Writing Gallery's blog

To the Anglican Catholic Church of Ohio, USA...


By Meghan McCullough, Age 16

Inspired by the April '10 Journalism Workshop, "Across My Country"

The misuse of the word "gay" is prevalent in the vocabularies of teens across America. In your church, people are at a young age taught that being gay is wrong, and that it goes against nature and the Bible. They are taught that if they are gay, God will not love them. So early on, they are made to think that the word "gay" has a built in negative connotation. 


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By Melissa, Age 17

Inspired by the December '09 Fiction Workshop, "Around My Neighborhood" 

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 fell 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.


Again

By Brittany Barker, Age 16

Inspired by the November '09 Poetry Workshop, "At My School" 

One day after step practice, I bumped into someone that used to mean a lot to me. Emotions aren't things that can just be thrown away. I let my emotions hold my blue-inked pen and write this poem for me. It gave me the closure I've been desperately longing for. I'm no longer running away from a feeling I've been trying to deny, it's behind me now.


If I could just say Hello to you again
Bask my insecurities onto your lips
Glue myself to your aroma and breath your last Goodbye into me


Fly

By Krystal Woodley, age 17

Inspired by the November '09 Poetry Workshop, "At My School" 

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


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By Shira Engel, Age 18

Inspired by the March '10 Playwriting Workshop, "Throughout My City"

 

Oh, Jane! Oh, poor, dear, pious Jane! I know, you thought you would never see me again. I can see what you are thinking, I can read your thought through that mirror. Sounds familiar, does it? I can presume you have heard our every-courtly Henry use those words on your pretty little face as he pressed his greedy lips to your powdered cheek. Now I suppose he does the same to that belly, that swell he believes holds the future of this country in his hands. He thinks you are the carrier of destiny, you know. And he crawls into bed with you after he returns from one of his escapades, crawling because you are a vessel. He no longer runs.

You know, Jane, my story will be told a thousand times through the lips of women I've scorned and women I've made proud, through the legacy of our husband, then my daughter, and perhaps as a warning in the countryside of my sister. Some will portray me as the villianous witch beheaded rather than burnt. And some will see me as a glorious heroine who has had escapades of her own, wronged by her father, and temporarily ruling over our husband. Would you believe it, Jane, if you were the only one I told my own story to? I will be authentic, I promise, though I am afriad you will not live to tell the tale. 


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By Jennifer Fuster, age 16

Inspired by the October 09' Memoir Workshop

"We're moving to New York. It's been decided."

My mother's words echoed through my mind for the next five minutes. It was hard to respond in a proper manner after she uttered the decision. New York?, I thought. Really? All my life I wanted to visit the concrete jungle but never for one second I thought moving there would be in my future. Even as a harsh joke I lied to my friend that I would be moving to New York. Months later Karma caught up with me.

Would I really have to say goodbye to my best friends? My beautiful house? A car? The warm seasons? Now all of these positive things I still hold on to this very day remind me to be grateful for my childhood. I grew up in sunny Florida in the beaches and theme parks. I've been to Disney World more times than I can remember. To this very day I miss where I grew up but I am optimistic about my new life in NY. I have so many opportunities here and I've gotten to experience a completely different life than I was comfortable with.


Bridging Love and Loss

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


The Weekday Blues

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.


A Review of 'Freshwater': Virginia Woolf's Only Play, Produced by the Women's Project

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. 


Courage Finds You

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.)


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