Category: Junior Literary

Hey guys! Can you believe it? This is one of my last blogs for this school year. It feels like yesterday that I wrote my first blog. I’m not going to lie, blogging is not my strong point. I forget to write and then I forget to post but when I do, I enjoy every second of it. And even though our MSA year is ending and some of our high school careers with it, it’s the beginning of beautiful, frightening things. I personally am looking to a summer of friends, traveling, and stressing over family and next school year. Our seniors are stressing over leaving for college, moving across the country or to other continents, getting apartments, or just now deciding what they want to do. And you know what? That’s totally fine. We can do whatever we want. If you want to have road trips around the country sleeping in a hippie bus, or be a librarian, or even just be one with your art, that is something beautiful. Because you’re staying true to yourselves. And In the spirit of new beginnings and staying true to ourselves, I’ll be providing a recipe for Fettuccine Alfredo, one of my favorite dishes.

Fettuccine Alfredo

Ingredients

• 1 lb. fettuccine (those are noodles guys I totally didn’t know that until i cooked this)
• 1 stick of unsalted butter
• 1 pt. of heavy cream 
• 1 cup Parmesan cheese (grated)
• ground black pepper
• 1/4 cup of finely chopped flat leaf parsley (optional but it does taste good)

Directions

1. In a medium pot, simmer cream over a medium-low setting until it steams. Then whisk in the butter. When the butter and cream are combined, slowly whisk in the Parmesan and black pepper to taste.
2. Cook fettuccine, drain, and return to pot.
3. Pour sauce over pasta, add parsley, and stir well to coat the entirety of the noodles.
4. Serve with a parsley and Parmesan garnish if you choose.

 

The sun is shining just a little brighter. The days are lengthening. The winter blues are finally gone. MSA is preparing for the new batch of future artists coming in, and working hard send off the seniors who worked hard to earn their name here. I would lie if I didn’t say these transitional moments have my future heavy on my mind.

Senior year is quickly approaching the class of 2022.  I don’t know whether to run for the hills without stopping or embrace all that I’ve done leading up to my finale. It has never been smooth sailing or an easy path but it has been worthwhile.

My junior year alone, I discovered so much of who I am and the person that I want to be. This discovery did not come without discomfort or challenges but I wouldn’t trade anything for it.

To the incoming juniors, Class of 2023, I hope MSA finds you well. I hope you discover the best version of yourself. I hope your future here at MSA is kind to you and pleasant. 

I can’t speak on behalf of the entire Class of 2022, but I promise to help each of you along the way, helping you navigate this new life much like I did. There are going to be nerves but I swear coming to MSA is like finding your own community that becomes your family.

We are excited for the next school year and for the new faces and artwork that is going to be seen on campus next school year. But, also, let’s enjoy this summer break y’all. I don’t know about anyone reading this but I know for a fact that I need my break.

I’m going to miss everything on this campus, but one thing I know for sure is that it will always be waiting for me.

With an open mind and heart,

Taylor Noelle 

figurative language is not my strong suit. now, i can read, write, and otherwise comprehend it well, but i haven’t always been able to. i always struggled particularly with popular idioms that had no real significance.

for example, i grew up with one of pretty much everything: mom, dad, sister, brother, cat, and dog. my parents would always talk about my sister and i fighting like cats and dogs, and i was confused because… my pets hadn’t fought a day in their lives. come to find out, it was just an expression and i was just autistic. 

i also never understood the “don’t cry over spilled milk” sentiment.

last night, i sat in the cafeteria, playing a video game. granted, it was a humiliating one because it was made for literal children, which led a few of my friends to be very concerned about my mental well-being (and rightfully so). two friends sat down while questioning my life choices (i don’t blame them), and right in the middle of the cafeteria at an underwhelming 8:45 at night, i started sobbing. not for no reason, there were circumstances, but there didn’t appear to be. 

my two friends tried to console me, but nothing helped. i sat there playing my game for an hour longer, trying to distract myself from what was going on in my crumbling life. to no avail. and so, i spent the rest of the night after curfew… still crying. it seems i’ve been doing a lot of that lately; final exams are tough, as well as settling with the realization that our seniors are leaving. i’m not sure if anyone feels this as deeply as i do, but i’m not ready for the beginning of next year without the people who are closest to me. 

this morning, i woke up early. i snoozed my alarm for 10 minutes, then forced myself out of bed to take a shower and do my makeup. i was doing okay, until the realization of last night set in. i decided i had spent too much time on my makeup to be crying it off so early in the morning, and i went on with my day. i walked to first block.

i could feel a familiar throbbing in my forehead, that i quickly reached for a tylenol to subdue. i opened my water bottle, and as i reached for my bag, promptly knocked over the open water bottle. 

