Honesty With a Sharp-Tipped Pen

Originally posted on Writing & Art:


I know this blog is just starting out and it’s rather small right now, but I’d love any responses at all.

To all the writers out there, write something honest. Whether it’s a back and forth conversation, write something that is just oozing with an intense honesty.

There is nothing to writing, all you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed, Mr. Hemingway said. So let’s bleed all over this page.

Here is my piece,

(Scene opens with Kurt and James – two best friends celebrating a twenty-first birthday. They are at a quarry ledge and James begins venting thinking Kurt is asleep.)

“You have no idea what’s coming man,” James said.

Kurt made no reply. He had dozed off for a moment but woke up without opening his eyes at James’ comment.

“You never realized,” James continued seeming to be content with talking…

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Candles for Book Lovers (and some TV shows!)

I love coming across and sharing my adorable finds !  This week’s find is for all of you who have always wanted to know what , Dumbledore’s Office, Sherlock’s Study, The Shire or Winterfell smell like!  Frostbeard handcrafted book candles and nerdy art sells candles , among other things, that give you that real life sensory experience.  Those of you who are living in places that don’t allow candles (such as a college dormitory) no need to worry they have wax tarts/melts for candle warmers.  These make excellent gifts!

If you happen to purchase any of these lovely scents, please let us know in the comments what you bought and how you liked it!

Spotlight Sunday



Nicole Carey


Gettysburg, PA

Do you recall how your interest in writing originated? 

Throughout school, I loved reading and writing. Writing became my creative escape and my passion for writing has continued to grow.

Why do you write?

I write to inspire people. I believe everyone has a story, and it deserves to be told.

What is your favorite genre or style to write in?
I love writing poetry and non-fiction. There’s something so exciting about a person’s real life experiences.

Who is your favorite author and what is it that really strikes you about their work?
I don’t have a favorite author, but I love writing that is emotional and honest. The thing that strikes me most about a good piece of writing is the use of metaphors.

What books have most influenced your life most? 

The books that have influenced me most are John Green’s, The Fault in Our Stars; J.D. Salinger’s, The Catcher in the Rye; and Ned Vizzini’s, It’s Kind of a Funny Story.

Do you have a favorite quote or piece of advice that you would like to share with us?

My favorite quote at the moment is “You are the page, the ink, the poem.”

Do you have any advice for other writers? 
My advice to other writers is that no matter how terrible you believe your work to be, keep writing. If you’re lacking inspiration, don’t give up; just change your perspective.

Can you tell us a little background or anything special on the piece you composed?

This piece was inspired by my boyfriend who I’ve been with for a year and a half. This poem is about the feeling of unconditional love and the excitement of a relationship.

I love him in the morning when he wakes up
groggy with sleep, entangled in sheets.
Still so vulnerable to the new day rising,
barely comprehending words. Utterances
of “see you later” and “I love you”
concealed between the covers as the sun
breaks the horizon and the room swallows
the first morning light.

I love him in the afternoon
when thoughts of him consume my mind.
Worn by the burden of the day, searching for an escape.
Planning our next move, in text messages of
“I miss you” and “I’ll be there soon”
hidden under desks and between concrete walls.
The sky turns a deep shade of dark blue
as the light begins to fade away from the day.

I love him in the evening
when the moon begins to breathe.
Finally seeing his face again
illuminated by stars when the antics start.
Inside jokes buried in our minds, walls encompassing laughter.
We cling to each other with warm hands and cold feet.
Night blankets the world as the light goes out
and we begin our peaceful descent of starting all over again.

To read more from Nicole visit:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Niclolcatz
Tumblr: http://hipsterdarling.tumblr.com/


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Snapshots from an English Major


This semster I promised myself that I wouldn’t buy too many books because my room at home is already overflowing with them, yet somehow I have acquired every one of these on my windowsill in just the two months of being back on campus. My mini collection is a  combination of books found at thrift stores, a lot of free books from professors, textbooks and a few childrens books. Sometimes I see a book and think “I should get this for my future classroom!” Sometimes  I grab one that I would like to read over the summer. This semester I’ve been particularly interested in books about African American history and ancient civilizations. Neverthless the resistence is indeed futile, the call of books to an English major!!l

What are some of your recent book buys?  Have you read any of the titles pictured above?  Do you store your  books somewhere other than a bookshelf. Let me know below in the comments!

