Panda Express Poetry

This nice little piece of writing here

Can probably be compared to a meal

At Panda Express

Most eat there about once a year

It’s got everything, almost

Except for plot and actual Chinese food

Doesn’t matter, but seriously.

Who out there doesn’t crave Chinese

When offered a thick slice of fruitcake

Unfortunately, this is only qualified as poetry

Because I labeled it as such

(See? Right there at the top?)

Plus it’s got a nice ring to it.

But the real reason anyone gets Chinese

Is not for the culture or the food like they claim

Or even their supposed ‘cravings,’

The real reason is secret

But I’m gonna tell you. Ready?

It’s the fortune cookie.

The most American part of the meal, but

if you handed one to a Chinese person,

They’d probably try to figure out just

how you did Origami with a cookie

But look no further

You have found a cookie that offers wisdom!

And you don’t even have to open it.

(Because the cashier gave you a broken one.)

But never mind that. Picking it apart,

Confucius says:

“Many people seek you for sound advice”

Well. That’s dumb. That was the point of

Your opening your cookie.

But look- lucky you! The guy bussing

tables dropped an unopened cookie!

(Which broke on impact if you were wondering…)

Trying not to let the cookie shards explode

You open the tiny bag, all pieces roll out,

Kay. And the fortune says… (Drumroll please?)

“Today is a good day for being with a companion”

Seriously? Even food reminds you how

Your date stood you up.

Pulling a year old fortune from your wallet that reads:

“Luck will be yours when you least expect it”

You tear it in half. Thanks a lot Confucius. 

NaNoWriMo

I've joined the challenge for writing a novel in the month of November. (NaNoWriMo = National Novel Writing Month) Of course it's difficult and I'm way behind. The challenge is to write, I can't remember, either 30,000 or 50,000 words in a month. I've been busy with theatre so I've got a little over a thousand words. It's amazing! Well, onward and upward!

A Dreamer

Well, looks like I need to repent again. I'm writing the following here because I just happen to be sitting in front of a computer. Anyway, the real purpose is this.


I am a believer in dreams. I love them. Except they rarely happen to me. At least I rarely dream about anything decent that can be understood (even by me). I believe they offer visions and insight, but sometimes they are just plain strange.  I believe in characters. That they exist, and they cause their story to be know by showing or whispering it to an authors ears in hopes their story will be put into words and shared. Not all of them have the same motives.

In recent times I've only had two understandable, really impacting dreams that stuck with me. The first was perfect story material that stopped in the middle, that actually I'm currently trying to put into words for National Novel Writing Month. (NaNoWriMo.) Which is actually what I should be doing. I'm in creative writing and the file is open. (Glances suspiciously at the teacher) SHH!

The second, I had last night and it's not going to leave me alone until I put it down somewhere. Now please refrain from laughing at me, I guarantee you won't be laughing at the end. Just hear me out.

It was about Harry Potter. Which is odd considering I haven't read the books since elementary school. I did watch some of the first movies a couple months ago, who knows. It was something like this, now granted I've had a couple hours to ponder some of this, it only puts it in grander light. Plus I never said any of this was fact, I'm not J.K. Rowling. (As astounding and amazing as that would be.)


It took place in the time of Harry Potter. I'm not totally sure to what extent I take credit for this. After all it was my dream. Gosh, I'm interrupting myself. Okay, I'm just going to tell it like it is, no more excuses for anything.

My Dream
I was Harry. Viewing everything from his perspective. I don't remember most of it, the beginning that is. There's little strands but not enough to string into the story. So we start at the end, which was clear as day.

This seemed to be a "what if" sort of dream. A "what if Voldemort came to power and won?" sort of scenario. but it wasn't a what if, it was real time. I've pondered how. Whether Harry asked it himself and they time traveled or if this is the continuation. We may never know. This is all I do:

This is somehow post war (in the 7th book), not sure where the it changed. Voldemort has taken power, he made Hogwarts into a sort of concentration camp where he hoarded most of the wizarding world. They are constantly watched and never allowed to use magic. I assume all wands were confiscated. Terrible tyranny. You weren't allowed any freedom even of your own thoughts. Always being watched. Best way to explain it is if the wizarding world became a dystopia.

