year. they’re nice little reminders of the times when i didn’t worry about anything, the times when i was just having a laugh without having to be burdened by, y’know, that crushing weight of existence.

lesson three: there is good in this world, and it’s worth fighting for.

let me just say, it’s hard to be an optimist in the face of all the turmoil.

but i do it, because i have to believe there is something to tether me here and make all of this aforementioned peril of existence actually worth it. when i’m not feeling up for so much heavy reading about rising death counts, the next story is a dog seeing snow for the first time. remember what i said about the little things?

and there are big things too, of course. the new technologies and whatnot. so you have to fight for them both. fight for the sunsets just as much as you fight for revolution (now talk about opposite ends of the spectrum). while it’s really easy to just get caught up in all the sad nastiness of the world, it’s so much more worth it to look for all of the good in it.

i grew up surrounded by music – not your typical childhood tunes, though. my dad raised me in a pool of heavy metal and classic rock, throwing me in before i could swim, and my mom cheered him along from the sidelines as my older sister shook her head with distaste. to this day, if you mention a child listening to rock music, my dad will grin and tell you about the time he looked in the backseat and saw me in my booster seat, headbanging to the Metallica song he had playing.

so, naturally, i listened to music any chance i got: on the bus, sitting at home, during car rides, while waiting at the dentist’s office. i grew to admire the guitarists of each band i listened to and aspired to be like them – to be in a band of my own as the lead guitarist and travel the world, meet countless new people. i even began to learn how to play the instrument in fifth grade but never kept up with it.

one year prior, though, my teacher, mrs. scott, gave the class a writing assignment. i cannot remember the exact prompt she gave, given my terrible memory and the fact that this occurred over eight years ago, but i do remember that the assignment required a horror/mystery-inspired theme (i believe it was october at the time). being the natural reader i was, many different plots swam in my brain, and i had a difficult time choosing which to write out. eventually, i finished my paragraph or two and turned it in. later that day, my teacher approached me and told me how much she loved my writing and the use of the phrase “blood-curdling scream.” in retrospect, she probably just admired that a fourth-grader even knew the term “blood-curdling,” but being the nine-year-old i was, i did not know that; for the next few days or so, i was beaming with pride, doing everything i could to mention to others that mrs. scott had liked it so much and that she had also displayed it for everyone in the school to see on the wall in the hallway outside of her classroom (which she also did with a few other students’ works, but i had never made it there before). i also can recall her showing the paper to other teachers, discussing how well i had written for an elementary student.

from that moment on, i decided to start writing. but i still wanted to play in a band. as the years passed, though, i never really learned how to play the guitar, and i began writing more and more as the days went by. eventually (around eighth or ninth grade), my guitar went to my sister because i stopped wanting to play it for a living, and my dreams transitioned to ones of keyboards, ink pens, and loose notebook paper. so much so that i applied to an arts high school in my tenth grade year, specifically with the purpose of going for writing, and got in.

my dreams are nowhere near the general vicinity of my future, but i never imagined i would be where i am now, especially when i was in fourth grade, proud of the use of “blood-curdling scream” in a paragraph-long story. but to this day, i do not know how to play the guitar, but i will never give up on my dreams of writing.