Writers' Corner

[Ryoika]

A great poem you have there~!
For me, I write critical essays better than original composition (stories and poems).
I procrastinate a lot when my writing is going to be MARKED because of of fear and perfectionism
I toiled with every writing homework to make it perfect (that was not fun, haha).
But strangely, writing my E.E. was really fun, especially investigating multiples of critiques on the novel I am studying and
using the data I have to support my thesis.
But when they are not marked, my writing just goes on and on and yeah.. lol
I also write a lot of translations (from English to Korean), and it is my passion and I often do it as my hobby on my blog. lol
For stories, I often write them in Korean because I often read a lot of Korean fantasy novels and therefore
is more comfortable with Korean figurative language lol

Can I share my poem too? Wrote this back in Grade 10 (I know it doesn't rhyme, and personally I do not like rhymes, this is a free verse lol)

In a long, cold night

I have stood with my bloodied hands

that were sparkling with the filthy drops of blood-red tears

that the low breeze of self denial had created.

Once I was filled with rage, pirt, despair, hope, gloom , and light

but now I clutch myself with nothingness;

hollow as it can be, it's better to hold an

empty cup than to hold dear Tantalos's golden goblet

that had always failed to catch one single drop of that gloriously crimson Nectar.

Living as a begger is indeed happier than living with unquenchable thirst

Numb, has forgooten how to cry with laughter or laugh with sorrow,

I watch the fog of darkness devouring its twin

in this

illusioned yet disillusioned world.

How wonderful a candlelight can be to other when it is at her mightiest victory

but see now,

it is dissolving into the puddle of despair and desparation, neglected

by people, who are foolish enough to not realize its strength and power.

Now look at that bursting flame, with her servants licking her pitifully beautiful form.

See her devouring those with the mark of the king once most beloved of God,

See her endlessly eating away their flesh, yet you can see that even her preys praise her.

Now look at this world

where candlelight faltars and flame revives into whatever it can be.

[Guest]

Well I just stumbled across this thread. (And I'm squealing. I love to write.) Well there is this small skit I have written. Could you comment?

I think its pretty amateur-ish.

Concert Play.pdf

Edited March 9, 2014 by Guest

[Wicquor]

ohohohoh

Personally, I love writing myself although I have a lot of trouble finishing anything. I tend to lose motivation very, very quickly and I don't think I've finished any serious writing projects ... unless a six-chapter long fanfic counts OTL.

I wouldn't really consider myself especially skilled at writing poetry, I've tried it before but my attempts have been disastrous ;;.

I have to admit, I love everyone's work so far, however! They've been wonderful and very interesting and I'm awed :3.

@Vasudha: I like the concept/setting although the play itself seems a little ... idyllic? corny? to me. I'm not suggesting that it's bad but perhaps that my tastes in reading makes it hard for me to enjoy it, I definitely like more angst-filled and twisted concepts. It's a good skit though c:.

ALSO

since someone mentioned NaNo and the only time I've successfully finished that thing was when I wrote a series of short stories a couple of years ago, I thought I'd post the first chapter of my unfinished NaNo novel. Comments/criticism are more than welcome and warning, sensitive issues and swearing are involved. Hence the spoiler.

Gene Hwang has always known the glamorous life.

Gene Hwang now wants to end said glamorous life.

---

“You’ll be on in three minutes Gene, is there anything you’d like? I could get you a glass of water now.” Mr Lee doesn’t make offers very often—he’s always believed in the tough principle or what

Gene, after four years of having suffered this abuse, deems jail treatment. Whilst the elderly man seems polite enough outwardly, the model knows from brutal experience that courtesy is never really genuine.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Gene nods as curtly as possible as a hand—probably one of the stylists’—sweeps through his hair, ruffling it into a semi-messy yet charming mussed mop. The woman standing beside him places a hand on her hip, surveys her handiwork and then sighs; Gene cringes at the dissatisfaction he hears. The model catches fragments of whispers—more makeup—and internally winces as he braces himself to have his skin violated by an assortment of brushes and other tools of maquillage. It’s never painful, but it’s awkward and embarrassing and not in that it hurts his male pride but more so that he feels like a doll, carefully, casually having his face rearranged by these absolute strangers …

And there’s nothing he can do about it, of course; a few words in fine print ensured that.

