CREATIVE WRITING

Texts and Gems by Gabriel Flores Benard

December 2, 2023

On Tuesday, October 24th, the Creative Writers are on a field trip to see the Kinship exhibit at SFMoMA, a compilation of six photographers who approach human connection and vulnerability differently. I admit I was not excited to look at pictures in a museum. Where’s the fun in that? The day before, we viewed some exhibit samples to create expectations for the trip to come. The pictures piqued my interest; however, they did not captivate me in the same way other types of art or media have. It was like taking a gem in my hand, studying it, then placing it on the ground and moving on with my day. I did not feel like I had a tie to the photos, and I felt neutral concerning the trip. The trip was a long-awaited chance to leave the compact realm of the classroom, but I felt otherwise neutral about the exhibit.

Then I was left alone with the pictures, and they began to shine.

We arrive at SFMoMA at 2:20 on a sunny, crisp day. The wind whispers on my skin, and the sun targets me specifically. We enter the expanse of the maroon museum and place our possessions, save for a notebook and writing utensil, into a cart for storage. We climb up two flights of stairs and reach the Kinship exhibit. We have free rein to roam about the six rooms dedicated to the six photographers. As we roam the exhibit, we write a poem in response to one of the photographs. I select a familiar picture and expand on a stanza I wrote the day before. I write the poem in response to a photo of two cousins, one admiring the other’s necklace. This is the rough draft:

She told me that gems are books

of poetry, shards of lifelong stories,

pages that adorn our bodies in a million words.

All crystals carry meaning behind their

luster and hue, transparency muddled

by hubris or humility.

Mama said we will

inherit the jewels that walk

like us,

speak like us,

breathe like us,

that people can look at the shards

around our necks

to see into our souls.

To us, they are mirrors.

To others, they are windows.

Language with no words.

Voice with no sound.

I wonder how I could hold one’s life

in my hands, and it is so stubborn

yet fragile.

She wears chains and charcoal

and chickpeas that meld into her skin.

Mama told me her colors are purity and restraint;

she does not see

serpentine and tourmaline brimming in the sunlight.

I wonder what rainbow plastic means,

and what my story tells.

After searching through the other photos by the same photographer, each encapsulating a different moment of these two cousins’ lives, I notice that the pictures weave a story together about how familial bonds weaken and strengthen over time and how the cousins begin and end their lives together, which I am moved by. I enter another room with a pink stripe stretching across the walls. The room is a collection of photographs of teenage girls expressing themselves through piercings, clothing, and words written on their skin. Letters and diary entries accompany the images, which convey an intricate story about an adolescent girl struggling to find herself and facing extreme mental health issues. I have pictures of those diary entries still on my phone because I want to look back at them and realize how I can incorporate this artist’s ideas into my work. The story was intricate and captivating, and I could envision the timeline playing like a film in front of me. The stories within that pink room drew me in, and I left with numerous gemstones in my pocket that day. In retrospect, I enjoyed the exhibit and made more connections to the pictures than I expected. Sometimes the shiniest of gems lie in the fields you never think to look in.
Poetry’s Exploration by Pascal Lockwood-Villa

December 2, 2023

Poetry has always been a cornerstone of every Creative Writer’s repertoire. This year, there is no exception. Every school year, there has always been a unit on poetry, which would be capped off by a performance sometime in the late months of Fall. Despite this, these units have not once had complaints raised against them for getting stale or old. This most recent poetry unit in particular has been productive for a number of students in the Creative Writing 2 concentration, thanks to an assignment revolving around writing a poem in script form. This has been the most inventive period this department has gone through, as the poetry unit is a class favorite. This new assignment has quickly become an all-time favorite, and many believe it is that perfect way for writers to push the boundaries of each student’s writing. The script-based assignment is merely one of the myriad creative options and avenues for the CW2 students to explore their poetic preferences. Another beloved assignment from this unit revolves around the students working in tandem with ChatGPT to create poetry. In all fairness, some people in the department are not proponents of AI’s liberal usage in the realm of writing, but this prompt was far deeper than most might give it credit. For example, one student established a dialogue with the AI model that led to the creation of a poem based on The Oldest Game. For a little context, The Oldest Game is played between two speakers. One will go first, offering up a concept which they embody (ex.: I am a lock made of iron). The second player must then find a way to complement or counteract the first concept (ex.: I am the key which opens the lock). The Oldest Game is simple in concept, yet in execution it can lead to an infinite number of possibilities. According to the student in question, playing the Oldest Game with ChatGPT has forced the student to really examine what words or phrases worked against or with each other in ways that could outsmart the machine. While the student was unable to beat the AI legitimately, they stated that they were still able to glean new information regarding their creative process and the stereotypes they were prone to implementing in their work, as well as expanding their vocabulary in enough ways as to avoid those tropes. Between working alongside AI and writing poems in various unconventional formats, this year’s poetry unit serves as a reminder to all; the only true definition of a poem is the redefinition of a poem.
The Bird Clock In The Room 227 by Tiffany Dong