Tuesdays with Tia


This poem is everything you thought it would be
Sex, Love, Heartbreak
Syntax, Rhyme and Word-Play
Yes, this poem is about everything you won’t say.
This is not just another venting person,
Another woman who is angry
See, this poem is everything you thought it would be
That fact is true.
The only difference this time is ,
This poem is about You.

You ask me  if I hate you and her answer is a definite NO.
I say this with a lovers smile
As you slide your fingers through mine interlocking them
Until we are a two toned knot of flesh
The memory is still fresh
Because this is how it all started.

You held me down like US oppression
You ran my mind like TMZ celebrity obsession
I’m sorry that my thoughts are bigger than your..
I was as hype as Statewide weekend
You were happy to be strolling my streets like powerful black greeks.

You  became the subject of 9 of my poems.

But it wasn’t until you tried to hold my hand last week
Playfully testing your limits
You were done fidgeting with your frustrations over my
Refusal to let you touch me physically.
After I had barred you from any entry
Because you won’t let me touch you where it counts.
Did you forget that I held you when you cried
Watched water fill up those green eyes.

You see it wasn’t until you were done
That you became the monsters I ran away from

Tell me that you remember.
Tell me that you won’t forget
Tell me that you know that I won’t

Tell her that you know it hurts
Say, you know you don’t look at each other
In the eye for more than 15 seconds,
Because you’re afraid to see the shadows.

Tell me that you know we don’t touch 
No skin to skin contact
Not even on accident
Because that would be too intimate.
You’ve been inside me but never knew
what it feels like to inhabit my anatomy

Welcome to my body. 
Feel the vacancy you left between my conscious and my sanity.
Smile without my eyes and answer your questions only on the surface.
Trace the thin lines in your palm.
Fidget with the bracelet on my wrist and trade it for your friendship,
Knotted leather is the catalyst,
Bracelets don’t bind, only the physicality of figures,
and the whispers.
Be gentle
Be kind
Be slow
and you’ll know.

Unravel like sheets 
Realize that she’ll never want to be held again
Disintegrate her soul in the morning light
Your interactions are evanescent
Remember the imprint of your head on her chest
Memorize the color of your hair
The irridesence of silver flecks
Feel each breath as you lay there
Your heat a sheathe
Watch your eyes light up with laughter
as you laugh at my jokes
Blush at the compliments you lavish on me
This is  a mix of uncertainty
Cover the external bruises with make-up,  they run farther than flesh
The tenderness fresh
Who thought to call a bruise a passion mark?
Call it what truth:
An imprint of rough handling,
of wild emotions
of un-intended intensions
and incomprehensible volitions.
Forget her frustration in an attempt to
Stop the constant flutter of butterflies.
The nervous jolts,
That emerge when your energy enters a room
Tame the ceaseless stream of her thoughts as they convalescence
In your presence.
Inhale despite the heaviness
These are just bones.
You are inhabiting my anatomy

Tell me that you understand that bodies heal faster than feelings

So, I hope that this poem was everything you thought it would be
Sex, Love, Heartbreak
Syntax, Rhyme and Word-Play
Because this poem is true,
The only difference this time is ,
This poem is about You.
I had the opportunity to perform this poem at one of my University’s open mic first Fridays, and I think I will have to record this again because this was one of my more animated poems!

Shippensburg University Creative Writing Center

Hello Friends!


I’m going to show some school and writerly pride here.  Shippensburg University’s creative writing center now has a BLOG right here on word press. The blog is run by  writer and student Paul Deichmann . I encourage you all to follow for updates, writing prompts and news. Remember Zealous Scripts is here to encourage and acknowledge all writers!

Does your school have a writing center, a writing blog or something similar like this? Share below in the comments, I would love to follow!

Weekly pitch: windows

Originally posted on Creative Writing Center @Ship:

Each week, we’ll publish a “pitch,” a writing prompt on a general principle, to serve as the kernel of a new work. Send it to us, and we’ll release a monthly anthology of brand-new work by contemporary writers, that is… you. Responses to the pitches may take any short form–poem, short-story, and mixture of both, art-work, mixed media work–whatever it takes to respond to the pitch. Sorry universe, we’ll just publish those from @ship.edu addresses–it’s a kind of regional snobbery, but it is what it is for now.