With a sigh, Gene moves from his seat as someone frantically screeches his name from the doorway. Another grey day in this black and white circle. Just another one. His shaking hands scramble to fit into his pockets and it takes a few tries for him to master the suave expression he’s meant to have down pat; he’s tempted to wipe away the icy sweat that beads on his forehead but the fear of smearing his makeup keeps him still.

The lights that shine down on him whilst he strides down the catwalk sting his eyes but the teenager has long since understood how frowned upon complaining is in the industry; his manager’s trademark one-size-fits-all response for any form of whinging is a callous ‘get over it’ and despite the burn behind his retinas, Gene’s lips curve to reveal his pearly teeth and handsome jawline, even though he wants to cringe—to curl up somewhere and sleep until the feeling of floating passes. The suit cuts perfectly around his shoulders and his waist; the grey wool contrasts splendidly with his porcelain skin. Cheers and applause rise into the air as Gene’s slender frame struts down the ramp—somewhere in the distance he hears Mr Lee heave a sigh of relief as the proceedings so according to plan.

Gene ignores it in favour of disappearing backstage and allowing the next model to bask in the light.

On reflex he collapses into the nearest couch, his complaining legs relieved as they no longer have to support his weight. Almost like a marionette, he bends forward—double—and places his blonde head in his hands, the insistent throb behind it only just beginning to dim. He feels odd; Gene has never taken to modelling as well as others despite his reasonable confidence and indubitable good looks, but this time is different. Nausea claws at the back of his dry throat and hunger scratches at his stomach. The sweat that pours down his face is absolutely freezing and his fingers scratch at fabric just to remain steady.

He feels sick—so sick—so--

“Hey Gene, do you feel alright?”

It almost doesn’t make sense to him. A seemingly concerned figure is standing next to him, one comforting hand settled on his shoulder and lightly shaking him. “Yeah, I’m—I’m alright,” the seventeen-year-old persists, pushing hair away from his eyes before making an attempt to stand up. His legs are such renegades.

His knees strike the ground first and it takes moments for him to crumple into a pitiful, shivering heap. There are lights everywhere—and oh, how they sting his eyes. What’s that person doing over there, hovering mere centimetres above him? What was going on? The sounds are running into each other, becoming long strings of unintelligible syllables … and the sights, why are they blurring?

His thoughts collide with one another, sending waves of pain through his head as they do. The carpet is blue, not white as his memory tells him it should be and there are unmistakeable dashes of white beside his face … it takes a mammoth effort simply to raise his hand so that it is hovering above his head and his fingers seem to be lacking outlines—

“Gene!” A scowl paints his forehead at the panicked exclamation. That voice is incredibly familiar but—agh, the lights! The sear of the lights left him wondering why they needed to be on.

“Th-the lights, turn them off …” the weak insistence is met with more concern.

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

Black conquers his consciousness.

---

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?”

Consciousness is only just beginning to return to him. The throbbing behind his temples makes him wonder if his head was beaten with a club though to his relief the shaking in his limbs has significantly diminished. The frowning visage of Lee Tae Seung glares venomously at him and Gene can only wince at both his physical discomfort and the emotional scarring that was bound to follow. There’s an itch in his left hand and a stiffness weighing deep into his bones, a sense of agedness that elderly people likely experienced. To his pleasure the bed is relatively warm though

Gene’s not sure if that is the consequence of his extended stay in this white hellhole.

He reigns in his wavering thoughts as Mr Lee glares in askance and expectation of an answer. No answer will ever be good enough; he will find some means to torture Gene regardless. The teenager pats his hair in an attempt to flatten it before undertaking the Herculean task of sitting up. Once again to his relief the room doesn’t dip or spin and that gives Gene enough confidence to begin formulating a believable response to feed to his manager.

“I-- … ah,” he begins, words dying in his dry mouth. Well what did you expect if all you fed me was celery sticks and water for two months lingers in his throat, begging to escape his lips but Gene is well aware that courtesy is the key (or else he’s practically asking for his execution).

“Maybe this new diet isn’t working for you. I’ll have to revise it.” Mr Lee is curt but there’s an evident undertone of infuriated in his voice. His fist crashes down on the bedside table before –very begrudgingly—he places half a sandwich that he procures from a bag beside him on the table. Vegetarian, undoubtedly, Gene categorises in his mind as he takes note of the food in the white wrapping. “It’s a good thing the press wasn’t around … that would be really messy to clean up,” his manager continues to vent his frustrations as Gene continues to stare at the sandwich.