December 2, 2023

The Creative Writing department room is loved by many Creative Writers and non-Creative Writers. We house walls of past-show posters, the lion statue whose rocking his yellow cowboy hat, and a widespread rug that entices you to a few minutes of nap time. However, the most beloved of all is the bird clock in the corner of the room.

Many new students in the room for their first time will hear the hourly birds chirping and question where the sound is coming from. Upon identifying the source of the sound, some will pause to briefly laugh, while others will take a moment to stare down the clock like it is a fascinating creature.

Now that I am a senior, I have come to appreciate the small, everyday, hectic parts of Creative Writing. I’ve adopted a second nature of hearing Heather’s footsteps marching towards the cell hotel, speedrunning to the classroom as the time inches closer to 1:20 pm, and fishing through my bag for my cat notebook before I am caught without one. But I know next year there will be no college professors yelling through the annex windows, “Is your phone and food up?”

These days I am plagued by time. In my love for predictability, I am terrified by my uncertain future. I do not know where I will end up a year from now— whether I will continue to pursue writing in the way I’ve been doing so these past four years, or if I will find love for something else like film or music.

Because of the bird clock, time moves differently in this room. I’ve watched graduating seniors come and go countless of times, each year more tearful than the last. I remember past conversations while sprawled out across the carpet, listening to the old seniors bickering and talking about their plans for college while the 3 o’clock bluejay sings in the background.

In the CW 2 fiction unit, our artist-in-residence Fatima described that every place is haunted by a story and memory. I believe it to be true. While the old seniors have moved to other places, I still feel the love they brought into this space, their laughter, and burning glares through the window every time the underclassmen would be too loud in the other room.

I know when I leave, I will also haunt a space somewhere in room 227. Probably through the magical fairy mini-library I made with Starlie for our writing buddy project at the beginning of the year, or through the poster I’ve put together for the Prose Were The Days show. However, I am not too worried about haunting Creative Writing right now.

There are some parts of the room that will remain as it is, and there will be many parts that will change. I hope the bird clock is one of the parts that stays. I hope that when the classic northern mockingbird or bluejay chirps, the new Creative Writers will take a moment in class to ask, “What was that?”

For now, as the end of the year is coming closer, we will all simply take a moment to circle around the carpet to talk about whatever is weighing down our minds, our hopes for the future, and our favorite memories of the year. We will talk and talk until the next bird of the hour sings, signaling to us that it’s almost time to go.
Embracing My Senior Thesis by Tiarri Washington

December 2, 2023

I am standing on stage and the curtain has risen; I can see the gleaming faces of my family and friends in the audience. I feel warm and comforted. I have been standing on this stage, a culmination of years spent honing the craft of creative writing, for four years now. I have one final word to share before the curtain falls, the lights dim, and I exit the stage, the department, and my high school career: my senior thesis.

I have been anticipating my senior thesis since I was a freshman on Zoom. I have read the well-curated works of past seniors and could not fathom producing a project of my own. I still recall the amazement I felt reading the careful musings of past seniors Parker Burrows, Leela Sriram, Paloma Fernandez, and countless others. All of their projects were such beautiful concentrations of their unique voice that I felt, at once, inspired and intimidated.