to put it simply, that was the last straw. that was the morning equivalent of dropping your keys in front of your door, of getting all the way home before realizing they got your order wrong, of going to the pool and realizing you didn’t bring a towel. 

i started sobbing in the middle of the ji hallway, which was not my proudest moment. river and gracie helped me soak everything up with mediocre paper towels from the bathroom, all while telling me it was okay and that it was just water. i thought back to when my mom told me “don’t cry over spilled milk,” as a metaphor, and i always thought it was stupid. again, the figurative language thing, as well as not knowing what spilled milk was actually a metaphor of.

i felt the dampness of the wooden boards, and i finally understood. you CAN cry over spilled milk. because it’s not just milk: it’s your scratched floor, the glass that just broke, the money you spent on those things. everything leads up to a tiny moment that can send you spiraling. don’t overwork yourself. allow yourself to be as graceful with your mistakes as you are with others. and remember that what’s done is done.

This is all, hopefully these made you smile 🙂

Currently, my classmates and I are taking Intermediate Fiction. We have been assigned three short stories, each based on an individual mentor text, which is the short story we study and use as a model for our own work. I am a bit biased towards not-so-short fiction, since it is the genre I divulged in most before coming to MSA, but this has definitely been my favorite literary arts class, though Playwriting is not too far behind in second place. I adore narrative prose and the process of unfolding a story that readers will marvel at, but as all fiction writers know, it is the one of the most difficult aspects of literature to master. We have all these brilliant ideas swarming around, yet we find them strenuous to capture them and plant on the page.

Over a month ago in U.S. History, my teacher went over a lengthy unit about WWII; before taking this class (shout out to Mrs. Malone, she’s an excellent educator!), I stuck to contemporary literature because it seemed easier to write about something I could experience in the present moment. Something about this lesson just immersed me in the culture in America at this time, and I knew I had to write something about it. I spent many days mulling over what an interesting story might be, and I landed in an unexpected place: the story of a soldier returning home to his wife and children, but his son battles with the unresolved emotions that come with a parent leaving for a violent war. I also incorporated a positive religious theme, which is unusual for me, but it felt right for the story, so I ran with it.

I was ecstatic about the idea of writing this, and I anxiously awaited an assignment in short fiction that implored me to explore this concept further. For the first assignment, I felt called to something else; for the second, I had a twinge of inspiration, but when I wrote an exposition of about 300 words, I realized it was not the best fit and moved on to something else for that prompt. Then came the third prompt.

It was perfect, the exact tool I required to develop this tale. I excitedly began my work, but…I couldn’t get into a flow with it. I would write half a page, decide it was bad, delete it, try again, and repeat that cycle. I did this for a few days and found myself at a loss. I considered scrapping it and trying something new, but I could not shake the obligation I had to tell these characters’ story; I had no right to leave them hanging in the air, uncertain about their fate. I needed to start this story somewhere else, so I opted for the middle.

This piece is divided into three sections, where I drop the reader into the formative moments in the protagonist’s journey of recognizing and understanding his feelings of anger towards his father. The first opened with them driving to the train station to bring the father home, the second with the boy observing his parents from afar, and the third with them heading to church after an argument. The second section weighed heaviest on my mind, so I started with it. I closed my eyes, imagined the scene, and allowed it to possess my hands. The words came to me with ease, and finally, I felt the relief of emerging myself in a story that had been confined to the walls of my imagination for so long.

Sticking with a story that feels like it’s not working is incredibly draining, but it’s necessary. If I had abandoned this idea, then I may have never written it, and it would have been another unfulfilled desire that scorned my spirit as an author. If you have a story, stand by it, even when it feels impossible. Don’t be afraid to hit Ctrl+A and backspace when it’s not working, regardless of how much you’ve written. Your writing process does not have to be linear; you can start in the middle, or with that line of dialogue that’s been running through your head. Once you complete the work, you’ll thank yourself for persevering, just as I did.

CW: Mentions of death.

If you’ve talked to me within the last month, I’ve most likely bugged you about my newest obsession. If you’ve read the title, then you can probably guess what, or rather who, it is. 

Will Wood and the Tapeworms, now performing as just “Will Wood” is known for their chaotic performances and eccentric music whose genre can only be described as “yeah, it’s just Will Wood.”

Their unique style has absolutely captivated me,  and I’ve since listened to their ENTIRE discography and even bought their mockumentary on Amazon Prime. My Discord profile picture has only consisted of shots of the lead singer himself for the past week, and I sure have gotten my fair share of ridicule for it. (The wholesome friend kind, of course.) 