“It won’t happen again.” Gene can’t guarantee that—he can’t predict when his body will turn tail on him again but he will do just about anything to silence his manager.

Mr Lee gives him a sceptical look before releasing an exasperated sigh. “I certainly hope so; I don’t want to be cleaning up your messes anymore, Hwang.” There’s something about his tone that makes Gene feel like he’s been impaled with a stake—maybe it’s the cold use of his last name or maybe it’s the utter lack of concern Mr Lee has for him and his health (though Gene has never known his manager to comfort people, the very sight of it would be unbelievably alien). The blonde forces another nod to convince his manager following which the older male crosses his arms over his chest.

“You need to finish all of that and you’ll be spending the night here; they want to keep you in here for observation,” his manager proceeds. “You aren’t going to be allowed out until your blood sugar levels are over seventy-five at least, by the way so I suggest you finish that sandwich.”

Gene rolls his eyes internally whilst he gives an obedient nod. Mr Lee raises an eyebrow once again, as if unsure of whether to accept Gene’s confirmation or not. Eventually a look of conviction spreads across his face and after deftly reaching for the model’s neglected phone, he strides for the door. A small smile—somewhere between a smirk and a stiff but polite curvature of his thin lips—graces his face as he makes his way out.

“You’re staying in bed all day—someone will be around to visit you soon, you don’t need to make any calls. Don’t even try to leave.”

---

It’s in the desolate silence that he observes his face; it’s more female than male, more child than adult and perhaps that’s his charm. Youthful, Mr Lee mentioned to him once—if he were not so youthful then this position would have been but a faraway dream to him. Gene gives his hair a final stroke before rising from the vanity seat, the reflection of his face steadily vanishing with his rise. He pulls the sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose, elated at how big they are. Vaguely he contemplates throwing on a hat before deciding that it’s a necessity seeing as blonde commoners in Korea is somewhat of a rarity and the last thing he wants is to draw attention to himself.

He is ready—for what he’s still not entirely sure of, but he’s ready to leave the humid confines of the green room.

When he steps out it’s the mild August breeze that kisses his face and the persistent chirping of birds mixed with the strong beats of a pop song that his ears detect; it’s a waft of iced tea that slips past his lips and into his mouth and he can almost taste the deliciously-chilled liquid. His mind demands answers—what is he looking for? Why are his legs rushing forward, as if bewitched? Where are they taking him?

It’s also at five thirty-four that evening when Gene Hwang feels the final threads of motivation—the very motivation that allowed him to persevere as a model—slip through his fingers.

To be more specific, it’s at Seoul’s busiest intersection that he loses this desire to continue with what he deems his utterly pointless existence. His clammy palms brush at imaginary dust on his pants as the song that now booms through the massive intersection from one of the nearby shops switches to something darker and more mysterious. It clashes with the summery atmosphere; there’s something sullen and bitter about the song that contrasts terribly and distinguishes it from the chirpy environment, just as Gene is distinguished by his lethargy in the midst of bustling crowds and enraged drivers. It seemed wrong, perverse even, but the model can’t change it.

There’s a billboard on the opposite side of the road, a mere ten steps away from Gene’s spot on the concrete. It displays proudly the confident smile of a woman the model recalls having seen in an advertisement for … for cereal, was it? Not that that is what’s important, even though a part of his brain slowly scratches for the brand she represents—what’s important is the widening of her cherry lips, her smile not creating so much as the slightest crease in her enamel skin. Her head is thrown back in carefree laughter and not a strand of her ebony hair is out of place.

It’s an act—a pretence—or maybe it’s real, but it doesn’t matter to Gene if it isn’t. Even if it’s only an illusion, Gene wants to know how such joy can be faked. And if it’s faked for long enough, could it become real?

It’s that desire to answer his questions that takes him dashing across the road.

It’s the deafening screech of rubber burning into asphalt that makes him stop. And sure enough, there’s a whole hoard of impatiently honking drivers as Gene stands shell-shocked in the middle of the road, processing at the rate of a turtle that he could have been run over.

Would that have been escape?