This week’s pitch is windows. Our childhood windows were the gateways to the world, our adolescent windows bars. How do we relate to other people, events, things, as if through a window? Windows have served as pivotal moments in many lives-the defenestration and that moment you spotted your love on the street from the living room. Imagine a moment seen through a window–at what…

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Spotlight Sunday

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Marcy Erb

Boston, MA
Do you recall how your interest in writing originated? 
I don’t! There has always been poetry – I can’t remember a time without it. I have this tattered high school poetry text book that was my mother’s from the 1960’s and it has always simply been. I still have it – been toting it around the country. But whether and when I chose to follow these poems on the journey to shape my own ideas into poems and stories and to do this as a concerted endeavor – that is a recent development and a great relief.
Why do you write?
To make some space inside my head and to go on a journey with my characters and poems and see where they go. Rather than hypothesis-based, like my scientific training, it is discovery and process-based. And I really like having both types of activities in my life. I hope that some of it will speak to others (hey! Friends for the journey!) and be enjoyable to read.
What is your favorite genre or style to write in?
For poetry I enjoy a variety of verse forms – free, quatrain, epigrams – even tried my hand at a sestina once! For stories, I’ve primarily written in the sci-fi/fantasy realm.
Who is your favorite author and what is it that really strikes you about their work?
 I would say Madeleine L’Engle for prose and T.S. Eliot for poetry. Madeleine L’Engle has this expansive parallel cosmology with characters from her YA books – one series of books in Kairos (pure, with no measurement) Time and one series in Chronos Time (wristwatch time)- and they cross over and interact beautifully. The connections she draws are wonderful. That and she really knows how to get inside teenage girl’s heads. T.S. Eliot also knows how to get inside people’s heads – we follow along with the musings of a lovesick man going preparing to tell the woman he loves that he loves her in “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and his thoughts meander and connect to form a picture of what’s going on in his head.
What books have most influenced your life most? 
Dante’s Divine Comedy, T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”, A Ring of Endless Light by Madeleine L’Engle.
Do you have a favorite quote or piece of advice that you would like to share with us?
This comes from Kit White’s book 101 Things to Learn in Art School – “#64 Art is a form of experimentation. But most experiments fail [my own aside: experiments fail 9 days out of 10 in research science, I will tell you]. Do not be afraid of those failures. Embrace them. Without courting the possibility of something miscarrying, you may not take the risks necessary to expand beyond the habitual ways of thinking and working. Most great advances are the product of discovery, not premeditation. Failed experiments lead to unexpected revelations.”
Do you have any advice for other writers? 
All I can say is to get it out of your head and you will feel much better. That and to heed Anne Lamott’s “Principle of the Shitty First Draft” – from Bird by Bird – you have to have a first draft to improve it, it will be shitty, and that is okay.
Can you tell us a little background or anything special on the piece you composed? 
A bit of revisionism and post-script to the Divine Comedy. After Virgil and Dante are parted at the end of Purgatory, I have wondered what it was like for Virgil to go back to Limbo and what sort of attachment he would feel for the man he had led, literally, from Earth through hell to heaven. And here you are!

To Dante, my Last Student

I led; you followed me through to places

Untouched by human hands

Down through the dissembling faces,

And polluted crystalline crimes.

You more than any other pupil, you

And I truly saw the hidden fetid

continents and unsanctified tombs -

Places that only dream of stars.

You fainted, slept, crawled at my side,

Together we awaited Divine Aid and

Escaped the Devil’s shaggy hide

So how could I not love you?

Is it not for the poet to sing

Of the un-had, the teacher to

Pine for the student who has taken wing?

Ah, holy Will, I am in love with you!

You were my punishment time could not wear

Even as I knew already the end, as

My time-sight had not narrowed; I must bear

The vision of your death in Italy

A stone tomb not in your Florence, but far,

As though I should hope to see you

Again even if your soul would be scarred,

Sinking to wander the pit beneath me.

When your last moment arrived,

I went to the lip of that balcony

Over the view of the wildfire of pride,

Perhaps to see you ascend, to see

For sure that the boat came full

But not to see your face lit by

His fiery eye wheels, huddling in the hull

Your absence in this vessel rent me in two.

To read more from Marcy: