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Introducing Me

Art without emotion is like chocolate cake without sugar. -Laurie Halse Anderson

My name is Lauren. I am a writer, an artist, and now, a blogger! I have always loved during artsy things in my life. In my free time, I enjoy drawing, reading, painting, journaling, writing, theatre, playing Dungeons And Dragons, and hanging out with friends.

On this blog, I plan on posting parts of some of the stories I am writing, such as The World From April, and sharing some writing tips I have found useful. I may also take writing suggestions just in case I get bored. I will make a post about guidelines of that when the time comes for that. My stories tend to center around realism, though I do like to indulge in some fantasy, horror, and mysteries from time to time. I may also post some artistic things as well. Note: My stories will get a little dark and may make some readers uncomfortable. Proceed with caution if you are uncomfortable around things like depression, anxiety, medical things, and LGBTQ+

This being said, I do keep my stories at most PG-13. There will be no mature things or NSFW stuff.

I do hope you enjoy my blog and I would love if you could share this with others. Thank you for your time. This is Lauren, signing off. Cíao!

Advice Column

I am thinking of adding an advice column to the blog. Would yall like me to? You can ask anonymous questions and I can help give you advice. I hear I’m good at giving advice, I just sometimes need advice for myself. If you guys would like me to add one, what should it be called? Suggestions wanted!!! Smoochies!!!

Iusedtocrymyselftosleep

I used to cry myself to sleep.

Wondering if you were thinking of me.

You still made my heart leap.

Now I realize your love wasn’t real

If it was, you wouldn’t have given up.

Now I can say, I have the strength.

I can say, I didn’t give up like you.

I just gave up loving someone who doesn’t love me back.

I can hear your name without it hurting.

I can say, I didn’t get over it.

I didn’t stop loving

I just stopped loving you.

And I learned to love myself.

Hospitals: A poem

Blank white walls.

Beeping sounds.

Squeaky shoes on white tiles.

Stiff bed, arm hurting, unable to move.

Cloth, rough, stiff, cold.

Head pounding, hurricane stomach, eyes crusty.

Too bright lights, smell of bleach and antiseptic.

Crying children, weeping mothers.

Sitting up, sharp pain, pushed back down, screaming sounds.

Throat burning, hotness swelling, overwhelming, burning sunlight.

Cold vein, blank darkness. 

Writing Tips

1.Know your audience. You need to make sure you appeal to the right people!!!

2.Don’t write how you text. Unless you text in full sentences with correct grammar of course!

3. Listen to constructive criticism. Let me be clear on what that is. Constructive criticism is when someone gives you good feedback, it is usually more than 2 words long, and points out both good things in your work and things you need to work on.

4.Write things based on personal experiences. This will interest people more so and help you learn your strengths and weaknesses in your writing. It will help you find your voice.

5.When you have writer’s block, don’t write with a purpose. Write random words down until something comes to mind or warms your brain up for the story you’re writing.

6. Enjoy your writing!!! I can not stress this enough! If you do not enjoy what you write, it is likely your readers will not enjoy it either. If you have no enthusiasm about it, people won’t find it interesting.

Blog Posts

This post is going to be a little bit shorter than my other posts. I am going to tell you my plan for how often I plan on posting. For my story, I would like to post The World From April every other day, but I make no promises on that. It all depends on chapter length. For writing tips, I plan on posting some every day or every other day. This being said, I am not taking into account if certain events arise and I will not be able to post. I will try to be as consistent as I can. Overall, there should be a new post every day.

Guidelines:Giving Ideas

When it comes to writing, every once (or twice…pr maybe a billion times) a day, we need ideas for our stories. Regarding this, I have decided that I would make a post that talks about giving ideas and what my guiding rules are.

Tip #1-Know your audience! Think about who you want to read your story, and try to market in a way that appeals to them. What I mean by marketing is how you present your story or site. Give it a title that hooks, a catchy slogan, an eye-catching logo, anything that will make your readers wanna learn more.

Tip #2- Make sure that your ideas make sense cohesively. You want to attract people with your story. For people to understand your story, you need to have a similar theme to every part.

Tip #3-GRAMMAR AND SPELLING!!! I can’t tell you how annoying it is for me to be reading a story that is meant to be professional and people write like they are texting to their best friend. If you want people to think of you as professional and dedicated, you will put in the extra time to fix your grammar.

My guidelines for sending me ideas:

1.Keep it appropriate. The highest rating I allow is PG-13, please no NSFW things.

2.Please be clear in your idea

3.Explain your ideas. Please have more than one sentence.

4.Please use good spelling in your writing.

And that’s all! I hope you enjoyed this post! As always, this is Lauren, signing off. Ciao!

TWFA #3

Disclaimer: This issue is shorter than most. I wanted to leave y’all on a cliffhanger.
A huge bout of anxiety filled my body, taking over my brain. I felt as if I couldn’t breathe or move. Evan stared at me, concerned it seemed. I was rocking back and forth, my vision going in and out of focus, everything felt quieter, as if I was under the ocean. I wish I was in my room, underneath my blankets. My brain was on fire, yet I felt as if it were being doused in high pressured water. I wanted to scream, cry out, something. But, I couldn’t move my lips. I bit down hard, my jaw shrieking from the force, my teeth grinding together. My hands tensed, I tried to stand, but I only managed to push myself onto the ground. People were rushing around me. Were they talking to me? I understood they were saying something, but I could barely hear them. My breathing was tight, my brain, a fog, I slipped in and out of consciousness.  