The question plagues his mind as he strides purposefully to the opposite pavement, ignoring the multitude of drivers glaring at him and cursing his apparent inability to comprehend traffic lights.

---

Mr Lee is infuriated and Gene is more concerned about the fact that he’s come unprepared to face this outburst rather than the fact that his actions could have jeopardised career. Sure enough, his manager enters the room and the model can almost imagine steam rising from his ears and billowing from his nostrils. The older man takes care to slam the door as he makes his way towards the vanity and when he halts, Gene cringes inwardly.

“Do you realise the significance of this, Hwang?” His teeth are gritted; his arms are folded over his chest. Gene takes a few shaky breaths to calm his battering heart but the action proves to be futile. Mr Lee procures a rolled up newspaper from the satchel that is eternally slung over his shoulder and tosses it onto the vanity, ignoring the numerous brushes and vials that are displaced by the action.

Even though the blonde knows what to expect, he winces when he sees the bold text splattered across white. Teen model Hwang Yu Jin, suicidal? How he’d been recognised when he’d gone to extreme lengths just to disguise himself from the public was a mystery to him but Gene remembers to take into consideration sasaeng fans who likely could discern his identity by the position of a mole on his neck. That being said, he doubts he’s suicidal. He’d only wanted to examine her smile—that was it—he’d never … never considered dying though his mind venomously reminded him that for a split second he’d considered it an escape.

Upon noticing the questioning look on Mr Lee’s face, Gene swallows thickly and instantaneously replaces the bewilderment on his face with the collected expression he’d fine-tuned over the years.

“I don’t know how that happened. It was an accident. I promise it will never happen again.” The apology fits in his mouth perfectly, the words formed seemingly of their own accord but Gene has control over them from a soundbox in the back—just enough to stop when he wants to but not quite enough to inject soul and emotion into the words.

The fingers that dig into his collar and press suffocatingly against his neck remind him that he should probably make an effort to be polite.

“Hwang, I’m getting sick of your apologies; you don’t think it was bad enough that your blood sugar issue could have been leaked out? Now this? I didn’t hire you—no, I didn’t ****ing take you in and give you this chance so you could ****ing fool around and if you think you can then consider yourself fired.”

The tirade ends with a spray of saliva flying at his features and a rough shake of his collar for emphasis. Mr Lee spares another glare in his direction before—very begrudgingly—placing Gene’s phone back on the vanity. With one last dirty glare thrown over his shoulder, the old man stalks out angrily, leaving the younger alone with his thoughts.

His unspoken threat rings clear.

His reasons ring clearer; Gene knows that if anyone suspects he’s at risk or mentally unstable then the authorities will be notified and as a minor, he’ll be rescued—

but that seems like such a grim ticket to freedom.

[Guest]

@Wicquor, thanks for your feedback. I guess I could make it a bit more realistic.

I love that concept. I kind of know this person, in an almost similar position as Gene Hwang, so it feels quite easy-to-relate.

And here is another write up.

OF WARS AND BROKEN DREAMS

Thinking of things impromptu,

The boy sat gazing out,

Of the shattered window,

At the ruined concrete below.

His grimy cheeks stained with tears,

As he dived into bitter remembrance

His worried mind weighed a ton

With sounds of cannons and sight of blood.

He walked through the ravaged city,

Surrounded by charred corpses.

His worried eyes are like unfathomable voids,

Yet filled with tempestuous emotions.

A burning wrath bubbled in his heart's depths;

He lashed out on a wrecked wall.

Chaotic dreams stabbed his being

And he let lose an agonized scream.

Haunted by happy faces and dying screams,

He falls to his knees - abruptly,

His eyes droop with his body drained,

A numbness takes over as he sleeps.

(Vasudha Kataruka)

[Maks123456]

Guys, your writings are really good. Mature, even, which scares me since I write about a lot of immature and insignificant to the masses themes.

Anyways, here is something small from me:

You plant your lips in my collarbones
and I drift among broken capillaries and hands of wooden clocks
that strike 12 o'clock more often
than I want them to -
I know
I am not the the comfort you grew up in
nor the blueberry jam on your toast.

I am wounds carved upon wounds,
coated with memories; I am the sediment
left
on the bottom of your coffee,
so stop digging
below
the staircase of my ribcage,
trying to figure out which of my bones to unfasten
so that all of me
can spill itself upon you
like that time truth spilled itself upon me
as my father told me I was not worth of
anything.

