...because I'm always a day late on everything. Though, for once, my excuse this time is that I was busy accepting a job offer (excitedness!).
I did some lurking on DA when I was younger, say 2006-early 2007, because I was in love with all things anime, and, well, DA was a great place to find it. Eventually, after joining an Artemis Fowl-centric forum, I finally had something I loved enough to make fanart of, so I joined in October of 2007 and started churning out bad fanart. I think most of it's still there, way back in my deviations folder.
I eventually added some amateur photography (which I still do, whenever I'm in the mood), and started getting better at drawing (and I used to think my art didn't get much better over time, but I've looked back, and there is an actual difference, year by year).
I didn't get active in the literature community until this piece was featured (on February 4th, 2012), and I started to look into the lit community more, looking for feedback:
His fingers were elegant.
They worked in perfect rhythm to produce everything he could not say. Where I could only ever hear notes and simple emotion, he heard stories, saw worlds.
I used to envy him, to hide my hurt gaze behind his shoulder blades, to rest my jealousy on his thin, tired shoulders.
His fingers were beautiful.
They danced over the keys; they made the masters look like child's play; they shamed my clumsy attempts at carrying a tune without malice.
I used to long to be him I would have given anything to have his talent, his skill. Anything was worth the fingers that never failed.
His soul was transcendent.
I could listen to the same piece for the rest of my life, and yet each time would hear something different me, with my beginner's ear, with no intuition. His music, its ineffability, made up for my complete lack.
His body was broken.
Crippled beyond humanity; his fragile bones were scarred beyond repair that is, if a
I eventually joined a few communities, and over the last two years have been meeting new people, reading new pieces, and loving it more than ever. Somewhere in there, I took a creative writing course, and it completely changed my view of poetry and how to write it, so since then, I've been churning it out, and I'm currently working on a book (which is looking like it's actually going to be more poetry than short prose after all). I love the people I've met, and I hope to get closer with many other writers as we all keep at it. Thank you, all you great people who made me feel welcome-I promise, you'll never regret it.
Stories of feelings with no names i.
The feeling you get the day after sending a letter, and you know there is no possible way that the recipient has received your message, let alone formulated time to write a reply. You still get just a little hopeful when you hear the mailman drive by. You rush out to the postbox a little too quickly and are disappointed by the pile of free coupons, bills, charity flyers, and a late Christmas card from Grandma Moses.
A sudden awareness that occurs during funerals that you are going to die. You are dying right now – your cells are shedding like snakeskin scales and your hair is turning silver and every moment is one less than before. You will never know which moment is the last one because you won’t be around to count the grains in your hourglass– and, somehow, this knowledge both sharpens and dulls the grief of saying goodbye, like a blade that loses all effectiveness once it’s already
Cheers, and Happy Birthday, DA!
Date a girl who drawsDate a girl who draws.
You know the one. Her bag will be filled with discarded pencils and pens, scraps of paper with mindless doodles on them and blank books sticking out of her bag. She's the one who spends an hour trying to find the perfect sketchbook, only to pick up three more because she just couldn't help herself. She's the one hunched over in the coffee shop, rain or shine, the gears in her mind turning and turning while her hands move to catch up with every idea she has. She's the one who's too focused on what she's doing that her coffee's gotten cold and the people around her peek over her shoulder but she doesn't realise.
Compliment her drawings.
Ask to see more.
Turn the pages carefully, gently. Look at how hard she pressed the pencil into the page, the failed drawings, the successful ones. Look at the careful lines, the messy ones, the ones that give the drawings life. Linger on the pages you like but don't touch the drawings. Look at them carefully. Remember them.
P.S. I chose these deviations as a sort of journey into my love of DA--these are all the things I've loved over the last seven years.