Other than the fact I crashed my car while listening to Dr. Sunshine is Dead, the main factor that dragged me into this absolute obsession was the movie vaguely listed on his website. It was $2 on Amazon Prime, so of course, I rented it to see what it was all about. The movie was titled “The Real Will Wood” and, in short, was about a group of documentarians seeking out to answer the question, “who is the real Will Wood?” When I say it was one of the most bizarre experiences in my life, I’m being genuine. It was something I would create, and if you’ve seen any of my editing before, you can understand what I’m saying. I was instantly hooked on the eccentricities of the music and performances and was enamored with Will Wood himself. I had to listen to all of his music. So, I did. (within a week.)

The artist focuses mostly on the inevitability of death, mental illness, gender roles, and other social issues. With three full albums out and a number of EPs, you’ll be able to catch up on all his work in no time. I’m currently watching the documentary on his YouTube channel “What Did I Do?” (which so far fits the style of The Real Will Wood, but is definitely, well, not as bizarre, to say the least) about the making of his newest release, “The Normal Album,” which you can guess is anything but. Will Wood’s humor, along with the rest of the band and crew’s, is definitely not for the faint of heart, as most sentences uttered in either documentary are almost always about death. You’ll pick up on the band’s fascination with death very quickly. It’s pretty much everywhere.

However, Will Wood can sing about grizzly topics in a jazzy and upbeat manner, so jam out to your inevitable demise! Memento Mori, after all.

 

 

I hope this blog finds you well, and if it does not, that the next one will find you better. Recently, I wrote and gave a TedTalk for my class, Practicum in Literary Arts;  a few of my peers expressed that they were moved by it, so I wanted to share it here, just incase somebody out in the world needs to hear it.

Trigger Warning: Discussion of depression, suicidal ideation, and suicide.

Before we start, I would like you to watch the first two and a half minutes of a TedTalk, actually. If you have time afterwards, or even now, I would highly recommend watching the entire thing; it’s really powerful stuff.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1QoyTmeAYw

The speaker is named Mark Henick, and I stumbled across him at the age of thirteen, when I reached my first of many valleys caused by my depression. I wouldn’t be diagnosed until the week after my seventeenth birthday, but even then, I had the distinct feeling that something was wrong with me, that I didn’t navigate the world like other people did. Though it took me years to process how this discussion affected me, I found myself crying into my unwashed pillows for what felt like the dozenth time that week.

I lost a large part of my life to convincing myself that there was something irrevocably wrong with me, that I had to be a blip in the world because there was no way that people were expected to live like this. I made a habit of observing everyone around me, and each time I noticed a genuine laugh, or that flicker in someone’s eye when they are taking a moment to appreciate where they are, it felt like a slap in the face. I crawled into myself, the person I despised the most, and bitterly questioned why I couldn’t just be happy and normal, why I couldn’t just want to live. Having someone verbalize a feeling as overwhelming as suicidal ideation provided me with a sense of relief, but it also infected my mind with a new anxiety.

Nobody suspected me, and for a while, I didn’t know to suspect other people of feeling the same way I did. All across America, millions of people were in the dark, isolating trenches of this mental illness with me, and here I was, naively telling myself that I was the exception, that I was broken far beyond repair, that my illness made me a burden.

When you have clinical depression, it feels like a second nature to tell yourself that while other people in the same situation deserve to live, but you don’t. That they will recover, but you won’t ever be able to. That they deserve health and happiness, but you don’t. Perhaps it comes from the subtle narcissism that we all possess, or our inability to see the world outside our dark, tightly closed bubbles of perception, but this attitude of being the exception in circumstances like these can be deadly. After hearing Henick’s talk, I spent entire nights falling down the rabbit hole of suicide survivor stories, obsessively listening to them recount their experiences and how they came out from it. I felt proud of them, like a teammate on the sidelines watching their friend score the winning point, but one thought ran incessantly through my mind: “That’ll never be me.”

Because I know my story may not be enough to inspire you into believing that you’ve got a chance, I won’t talk about myself anymore. I’m going to talk about you.

I don’t think I need to give you the spill about your loved ones missing you, we all know that part of it, but I do want to emphasize something to you. With the way film and media has portrayed, we as a generation have the subconscious notion that we will bear witness to the aftermath of our own self destruction. Countless series depict victims of suicide as spirits or hallucinations who return to their communities to guide their loved ones as they grieve. I don’t know you, or what you believe in, so it’s unfair of me to say what will or will not happen to you after you pass. However, I will be bold enough to give this general statement: you will not come back as yourself. This is not some corny Netflix drama. You will not roam the halls of your high school, talking to your peers who miss you, or offering advice to your friends when they deal with the complications of your suicide. You will not observe people’s reactions to your death, then decide whether or not you want to ‘follow the light’ or undo your decision. You will be eternally separated from this plane of existence and from everyone and everything who adores and needs you.