I do not make sense
in your world - two plus two does not equal four,
two plus two equals an entire alphabet tucked
beneath
the flattened spheres on my fingertips; an entire world
hidden in the lunar eclipses of my irises,
so stop fumbling
me around in your hands
as if I was a Rubik's cube - you are color blind
and I am a thousand ways to say

"I still love you"

Edited March 10, 2014 by Maks123456

[IbTrojan]

ooh, I didn't know this thread existed I wrote a lot of poetry back when I had free time. I haven't written anything in a while... I have a blog though:

 

http://expresswhatyouarefeeling.blogspot.ca/

 

I haven't added anything in a while, I just might after exams though

 

Feedback?

[King112]

ooh, I didn't know this thread existed I wrote a lot of poetry back when I had free time. I haven't written anything in a while... I have a blog though:

 

http://expresswhatyouarefeeling.blogspot.ca/

 

I haven't added anything in a while, I just might after exams though

 

Feedback?

I would say, Awesome. your a really good writer

[ShootingStar16]

Guys here's mine 

 

A little personal, but here:

 

September 9th, 2014

 

It has been slightly less than a year since the incident, but it stalks and engulfs me like a dark, menacing shadow. They haunt me every waking moment: the ghosts of the past. I will never look at him the same way again. Words echo in my mind: this was in the past. Get over it. The people around me say such things, though they have not stepped in my shoes. I sit and close my eyes. Suddenly, I am brought back to the past. It was about one year ago when someone who I have always thought of as a friend abandoned me in this dark, lonely world. He left me with feelings of anger and resentment. I was starting my first year of high school then. At that time, I was still capable of placing an ample amount of trust in people, but the incident left a scar that seems to show no signs of healing.

 

I met him at the beginning grade seven, and we immediately became close friends. He was short in stature and small in frame. He possessed short, pale blond hair and light blue eyes as well. The two of us were in the same band class. I remember how he sat right behind me, and he played the trombone while I played the clarinet. I vividly recall the casual conversations we had after school down the colourful hallways. It did not seem to be that long ago. The lockers in one hallway were a vibrant yellow, while another hallway possessed scarlet lockers. The other hues were a darker yellow-green and a brilliant sky blue. The halls resonated with a hundred voices.

 

At that time, I was under the illusion that I finally had someone I could trust. Our friendship endured for two years. However, throughout those two years, words were whispered in my ear; who I saw him as was just a mask, and he had darker intentions concealed behind that plastic mask. They told me he was talking about me behind my back. I didn’t listen to what they told me because it never occurred to me that he would be that kind of person. There was a slight uneasy feeling I experienced internally, but I didn’t put much significance on it. Looking back, I have come to the realization that I was wrong to ignore it. These very memories stand far behind me now, and I tried to resist looking back. However, my efforts are futile.

 

It was over the summer when he stopped responding to the messages I sent him, and it was two months later when I discovered that what my friends have been telling me was true. I never liked hanging out with her. She always wanted to talk to me. What he said stung, and it was as if I was stabbed by a multiple daggers. I recoiled as the cold, sharp steel bit deep into my flesh. He used to reassure me that I was not bothering him. He used to be my friend. He used to be the one who was always there for me when I needed him most. Just then, I felt that I had nobody. I felt so alone. I was livid as well. I was furious about the fact that he would do such a thing when he was the person I would have least suspected. I barely spoke to him after that. When I did, I spat out words of anger. I could never forgive him. Whenever I see him, it is difficult to imagine who he once was because of what I saw behind the mask. Instead of who I once knew, I see the boy I have come to despise. I have refrained from making amends with him because who is to say he will not repeat this act? Even if he were to apologize, it will fall upon deaf ears. Words are wind in comparison to actions.

 

Consequently, the trust I had initially placed in people vanished like a puff of smoke. I am afraid of befriending new people because what I desire the least is for the past to repeat itself. My greatest fear is becoming too close to someone; I shut myself out from everyone else. People have constantly reassured me that it won’t be like this anymore, although they don’t know for certain. I remember. I may not speak of it, but I always remember.

Edited May 19, 2015 by ShootingStar16

[Jak2110]

Hi guys, just thought I'd have a crack at a certain style of poetry.

 

 

There once was a mouse called Keith,

Who circumcised men with his teeth.

