~ For the January Writing Camp (JWC) ~ Art & Writing: @Astrid_da_potato - Please don't steal! 1) In-Cabin Daily Word Count: 256 2) Main-Cabin Daily Word Count: 563 3) In-Cabin Daily Word Count: 264 4) Main-Cabin Daily Word Count: 353 (autographical) + 212 (story) + 238 (poem) = 803 1) Overall, I’m feeling really good about camp so far. Even though a part of me (okay, no, MOST of me) still has no idea what’s going on, this experience has really been worth it. January Writing Camp has been everything I hoped for it to be, with entertaining games (like in the Sibling Hangout) to keep us motivated and a community of writers to provide inspiration/ideas. Suggestions and comments are the best way to improve writing, something this camp also provides. In terms of enhancing writing/eloquence, I can immediately tell that the creator of this camp worked really hard to make participants feel like this experience was worth it, not to mention our awesome cabin leader. ;) Writing on my own, I easily feel the urge to give up writing in general. However, with my fellow writers of the camp, I can find encouragement and support like never before. Conversing with my peers can help me find the positives of my writing and what I need to improve on. Not only does this camp prompt/enable growth in terms of writing, but it also develops connections and helps writers get to know each other. Several goals I have now for this month are to write at least 25K words during this entire camp and to get to know my writers and campers a little better. I would like to write stories that don’t just entertain but inspire and to not just count my words but to make my words (and this experience in general) count. 2) Trivia Fun Fact: “Cheese is the #1 most stolen food in the world. 4% of all cheese ends up being stolen.” Trivia Fun Fact #2: “Due to thousands of different commercial glitters, identical glitter particles can be compelling evidence that a suspect has been at a crime scene.” ~ Story ~ Most people don’t believe me when I tell them my story. They’ll say, “Oh look! The crazy Dr. Finley is at it again, rambling on about solving invisible crimes and helping cops.” They have no idea that I’m the master case-cracker behind every single case in town. I grew up in a tiny countryside where there are more chickens than there are actual human beings. Everything about my house screams, “farmhouse!” From the shabby rooftops to the red paint that had been reapplied over and over through the years (and yet still managed to crack like fissures on an ancient stone wall) my house was exactly like something straight out of a western cowboy movie. The local sheriff there wasn’t always up for his role. When I was little, I used to call him “Snoozy Sherriff” because he almost always fell asleep on the job. But my town doesn’t need a sheriff. Because they have me, genius Dr. Finley, the mastermind of the block. * * * You may have noticed that my name is Dr. Finley (no, the “Doctor” at the front is not a spelling mistake). Besides pulling teeth and giving lectures to kids on how to avoid getting cavities, yes, believe it or not, I solve crimes. One of the greatest lessons an old dentist can learn from being a part-time solver of inscrutable mysterious, it’s perfectly natural that people can think you’re insane. Once, I solved a case where glitter was the key to everything. It had been a midnight heist. The thief hadn’t realized he was covered in the pink glitter that had covered the disco ball he was trying to steal. Anyway, I ended up matching the glitter on the ball to the thief’s clothes, and presto! There was our thief. Of course, people didn’t actually believe me when I revealed my grand solution--the proof of my genius. They said all the things they usually did. “Oh! What a fraud! He must’ve just repeated what the sheriff said.” or “Aw, this again? Dr. Finley and all his crazy talk about crimes.” And, worst of all, and the one I loathe the most: they don’t say anything at all. Not saying anything means that they’ve already given up. They’ve already decided that (bless their simple-mindedness) I’m not worth listening to. But then again, how could they not? How could normal people such as themselves believe that a few petty little fragments of glitter could solve an entire mystery? Anyway, bottom line: No one was willing to believe me, as usual. But things weren’t always as simple as some glitter gone unnoticed. And a few weeks ago, I found myself faced off with my great nemesis. The prince of thieves. The one person who could compete against my genius. And on that day, he had tried to steal the one greatest thing that detectives worldwide fear from having to retrieve. The most widely-stolen “thing” that thieves seem to be stubbornly attracted to. The thing that, conveniently enough, had resulted in the making of this book. One word: Cheese. And that’s where our story begins.