On the cusp of adulthood this past summer, I explored the East Coast and took notes on loose-leaf pieces of paper of images, lines, and memories that struck me. At the end of the summer, when I sat down to organize them all, I found a mountain of slips—some written in hurried cursive, others stocky block letters—that wove threads of nostalgia, femininity, and identity from my earliest memories to the ones I was currently making. I sidestepped the anxiety attached to committing to this project by not imposing anything on it; I allowed my voice to lay the foundation of my thesis, and I am beyond happy with the direction it is going in.

As I embark on a journey of transition from childhood to adulthood, my thesis is a comforting exploration of self—-a probing transcription of the previously forgotten, the previously unarticulated, and warm interplay between past, present, and evolving facets of my life.

My hope for my developed thesis is to become a gift to myself, my support system, and other young girls who see themselves in my reflection. If I remember nothing else from my years in Creative Writing, I’ll never forget the unbridled power in words to comfort, affirm, and give language to the nuances of the human condition. I am eternally grateful for Heather Woodward, my fellow seniors, and the entire department who have nurtured my voice and inspired me to share it.

For the next few months, I will savor my time left on this stage with my friends and mentors. And when the time comes for the curtain to fall and the theater to empty, the feeling of security, warmth, and confidence will stay with me forever.

Thank you Creative Writing.

I’ve attached an ekphrastic piece I wrote inspired by the header image of this post:

overgrowth

before womanhood bit my skin, i stuffed my younger self in the trunk of my father’s blue ford

i never go back to that vacant parking lot in my heart / it is filled with flowers and her soft impression / all remnants are dead / even the concrete is receding into carnations /

whenever i think of her / my heart carries the derivative of “love” like peppermint—sweet in small doses

i never go back, but if i did, i’d find laughter and tears / in the backseat of a car that now belongs to someone else.

my father left & i don’t blame him entirely / but he should have known how fragile i was / and maybe he did, but he was young and i was easier to love like that / with his eyes pressed shut / pretending / pretending i was the daughter of a woman he loved / yes, at first I blamed him / but i blamed the concrete too / i blamed the pale orange streetlights / & the overhanging trees / & the moon.

in the end maybe i was the one who left her there for good / i begged some divination to take the memory / to make that girl a separate entity /

this is a love letter to her / to a body and soul who has not yet been corrupted / hanging in the moment before life transpired / that is still unscathed and covered in daffodils / honeysuckle & lilac

~

If you’re reading this and are able, I invite you to join the Creative Writing department on December 11th and 12th for our annual poetry show: “Prose Were the Days.” You’ll hear poetry from everyone in the department and hear a snippet of my thesis! 💌
From Me to CW by Ari Nystrom Rice

December 2, 2023

Creative writing is often remembered for its long standing traditions, from the bay swim to writing poetry in the botanical garden, to an all department camping trip on the ocean. During the 2023 edition of this camping trip, a group of us students ran into the frigid waters of the pacific ocean, submerging ourselves beneath the navy water, and splashing each other with slaps along the choppy surface. For a second I stood back from the glorious chaos and observed the family I had suddenly found before me, some of which were freshmen whom I had only met a month and a half ago, and I had a moment of ethereal ease. The only other place in which I had found that feeling was at my Jewish summer camp where we have similar long standing traditions that manage to effortlessly bring a diverse collection of differing perspectives and outlooks together, so, I decided to bring one of the things that makes that camp so special to CW. It’s loosely based on a Jewish ritual called a Mikveh, (I made sure everyone participating was comfortable) in which a group of people all hold hands and submerge themselves three times into the water. The first time we dunked, we thought of something we wanted to let go of, to release to the water. The second time we dunked, we thought of something we wanted to take from the water. The final time we dunked, we thought of something we wanted to give to the water. When I arose from the water after my final dunk, I felt as though I saw the world in a completely different light. I know that sounds extreme, but I realized, in that moment, that the people screaming with exhilaration beside me were the people I had been looking for. I felt as though I had given a piece of my identity to the creative writing community, and they had responded by taking it in with full fascination and participation.
Cozy Chaos by Zadie McGrath

December 2, 2023

Getting a makeover while listening to my friend Facetime a junior from Massachusetts, eating a gooey skillet blondie straight from the pan, experiencing the wrath of a Muni driver as I (unsuccessfully) run for the bus—these have all happened in the hours between school and Cineclub.