It wasn't for leisure, 

Or sexual pleasure,

But just for the cheese underneath.

 

Edited May 19, 2015 by Jak2110

[IbTrojan]

Hi guys, just thought I'd have a crack at a certain style of poetry.

 

 

There once was a mouse called Keith,

Who circumcised men with his teeth.

It wasn't for leisure, 

Or sexual pleasure,

But just for the cheese underneath.

 

Once you get past the first reaction, it's actually pretty funny

[amarciar]

I love writing!! Although i only write German short stories, but maybe one day I'll manage a book ðŸ˜

Oh and I know NaNoWriMo I joined in twice now and actually did it for CAS.

When I was younger I would invent stories and tell them to my friends when we had to wait for something or just quietly sat somewhere. It was always so much fun!!

[Richard Stifler]

Salut,

One of my aspirations is also to be a writer. I write in my native language, which is not english. Poems, Crime Fiction, Short Stories, Descriptions. This may seem kinda weird, but if it would give me money I would simply write descriptions, beautiful and elegant, playing and translating nature features to human features. I know that descriptions are, for most readers, tedious. But believe me my strongest suit are descriptions, filling them with insidious and genuine synaesthesias, synecdoches, personifications and even pleonasms. I am kinda looney, you know? I stumble with descriptions and adjectives; also when (and I love when I sense this) I am describing people, I love to use features that are not properly human like, for example, mixing it with adjectives that would describe a river. 

And this an aspect I must redress, because writing short stories or crime fiction if you do astray in descriptions you are not going to get the support of the readers. And whether you, fellow looney poets, young and jovial geniuses, like it or not the sales are important. I thought myself as one of those ascetic and absorbed writer, but that isn't enough, as your ingenuity will be fed by the support of the readers. I don't like commercial readings, for in lieu of those cheap and derisory pages, I incur in a "heavy" and oneiric Literature. Those who allow you to expand your imagination, to straddle your vocabulary, thoughts, limits. A book about a man who goes to find the edenic place which he had never (ever) expected to find is indeed better than a trivial crime fiction story in which the detective is the murderer, I believe. And that's my immediate battle now: to be able to link ingenuity and the idyllic beauty of words to a storyline. Like I said, a storyline won't make a good literary work but a description, by itself, will not do it either, in the eyes of the nowadays world.

Nonetheless, with the IB my idle, precious times destined to write and travel to a new world are getting deprived, unfortunately, my dear fellow writers. So, the ingenuity is, piece by piece, fainting and I am afraid I ll never get those fallen pieces back. Still, I advise you not to loose these precious, silent nights. And also, try to gain as many vocabulary as you can. This may seem small talk and typical from a guy that is not a writer, but the understanding of words is very important, I mean I am not telling this just because oh sure words are inextricably necessary to write a good description. They are indeed. But words are what allow you to understand the main message of a poet's extravagant try to do so. Synonyms are not equal, if so there would only be one word. If a poet uses one word, besides rimming, it must have an impact, and you will only be able to fully grasp and interact with it if you have seen that word many many many times used in many many many contexts. It is in these cases that I see that words almost come to live as huge, portentous figures with major and human semblances. It seems they have a personality, an inner. Like us, every word is different, a different way of being. And I tell you my favorite writers are the ones who actually take this into account and majestically play with it.

I would like to hear some more of you, or to discuss figures of speech you like to use, your writing traits, or even literary oeuvres you read and influenced your writings.

Cheers,

Richard    

[ShootingStar16]

So here is a critical essay I wrote for a portfolio assignment and also to prep for my diploma exams in the regular curriculum (non-IB): 

 

Trapped

 

 

 