4) Autobiographical: People say that a home is a place you feel wanted, safe, and a place you can feel like you belong in. A home is a place you can go to sleep at night knowing you are loved. Throughout the years, I’ve had five homes all over the world. Sometimes, it feels as if my heart is split into five different pieces, with each home taking away a part of me until there’s nothing left but a cold, empty shell. I don’t belong in either one of my homes, and I treat it like it’s something to be proud of. But on the day my grandfather passed away, I had to return back to my original home in Taiwan. I was extremely nervous because I hadn’t returned to Taiwan for a while and I didn’t understand the traditions or any of the cultural expectations. As I leaned my head against the armrest, I leaned against my seatbelt and toward the plane window to peer at the starry night below. The plane that would take me back to Taiwan. Suddenly queasy, I leaned back against my seat. The rest of the plane ride passed by in a blur. 15 hours couldn’t have passed by shorter. /What would they think of my new hairstyle and my weird clothes?/ The closer we got to our Taiwan home, the more anxious I became. I had the sudden wish that the mandatory 14-day quarantine would never end. But, of course, I didn’t have the power to stop the flow of time, and two weeks later, I found myself stepping into my old driveway. Everything felt so familiar, but I felt like an imposter. Everything about me screamed: /I don’t belong here!/ Even my shoes were different from the ones worn by most Taiwanese kids my age. I nervously stepped into the house. /Here goes nothing./ “You’re back!” One of my cousins greeted me with a tackle-hug. My eyes widened as the wind was knocked out of me. When I could breathe again, I looked around and couldn’t help but smile. My cousins were different. Misfits, just like me. Story: Story - My Home /You don’t understand. You’ll never belong. You’re just like anyone else./ I closed my eyes, trying to block out the other memories, but my brain insisted on giving me a full replay of his harsh words. “You don’t look like us,” he’d said. I still remember the day, crisp like something straight out of a photo. So, I could feel the pain as he tripped me. I could feel my knees burning. And most importantly, I could hear their laughter, like thousands of mockingbirds echoing through the night. Loser. Weirdo. Moron. I sighed and clutched my suitcase closer to me. /Maybe all this is a mistake,/ I couldn’t help but think. /Maybe I really don’t belong./ No. I couldn’t think that way. I wasn’t going to let a few words affect my confidence or my excitement. Besides, I’d been looking forward to this trip for a long time. I wasn’t going to let what I looked like on the outside change who I was on the inside. I /was/ perfect just the way I was. I /was/ going to complete my dream of traveling. And nothing about my appearance will stop me from doing so. With a newfound confidence, I tightened my grip on the suitcase and stepped into the unknown. Poem: I’ve never had A real home. I’ve had five, That I’ve never really known. One with swarming pests, That don’t ever care About ripping you from your dreams. And into your worst nightmare. My home. Another where I am always alone, And constantly feeling lost. A place where darkness awaits me, Pulling me into a forever frost. My home. A third with eerie shadows in every corner. With nothing to relish and nothing to miss. Feeling like I’ve fallen into a dark abyss. With no way out, And no light above. My home. A fourth where joy never thrives, Replaced with bitter hate. With nothing to live for. And nothing to appreciate. My home. A last where so-called friends Betray you for your popularity. Where things are never as they seem And uniqueness is seen as irregularity. My home. Among them all Lay dark secrets buried deep, Like millions of knives. Concealed deep within. Promises broken. The truth lies unseen. Misunderstood and torn, Between the life I now know, And the way it had been. My home. Overwhelming anxiety About being perfect. And to become someone, My friends aren’t going to reject. My home. Invisible battles fought With no genuine end. Will I ever get, A One True Friend? My home. Days of lonesome frustration. With only the company of the pen, And the wish for the chance To start over again. My home. My home. My home.