Your friends and family will not be the only people mourning you. It’ll be the college roommate who your friend sobs in agony to after they accidentally played your favorite song. It’ll be the friend of a friend who puts his hand over his heart when he sees the empty chair left for you at graduation. It’ll be a coworker asking around the office why your father looks so distraught every time he glances at the framed photograph of you on his desk. It’ll be your first love’s fiancée finally hearing the real reason they don’t like talking about those who came before her. It’ll be the junior who asks the class who’s mug has been sitting untouched since the beginning of the year. It’ll be the parents trying to coax their child out of bed after she spent the past week crying into the hoodie you loaned her on a rainy day, and it’ll be her unknowing brother asking why he hasn’t seen you around the house lately. It’ll be the new neighbor who notices your pets lying in the living room, patiently waiting to hear the sound of you tossing your shoes into the corner of the hallway. It’ll be anyone and everyone who interacts with the people you care about after you’re gone. You’ll be cheating them out of the privilege to know you as the radiant person you are instead of the occasional reminder of a dreary statistic.

But, it’s not just about them. It’s about you, and it’s about how you will rob yourself of all of the pockets of joy in your life. You’ll never watch your favorite shows in search of nostalgia, nor will you see the glow on your parents’ face when you agree to start watching that new series with them. These complex, important characters you dreamed up will never have their stories told, and you won’t feel the satisfaction of completely submerging yourself in a story. Your usual spot at the treasured, local restaurant will sit empty and cold, and never again will you feel the strain of suppressing the smile that forms on your face when the pretty waitress remembers your order. You will not be able to gaze at the face of your soulmate and wonder how someone could be so beautiful. You won’t laugh until your sides ache and your lungs are left empty. You won’t feel warm sunlight grazing your skin on chilly mornings, nor will you rest in the shadow of a large, seemingly endless tree. You won’t watch your siblings nor your children experience those big life moments, and you won’t be able to congratulate your loved ones when they accomplish the things they never thought they could do.

There will be no more long car rides with your best friend, nor will the two of you ever sing karaoke together again. No more smile lines and flushed cheeks. No more of the adrenaline that pumps through your veins when your favorite artist is about to come on stage at a concert. No more peeking around your classmate’s heads in the lunch line to see what food the cafeteria workers are serving. No more intertwined fingers and stolen glances. No more of your roommate waking you up to watch the sunrise, nor the sunset. No more music, and no more dancing alone in the bathroom to your favorite songs. No more you.

If I can say anything to you, it’s that you are worthy of these things and everything else that brings you joy. You deserve every ounce of happiness that you have and will attract in your existence. You are not baggage, nor are you simply the extra weight on someone else’s shoulders You are not a stain on the lives of others, and you are not hampering anyone by existing in shared spaces with them. The people in your life care for you deeply, even and especially, when what you’re dealing with is straining your relationships with them. They want you here with them, and they’ve never thought of you as a mistake, or a burden. I want you here, and so does everybody else reading this post.

I know how difficult it is for you to believe these things, and that’s okay. I’m not asking you to change your entire perception after a five minute conversation, but I am asking you to take the small step of reminding yourself that you do hold value in the world, and that you will miss so, so many things if you chose to end your life here. It feels impossible, I’m sure, but if you just keep going, one day, I promise, you’re going to reflect on where you are in life and say to yourself, “I didn’t know I could be this happy.” And trust that you will feel happy again. You will find yourself and set a path for yourself in the world. Your life will be fulfilling, and you will do meaningful things in your lifetime. You will evolve far beyond from the person you are in this valley, and your circumstances will change for the better. Slowly, you’ll begin to recover, and life won’t seem inescapable anymore. Seek professional help, if that’s an option for you, and if it isn’t, just talk to somebody, anyone who can provide you with compassion and support. The world is rooting for you to live the long, beautiful life you were meant to have, so while you’re in the valley, or in the darkest of perception bubbles, remind yourself what you’d be sacrificing and of the things you’ll miss.

It’s gotten to that point in the year were even the things you used to enjoy seem to be strenuous tasks.  I feel like I’m not alone when I say I’m experiencing end of the year burnout.  I’m not taking care of myself as much as a should and my work is taking longer and longer to complete.  Self care?  Have you seen her, cause I sure haven’t.  I’ve been suffering from a stubborn case of pneumonia so that sure hasn’t helped my energy levels. 

I know I’m supposed to offer something but this is for myself too.

• Wash your hair
• Stop isolating yourself
• Vent to people who care
• Take breaks
• Listen to music
• Watch your comfort videos
• Snuggle your stuffed animals
• Refrain from throwing hands with that person who keeps pissing you off
• Eat food
• Hang out with your friends
• Leave the school once in a while (Or your house)
• Sit with someone during meals

Hopefully this is helpful to anyone else suffering a burnout.  You can do it, I believe in you!