From time to time, there is that one brief, but dramatic moment that steers the individual away from the path upon which they tread. Usually, they feel sure of the course they take or at the very least, they think they are certain about the direction they are going in as well as the reasons behind it. They are under the illusion of certainty until there is that moment of epiphany. Such a realization creates a sense of reluctance for the individual, and they begin to formulate reasons that they think would justify their renouncing a course of action. In James Joyce’s short story “Eveline”, the protagonist Eveline is forced to make the major decision of whether she should leave her home in Ireland to begin a new life with her lover Frank and stray away from the things she has become so familiar with or remain in Ireland and continue to live with her abusive father as well as the familiar societal conventions she is expected to follow. Her decision to leave Ireland is the main source of inner conflict throughout the story. Along the way, she formulates reasons that seemingly justify an unwillingness to leave Ireland. This is due to a fear of the unknown as well as the individual tendency to dwell upon what is familiar to them regardless of how much it has changed for the worse.  In “Eveline”, Joyce utilizes Eveline’s development as a character to suggest that even when a trapped individual is, in some ways, suffocating from the boundaries in which they reside, they renounce their decision to stray from the boundaries that suffocate them because what is beyond those boundaries is completely unknown to them. The boundaries in which they reside, no matter how much they feel the prisoner, represent all the individual is familiar with. Furthermore, there is the obligation to adhere to societal conventions, and the individual cannot help but contemplate that they will be shunned if they choose to escape. Thus, the individual is back to where they were before, and there is no hope of them escaping from those pre-existing restrictions.

 

 

 

            At the beginning, Eveline is seen as an individual who is trapped in her own past and the things that she is familiar with. A part of her yearns for an escape from her present situation whether it be physically leaving Ireland or dwelling on memories of her past. Eveline is first portrayed as a trapped individual in: “She sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue.” Windows typically symbolize a frame in which the individual is enclosed, and in this case it is Eveline who is enclosed in this frame emphasizing that she is trapped within her own surroundings. The window serves as a boundary between what is inside and what is outside. In this case, Eveline is in her home, and she is merely an observer of the happenings outside; she cannot truly escape beyond the confines of her household regardless of how hard she tries. Since the “inside” is her home, and her home could represent all that she is familiar with, and in a way, her “comfort zone”. It plays on the idea that Eveline is viewing the outside from an “inside” perspective; her lens is somewhat tainted by her past as well as the aspects she is well-acquainted with. Furthermore, Eveline’s tendency to dwell on the past as a means of escaping is evident in Joyce’s use of flashbacks. This is evident in: “The children of the avenue used to play together in the field–the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters.” Joyce diverges from the conventional, linear storyline as a means of portraying Eveline’s tendency to yearn for the past and her unwillingness to deal with the uncertainties of her past. As a result of Eveline’s inability to go back to the past and a yearning desire to escape from her present situation in which she is trapped, she contemplates escaping with her lover.

 

 

 

            The only possible, permanent method of escape that Eveline sees is leaving Ireland with her lover Frank, and to go to Buenos Ayres to be his bride; this is the course of action she takes in order to burst out of her shell. Eveline’s desire to escape with Frank is most emphasized in: “He had tales of distant countries.” A tale is typically a story that is that can either be true or fictitious. The use of the word “tale” in this context casts a sort of mystique which draws Eveline towards the temptation of escaping to Buenos Ayres with him. There is a sense of unfamiliarity that intrigues her and draws her towards the decision to leave Ireland. The mystical tone that is emitted in this section is also evident in: “He had sailed through the Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of the terrible Patagonians.” In this instance, Eveline acts the listener to Frank’s “tales”; she has never directly experienced these things, and it is likely that he exaggerated some of the details in his stories from overseas. As a result, the ongoing theme of enchantment and mystique that contrasts with what Eveline is familiar with is emphasized even more. The various objects in her house are described as being “dusty”; they are decaying and they are obsolete. On the other hand, a journey to the unknown provides for Eveline a breath of fresh air; it draws her away from the decaying, outdated traditions of Ireland with which she is so well-acquainted. Simultaneously, however, it is that sense of unfamiliarity that pushes her towards renouncing the decision she makes to escape Ireland. This could partly be due to the individual’s tendency to fear the unknown.

 

 

 

            The fear of the unknown is a major reason as to why Eveline chooses to not depart Ireland with Frank at the last minute; despite how she is enchanted by the tales Frank tells her, there is a part of her that hesitates, and that part to renounce her course of action dominates in the end. In terms of human nature, there is the tendency to stray away from what is unknown to us and the tendency to return to what we are familiar with regardless of how much it suffocates us. The very “tales” he tells her are all she truly knows, and she has no experience travelling outside of Ireland. What she has in her mind are the colonial illusions (as evident in the allusion to “the terrible Patagonians” who are mythical giants originating from Argentina and Chile) of what is across the ocean. Furthermore, towards the end, the narrator portrays her reactions as Frank beckons for her to go. We see this in: “She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal.” Her “white face” demonstrates her fear and also, white archetypically represents innocence, so it could also symbolize her true naïvety in the situation. It shows how little she knows about what is across the waters and how sheltered she is from what truly lies out there. Her innocence is also emphasized when the narrator compares her to “a helpless animal” through a simile. The comparison of her to “a helpless animal” emphasizes her vulnerability which makes it justified as to why she reconsiders escaping with Frank. In addition to that, an animal is more accustomed to dwelling within their own habitat.

