Writing Gallery's blog

By Krystal Woodley, age 17

When can I fly and be free
Will I let loose and have my dignity
I will fly
Above all my turmoil and try to escape
Only I can be happy so
I will fly
Away

By Melissa, Age 17

I stared out my window into the night. It was dark in comparison to the ivory snow that blanketed the ground and that was falling softly, silently. Elisa came close, her hands warm and light on my shoulders. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Her almond shaped brown eyes closed as she spoke. I turned and stared silently. "Why?", I finally asked. With her eyes still closed she responded, her lips quivering, "for leaving you." Her eyes opened and she stared at me. I stared back longingly. I wanted to assure her that I'd be okay, that we'd be okay. I wanted to assure her that I'd be here when she returned from her trip to Spain. Arms open and ready to listen to a month's worth of stories. But I couldn't. Our closeted romance had become so hard to cope with and despite the love that welled up and overflowed within me I feared we wouldn't be able to go on. I looked at her and absorbed her image. Long brown hair, straight. Almond shaped cafe con leche eyes. Glowing carmel skin. Her form voluptuos and curvy. Her beauty was startling and I feared that once she left she'd realize she doesn't need me, love me. The experience would change her but would that change include me? Our eyes connect and I could feel a  fire burning within me. Warm and orange. I loved her with all of me and she loved me. Could I cope if that changed? My silence wreaked of insecurity and she could smell it. Elisa bowed her head and closed her eyes for a moment longer than a standard blink. Tears feel from her closed eyes. I reached up and kissed her. Holding her close. Tasting her, touching her, smelling her deeply. Because this could be the last time.

Written and Recorded by GWN Mentees and Mentors at the May '09 Songwriting Workshop

Hear "Bridging Love and Loss" on YouTube

I bought a one-way ticket from my reality
Time and fate blur into broken lines
No more days of melancholy
We regret our lost memories
Your empty footsteps are fresh air
My dog sleeps till I return

Chorus:
We speak our words so easily
But in love or loss, we have to sing
To show the world our pain and glee
To prove we’ll heal from anything

By Cherish Smith, Age 16, and her mentor Vani Kannan

Performed at Girls Write Now Day March 8, 2009

I hate Mondays, Mondays are no fun
And I hate Tuesdays, ’cause Tuesdays follow Mondays
I hate Wednesdays, ’cause I sit around all day
And think about Thursdays
Which really are the worst days

And I hate Fridays too
’cause everything is due
I want to scream, I’M THROUGH!
till Saturday comes
To end my weekday blues.

By Brittany Barker, Age 15

Inspired by the April '08 Journalism Workshop, "Between Ignorance and Curiosity," and originally published on Girls Write Blog

Can a play written 86 years ago to amuse a few friends, performed by a few other friends, and about some of their own friends and relatives of the previous generation make sense to a New York City crowd who knows nothing about any of them? It is evident that Virginia Woolf has many dimensions, and my own perception of her has changed after seeing her only play, Freshwater. The play shows her fun side.

On February 13, my mentor Josleen and I met up at the Julia Miles Theater (The Women’s Project) on West 55th Street to see a first-ever production of Freshwater. It was an intimate setting. The props looked homemade, like they would have been if the play were being done in someone’s living room. The actors sometimes spoke directly to the audience, and even winked like they were telling you an inside joke. At the end, they even interacted directly with the audience. 

By Joy Smith, Age 16, and her mentor Radha Blank

Inspired by the March '09 Playwriting Workshop, "Between Night and Day"

(A WOMAN, age 35, begins a speech.)

WOMAN: Thank you. Thank you. It is an honor to be here. I would first like to thank … my family for always believing and supporting me and encouraging me to dream big. I’d then like to thank my colleagues for working so hard at supporting this dream.… Then I’d like to thank—

(She stops herself.)

WOMAN: I’d like to thank—Oh GOD! Who am I kidding!? This is crazy! Insane! What am I doing here? “But she’s a woman. Who does she think she is? She can never get the job done. Is she crazy?” Maybe … maybe I am. What am I doing? I … I don’t know.

(Just then a GIRL, 15, appears.)

WOMAN: Yes? Can I help you?

(The Girl just stares at her.)

By Flor Altamirano, Age 16

Inspired by the December '08 Fiction Workshop, "Between Despair and Hope"

We were in mid-September and for some reason it was chilly outside. Boy, is global warming doing its thing or what? Standing by the subway stop at Stanhope and Wyckoff wasn’t really helping me get any warmer. I wished Nancy would arrive, she’d give me her sweater. She always does. It could be ten degrees outside and she’d rather put her giant hoodie over my shoulders and freeze to death than see me shivering.

“Put your sweater on, you’re going to freeze,” I’d tell her, taking her sweater off my shoulders.

“Babe, please, you need it more than me,” she’d respond, putting the sweater back on, this time adding a warm hug with the smell of Axe body spray.

By Samantha Diaz, Age 17

Inspired by the November '08 Poetry Workshop, "Between Sustenance and Hunger"

I would rather be in love with impossibilities
the soft touch of twisted claws and teeth on skin
your purple vines have never ceased their hold upon my heart

I wish to descend through mirrors and rabbit holes
and fall into the Wonderland of your embrace, so many miles away
I would rather be in love with impossibilities

By Brittany Barker, Age 15

Inspired by the November '08 Poetry Workshop, "Between Sustenance and Hunger"

Why does he always push me around?
No matter how much I try to hug him.

Have you ever felt like this?

I’m talking about love.
You know that thing you feel inside?
Like falling out of the front seat of the King Da Ka roller coaster at Six Flags?

Okay, I’m young.
I haven’t even considered marriage yet,
But I’ve been “divorced” four times.