Cineclub, which everyone in CW is required to attend at least once per marking period, is a program through SF Art and Film that shows films especially for teens. Though not our main focus, film is integral to the Creative Writing department. We sometimes end up analyzing movies just as avidly as we might dissect poetry—last year, we had an in-depth debate about My Neighbor Totoro. So, every few weeks, my friends and I congregate at the Randall Museum on a Friday evening to watch films ranging The Godfather to Wes Anderson’s Grand Budapest Hotel.

At Cineclub, I find myself in different groups than I’d usually spend time with. As someone who is not exactly the most comfortable around other people, this compulsory, shared experience is freeing. It’s Friday, so we unwind a little, relax, while still taking the films seriously. We arrive early for free cookies and sparkling water, and wander around the Randall until the movie starts, when we make our way to the cozy theater with its child-sized seats and fuzzy projector. Afterwards, we might raise our hands to participate in the discussion, or maybe just whisper amongst ourselves while frantically jotting down notes. (Mine usually turn into sloppy all-capitals, chaotic arrows, and too many exclamation points.) Soon it’s time to leave and we’re wandering around the Randall again, movie scenes flashing behind our eyes, waiting to turn into a dozen inside jokes, a dew-laden spiderweb of connections waiting to be realized come Monday.
Both Stretches by Haze Fry

October 5, 2023

I wrote this poem as a response to the “Self Doubt” prompt we receive every year during community weeks in Creative Writing. I have both enjoyed and been surprised by the ways in which the poetry I’ve produced from this prompt has evolved. This year I focused on how the loss of someone important in your life can negatively affect self confidence, and drastically shift your perception of your appearance and personality. I’ve noticed recently that one person can often have an unanticipated level of power over your personal identity, and it is important to learn how to love yourself without them.

Both Stretches

It is the memory coming back

that cuts a crescent moon into my wrist

like the fake knife you kept buried under your bras and band Ts.

It’s only the memory that digs beneath my epidermis

and deeper until the blood turns white,

and it’s the image of your one dimpled grin growing sun damaged

on my bedroom wall.

Why can’t I remove the peeling tape

that tethers you to me?

When you loved me

I didn’t need to try to love myself.

It was easy,

for your gentle fingers stayed woven through my curls,

and you called my amorphous thighs beautiful

until they morphed into something

that I could call beautiful too.

When I hated the architecture of my stomach

you’d touch me until a palace grew from the fat of my belly.

When I picked at the scabs on my body

you’d kiss me until I forgot what injury felt like.

We were careless skeletons thrashing our bones

at punk shows on Thursday nights,

rocks and dirt forming a new layer of skin on our arms.

Back then the memory couldn’t break my flesh,

because we were the memory,

we were our childhoods and our adolescence locking fingers,

and we were our elder years too.

I still remember this but

the silhouette of you has changed.

It looks more like me now,

alone, kicking my legs up in the air like I’m angry with the sky.

In my memory it’s the shadow of only me

elongated by the gravel beneath an abandoned mosh pit,

and I am dancing with my shy palms.

The scent of tears has begun to make me nauseous.

I look down at my thighs and they are shapeless again.

I cannot find where my skin ends and yours begins,

so I rub my legs until they’re pink and numb

as I search for a way to move you.

I refuse to love the folds of my hips anymore

because of how they strum the melody of Hole’s “Celebrity Skin,”

and whisper the lyrics to your favorite riot grrrl song.

I cannot admire my belly cascading over my belt anymore,

for the sweat on my stomach tastes like your breath

after dissolved SSRIs and sweet coffee.

Your love for my body,

my voice and how I used it,

gave me permission to love myself too.