 

 

 

In terms of what is inside Eveline’s “window”, her tendency to remain within her own comfort zone (or “habitat”) is most evident in when she attempts to deny her father’s abuse as a means of justifying why she should remain in Ireland and not go to Buenos Ayres with Frank. Specifically, this is shown in: “Sometimes [her father] could be very nice.” This is a contrast to how the narrator speaks of Eveline’s father at the beginning: “[…] she sometimes felt herself in danger of her father’s violence.” This directly demonstrates the violent nature of Eveline’s father, and is a valid reason as to why she would choose to leave Ireland. However, towards the end, the narrator demonstrates Eveline’s denial of her father’s abusive nature later on in the story possibly to justify reasons for Eveline to stay in Ireland because he is part of the world of which she is most familiar. She mentions that at one point, he “told her a ghost story”, and on the larger scale, Ireland itself during the time period this story was written was riddled with superstition. Despite how superstition is considered obsolete, it is part of the world Eveline lives in, so she renounces her course of action because of a yearning for the obsolete, but familiar aspects of her life.

 

 

 

            Lastly, another reason as to why Eveline would renounce her decision to escape is the need to adhere to societal conventions. We see Eveline’s simultaneous yearning to adhere to societal conventions in: “What would they say of her in the Stores when they found out that she had run away with a fellow?” The posing of this question demonstrates that Eveline feels a sense of uneasiness; it plays on the idea that not all issues have been resolved and she still has many things to ask about. The time period in which Eveline lives frowns upon her decision to run away with Frank; it breaks societal conventions, and she is in a society where conventions are an essential part to life. The question the narrator poses also suggests that Eveline has the tendency to consider what others think of her decisions, and she does not fully consider her self-interest, but also the collective interest. The reason as to why she resolves to not escape with Frank in the end is partly because of how society would view her as a result; she fears breaking these conventions and becoming an outsider of her world.

 

 

 

            Overall, the fear of the unknown and the tendency to not stray away from one’s own comfort zone serve as reasons to justify the human need to have second thoughts about escaping from the boundaries in which the individual is trapped. In “Eveline”, James Joyce simultaneously illustrates the desire for escape and the hesitation to escape as well as the reasons for that. Escape is something the individual desires. It is very much like a distant light in their tunnel, and a part of them wants to reach that light. It is a sign of hope for them. It presents an opportunity to escape because in their life, they play the prisoner. However, a part of them is afraid. They ask themselves: what is beyond this tunnel?  Should I really leave or should I stay? As they draw closer to the light, they try to convince themselves to head back. Fear overtakes them, and they go back into the dark. [1] 

 

Edited August 18, 2016 by ShootingStar16

[ladycapulet]

Yikes! Late to the party.

I'm procrastinating on prepping for a commentary by reading through your works. It's very nice to be in an environment where so many are so enthusiastic about writing!

I really enjoy writing as well, and maybe I'll be brave enough to share something here one day! Until then, I'll be a regular lurker.

[imosz]

I just found this thread and I'm LOVING IT. Most of what I write is poetry, and I've recently started trying to experiment more with different forms of it. I also like to write short stories. When I was younger I always dreamed of writing a book someday, but it's not really something that appeals to me anymore? I'm not so sure why, Sometimes when I look at my poetry, I feel like I'm living up to some stereotype about the emo teenager with their angsty poetry. Does anyone else ever feel like that?

I think I texted you.

Somewhere between two and three last night.

Somewhere between insomnia and deprivation.

Somewhere between depression and desperation.

Somewhere between hope and delusion.

Somewhere in the gray areas of my heart.

[Taylanian]

I always wanted to a writer. But my real hero is William Shakespeare. I wrote an essay for class about Macbeth —  https://freebooksummary.com/lady-macbeth-character-analysis-20387