The World From April Issue #2

Evan grinned at me, asking if I was on the spectrum or if I had other issues. I felt a little uncomfortable by that question. People usually just assumed I was stupid or high on the spectrum because of being nonverbal. Some people found it offensive that I was even considered on the spectrum, due to my condition being called Aspergers in the past.

         I hesitated with my response and Evan quickly told me that I didn’t have to answer if I didn’t feel like it. I blushed, and decided to tell him. When I was 3, I was diagnosed with what was called Asperger’s, now known as highly functional on the Autism Spectrum. I would bang my heads against walls and run around flapping my arms. I cried whenever anyone tried to comfort me and couldn’t talk till I was 7. Then, when I turned 11, and entered middle school, I stopped speaking again, and my stemming worsened. I only communicate in sign language and morse code, though I do understand when people are speaking to me.

         I asked Evan if he had something similar. He told me he was deaf, gesturing to his feet, where he wasn’t wearing any shoes, and that he had autism.  

         A bell sounded and Evan turned to the center of the circle, grinning. This is my favorite part, he signed. And with that, he went silent. The lights dimmed and everyone grabbed a seat around me. A whiteboard was handed to everyone, along with a marker. It seemed people ranged from 10-20 in age, with a few younger and slightly older.  A light lavender scent wafted around the room, taking the tension I felt with it. At this point, I was more curious than scared. Speech therapy in the past was always sounding out letters and appointments. This, this, this was different. No bleach smell, no hard tile floors, no white walls, no tiny, claustrophobic spaces, and if there were, they had pillows and blankets, headphones, books, incense, things that calm almost as good as the ocean. My shoulders slumped down, my body letting go of any anger I felt. Soft, beautiful, flute music filled the air, wrapping around my mind, to the point that I almost didn’t notice Evan, along with several others, humming along to the music.  

       I felt an urge to join them, but when I tried, my throat felt on fire, my vocal chords, straining. I barely managed a soft grunt. Tears welled up in my eyes. I remember that I don’t want to be here. I did not choose to be here. My mother forced me here. I should have never written that stupid essay. What was I thinking?

 

The World From April Issue #1

“April? April, where are you?” My mother is looking for me, her voice growing more worried by the second. I’m in my closet, hidden under a bunch of pillows and blankets. The door is slightly cracked, with light peeking through. My earbuds are in my ears, but not on, so I can still hear her voice. 

    She opens the closet door and sits down on the ground next to me. She speaks in a soft, soothing voice, barely above a whisper, “Hey, angel. Did you have a bad day at school again?” I nod. “Were the kids picking on you again?” Another nod. “Well, I put the kettle on for some caramel coffee. Would you like some?” One more nod. “If you want some, you’re going to have to come out to get it. You know the rules.” I sigh, and unwrap myself from my cocoon. 

    My mother stands up to stretch, and as she does, the phone rings. I follow her out to the kitchen, where she picks up the phone and takes out two coffee mugs. The door opens and my little sister, Autumn runs in, already in her soccer clothes. She grabs a banana from the fruit basket and runs upstairs to her room, only stopping to pet our cat, Lucifer, on the head. 

    My mom sighed into the phone, “Yes, I know, Avery, it’s just that with April’s birthday coming up, my work schedule is getting tighter and tighter…” My therapist, Dr.Avery Picketts called again. She wants to meet more often, what with my meltdowns getting worse and more frequent, but my mom doesn’t have the time, and I’m not old enough to drive myself yet. 

    I walked into the living room, sat down on the sofa, and turned on my favorite movie of all time, The Princess Bride. I curled up in a blanket and Lucifer jumped on my lap, settling down for a mid-afternoon nap. My mom walked in with the coffee and some popcorn. She smiled at my choice of movie, but didn’t speak. She sat down and kissed me on the head, before handing me my coffee. It was warm and minty. It calmed my mind a bit. After a while, my mom glanced at me, then back at the screen. Then she did it again and again. 

Finally, I stared at her with an expecting frown. She sighed, “I got a call from the school. They said that you entered a piece of writing in the essay contest.” My face grew red. She continued, “I read what you wrote and I think we should start taking you to speech therapy again.” I shook my head violently. I couldn’t stand speech therapy. “Your first appointment is tomorrow.” I stood up quickly, dropped my cup of coffee all over the couch and ran outside, crying. I was so frustrated, I wanted to cream, but it was as if my throat couldn’t create the sound. I hid in the shed. My mom knew where I was. I was always too afraid to leave the yard unless I was getting in the car. I slept there all night. My mom came to wake me at noon for my appointment. I fought her as much as I could, but it was no use. 

She got me in the car and we drove in silence the whole time. I didn’t even-no, I couldn’t even cry anymore.  We drove on the highway and skipped the turn we usually took. I nudged my mom pointing at the exit sign. She told me she knew and that we were going to a different one then we usually did.    

We got to the building and I glanced at the colored walls and the puzzle piece logo. We walked inside. It was one large room with a bunch of chairs in a circle and a microphone in the middle. I sat down in one of the seats. A boy came up next to me and sat down. He looked about 9, with sandy brown hair, glasses, and a smile. He started signing to me his name. Evan. I grinned and glanced at my mom, but she was gone. I thought to myself, maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought it would be. And it wasn’t. 

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