I watch as the blurred line of where our shadows separate cracks,

and my skin is ruptured by the memory of

you. Between both stretches.
Lit Crits? Terrifying! by Zosia Mosur

October 4, 2023

Even before I’d entered the Creative Writing program at RASOTA, I had been made aware of the infamous “lit crits,” or literary critiques. I was told how challenging and high stakes they were, my fellow Creative Writers talking about pulling all-nighters and laboring for hours when writing them. Which is why I became anxious when Heather, our art lead, told us that we were going to be starting our lit crits. Thankfully this year, since she had noticed how much people struggled on this assignment, she decided to do things differently. Instead of having everyone stress out on their own, we had time to work on our lit crits collaboratively throughout the week. Heather gave us a small packet of poetry that we read together in class. That night, we all chose the poems we would write about and annotated them until there wasn’t a single space left on the sheet. I chose the poem “Supermoon,” by Abby E. Murray, a beautiful piece about a mother and daughter staring at a blue supermoon. In class the next day, we discussed our thoughts about the poem and had in-depth conversations about the meanings each of us perceived. Analyzing this writing was unlike anything I had ever done before. I had never thought so deeply about a piece of literature. As I looked around the Creative Writing classroom, I felt overwhelmed with how wholesome the whole scene was. A group of students in one corner expressing their love for poetry, a group in another corner discovering the meaning of life. I was overjoyed to see my classmates so passionate. Writing the lit crit itself was just as difficult as I had anticipated, but the process of exploring these pieces of art proved to me that Creative Writing is a place of gratitude, humanity, deep thinking, and is such a blast!
Critique and Conversation by Oona Haskovec

October 4, 2023

Literary Critiques have always been a large aspect of Creative Writing. And while many of our students dread the so-called “Lit Crit Week,” I have found a method that alleviates that trepidation, at least for me. After choosing a piece of writing to analyze, instead of holing up alone in my room and painstakingly trying to squeeze every bit of analysis that I can out of a piece, I sit down with my peers to discuss it. This way, we all get a wider range of insight, and brainstorm in active conversation, as opposed to just thinking about the writing independently. This week, we have been teaming up in groups of four or five to work on our essays, and by the time we take our daily 2:30 break, the poems are heavily annotated, and some group members even have several paragraphs written, ready to be reviewed by a peer or two.

I have found this to not only be more enjoyable, but also more productive and fruitful in terms of quality of work. Working in small groups is wildly helpful for getting good analysis work done. However, when it comes to more personal poetry, I find that that type of work is more pleasant to write solo. In the case of the lit crits, the accompanying Creative Response is one of these poems that I would much rather complete with a cup of tea alone in my room. Collaborative essay writing is a great help for many of my classmates as well as myself, and I am so glad to have incorporated this tactic into my peers’ writing habits as well.
Odd Contemplation by Chloe Schoenfeld

September 21, 2023

I’m not used to being the older person who knows how things work. However, sophomore year has started and I’ve been paired with a (lovely) freshman as the older writing buddy. Now I know my way around. I am able to feel more comfortable and confident with my classes, friends, and writing. I feel that I have been finding my voice and improving my writing and self.

A couple weeks ago, we were given an assignment to collaborate with our writing buddies to create a project partially based in writing. My writing buddy and I worked together over the course of the week to write and film a mockumentary about an interview with the CEO of Eli Lilly, David A. Ricks. We wanted to write about something that we were passionate about, so we chose insulin prices and accessibility because we both fall under the label of “disabled.” The choice to write a satirical screenplay was based around firstly wanting to write a play, and secondly, wanting the topic and information to be presented in a manner that wouldn’t leave the reader/watcher feeling downhearted or hopeless. Our process began with brainstorming and “first draft vomiting” an interview script, which we then formatted and edited to its best incomprehensibility. Then, we casted and filmed each part (Ricks, interviewer, hungover college student). I voiced the interviewer, Sophie, a junior, played the college student, and Heather, the Creative Writing department head, played Ricks (and did a spectacular job). Finally, we edited it all together and created, in my opinion, the masterpiece that is CEO Gets Emotional As He Contemplates The Possibility That He Is An Asshole: “Diabetics And Other Disabled People Protest In Front Of Eli Lilly Headquarters.”

From working and talking to the freshmen, I’ve been prompted to think about my own freshman year. It has been, honestly, a joy to reflect on my experiences as I watch the new freshmen discover them for themselves. This new school year has had its challenges and obstacles just as any other year, but I feel that I can say that I am undoubtedly looking forward to facing it.