He saw a chance at escape from the tyranny and took it. There were two others that came with him, a girl about his own age and a little boy that couldn't have been more that three or four. I'm making an inference but I have reason to believe that it's Ginny and their little son. At least I'm pretty sure. We run across the grounds. (I'm writing in Harry's perspective remember.) It's an overcast mid afternoon. The best chance at escape is in the woods. To lead them off the trail we take a less direct path to the woods up some stairs. At the top we find it's a dead end through some low hanging trees. A steep hill peak. Ginny slips and begins to slide down the other side. I lunge for her arm and pull her back up through the trees so we sit next to each other. The guards are too close to hope to back track and escape. So I tell Ginny something happy, anything but having it all end on this dismal note. I grasp her hand. "It'll be alright. What ever happens. Even if it's not I remember how good it used to be. I wrote about Hogwarts before. About our old life and how happy we were. How good life was. It's all in a notebook hidden in my mattress. All done without magic so they'll never find it. And if nothing else it's written and I got to be myself for an hour a day and not have to worry about a Death Eater breathing down my neck threatening to take it away." We briefly embrace holding hands as we look out at the grounds reminiscing how good it all used to be. The guards show up at the base of the hill, all dressed in black and green Slytherin robes. We're finally cornered. Two of the three have crossbows. The unarmed third leading is Draco Malfoy. He orders our execution. Ginny is laid on her stomach in the dirt with her hands laced behind her head. I sit defiantly facing the executioners clutching our son. The little boys back is turned to them. He might have whimpered but I help him too tight to tell. "You beautiful boy." I whisper madly. Ruffling his hair clutching him tighter. "You precious beautiful boy God bless you bless I love you I love you" The arrows hit in a line. Ginny. Our son. I feel the boy stiffen. The fatal arrow pierces me. In the shoulder between the left shoulder blade and the sternum. The arrow cuts off my breath. It doesn't feel like a cut. Like a hard hit to the chest that knocks the breath out of you. The next breaths are shallow and heavy. It felt so real. The pain spreads. The shoulder, my left arm, my chest. Before death Draco says, "There's you execution badge. Thanks for playing."

Then I wake up a minute before my alarm. I promise I'm not this dark of a writer. I'm just telling it like it is. Plus I'd never wish the demise of one of my favorite characters. The notebook he talked about I can figure to be the main series that we all know and love. The more I think about it the more I can make sense of it. Terrible, but true.

(Proper Beginning Title Here)

Bah! How did you get in here? Right... I can only suppose that you are some sort of Half-blood, wizard/witch, Naiad, magician, magic user in general, faithful fan, curious fellow writer, etc. Elsewise you wouldn't have been able to access this. Now, the important stuff.

Haha! I'm so glad that I finally got around to this. What a thrill it is to write. Of any medium. Now I've begun in public media! Brilliant! (Ahem, if anyone even bothers to read it. But nevermind we'll see where that goes.)

You must know that I'm mainly doing this for a Creative Writing class (at the moment) and am very behind, technically. The reason being I got really hung up on titles and refused to allow myself to regret it. In a way, the titles are the most important part of the story! Now I suppose you'll try to foist off the "You can't judge a book by its cover" quote. Baloney. That is what first captures the readers attention, it's rare when you pick up a ridiculous looking book and end up falling in love with it. Don't even attempt to persuade me otherwise.

By the way, you should look up what Ghostwriter means, it's cool. I find that it's a very fitting pseudonym for myself.

Oh tangents... Will I ever escape my curse? Alright, this is for a class (though it won't always be..) etc, etc. Behind on posts, blah blah, and this is my attempt at repentance, yada yada, me llama lama ding dong. (For all you Despicable Me 2 fans and spanish enthusists. Yay!) Onward to posting!!!

The World I Live

I'm constantly floating around through a seemingly void space. Though I know someone or something is out there, and they've got a story to show me. It's a vast mixture of everything, the Universe. I can often sense and make sense of others emotions. Empathy. Though I rarely apply sense to my own life. I've proclaimed myself insane and a natural spaz. And I'm proud of it thank you very much.

On occasion I wish that I could take everyone's story and give it a happy ending. I know not everyone likes happy endings but hear (read) me out. If someone doesn't like it they'll become the antagonist, so we will fight triumph over the little wretches. It would make the world so much simpler. You wouldn't have to spend a lifetime questing for a happily ever after. Then again, personally I think the best endings are beginnings. Contradictory, I know, but it's true. We like having a note that says that there is more to the story that hasn't been written yet or is to be left to your imagination. I like to recognize that every world is different. So I try to change my writing to fit the style. I say 'my writing' but that isn't strictly true. I can show people my writing and they'll tell me, "Wow this is really good! How in the world did you come up with this?" I've always felt a small pang of guilt, now I confess. I don't. The character in the story did. After all the experienced it not me. See, I act more as an Oracle under the title of an Author. Author = Oracle. (That is all the more math I will ever do I guarantee you. Because then we'll all be falling asleep then wake up with concussions.)

My writing comes about through a question or a what if... I'll ponder that for quite some time until "ping!" (There isn't always an audible sound but most of the time....) A little voice will come whisper to me a piece of their own life. The voice of the character feeds me enough of their story to urge me forward to think about it and write it down. After pondering for so long I may have finally earned the right to tell their story. I'll mentally form a question and they'll quietly whisper, "Yes that's it!" Then I work feverishly to put it down in case the voice in my head vanishes or chooses another host. Granted the stories never come all at once. Only small bits, as if I have to prove myself and earn the right to tell their secrets. After laboring to form the correct dialect they spoon me more and I gladly savor every bit. It takes a while even to get any information about the character themselves. It's a long process buried by what can only be described as "writers block" when the voice chooses to be silent. It's a beautiful thing and as far as I know one of my sole/soul purposes. If you looked it up my pseudonym "Ghostwriter" makes perfect sense. This my friend is the world I live.