Someone once told me,
"Being a writer is like being a prostitute, really. At first you're only doing it for yourself, then wewe decide to tell a few friends, let them in on the action, then wewe decide to let a couple strangers in, pretty soon you're welcoming the entire world."
Such a very accurate quote. When I heard this, I was at a very formal luncheon with a few kids from my journalism class in which we produced the school's newspaper: The Jagged Edge. It was an awards ceremony for individual work as well as our newspaper as a whole to be recognized. Granted, it was a local newspaper that was sponsoring the event, nothing major, but it was a big deal for me - for us.
In our class - Digital Design- I can't explain what it's like. I don't know if any of wewe have been in such a class before, but we're like family. There aren't many of us, but I'd say about 80% of us are dedicated to journalism, all aspiring to be journalists. That 80% was there with me, sitting around the meza, jedwali all dressed up, proud of our lowly funded newspaper. The newspaper without color, without someone sponsoring us, giving us all the money we needed, without gifted artists and a committed school. Just us, teacher included. I'm the only freshman there, many of them are seniors who have been with the paper for several years. This is their last go around the track, their final show, yet they welcome me with open arms, teaching me what they know. They're clearly in charge, but they work with us, asking for our ideas and molding them into the plan.
As evidenced kwa former students who have moved on to become journalists, the class mimics a real newsroom. We don't go in every siku and do work out of a book,or off the board, nothing like that. We don't even ask our teacher what we need to do; we know. We're out getting quotes, doing interviews, researching what we need for our articles, thinking up ideas to improve the newspaper, designing the layouts, getting the ads for funds, asking our editors when we have a question, taking pictures, looking to our teacher for approval - we do it all. We help each other. We work as a team.
Then, at the end of the year, as we sat at that meza, jedwali and listened as the awards were called out, we smiled. A few of us collected awards for our articles, our layouts, etc. There were perhaps 20 schools, each with a party of 8-10 students, and we all hollered and cheered as every student went up. Cheering them on for their dreams. Sure, we were especially proud for our awards, but it felt like we were cheering everyone on all at once. wewe could see it in the eyes of the winners, the familiar wet glaze over their eyes, the satisfaction that they're pursing what they want to be with all their heart. It's magical, really. We didn't win amazing, but then it was time for the final award. Adviser of the Year. It's an award that goes to the teacher who really put their moyo into the newspaper and had outstanding effect on the students. I'm sure wewe can all imagine the kind of criteria I mean.
Rather than calling the winner's name and then kusoma off the reasons why they were chosen, the reasons were alisema before the name for this award. Two au three of the seniors wrote letters, as was asked, highlighting the reasons our teacher should win. Two of them sat kwa me as the description was read, the other at nyumbani sick. I glanced back at my teacher (like everyone else at our table), but she was shaking her head as if she knew she wouldn't win, yet as the judge continued to talk I could hear the hushed whispers of the seniors saying 'that sounds like what I wrote, I think I mentioned that in my letter, do you-' but it was cut off as our teacher's name was announced. To be truthful, all of us got a little teary eyed as our teacher stood to get her award. She walked to the seniors beside me, hugging them tightly before moving to the front to accept the prestigious award and get her picture taken. She came back in silent tears, smiling, and we were all so very proud.
It was during this time that I realized again why I upendo writing. The feeling of being rewarded for your hard work, the people wewe work with close at hand, ready to give wewe a pat on the back for a job well done, your name plastered over a piece of work that you're proud of, seeing and kusoma the maoni of those that enjoyed your work, those that may not have, and the unexplainable feeling wewe get when everything is over.
In class now, I stand at the white board with the marker, uandishi down ideas for inayofuata year. The older kids told me to do it - my friends, told me they were passing the marker to the inayofuata generation with this joking tone and goofy grins, but when I look in their eyes I know they mean it. They're ready to go, sad, but ready, and they know I'll be here inayofuata mwaka filling their shoes. And they're proud. We're all proud. I know they'll come back inayofuata year, criticizing the newspaper with a new eye, laughing, hugging me and a few others in a small reunion, spilling their accomplishments to us, and again I'll get that feeling. That inexplainable, wonderful feeling, and I'll remember why it is I write.
"Being a writer is like being a prostitute, really. At first you're only doing it for yourself, then wewe decide to tell a few friends, let them in on the action, then wewe decide to let a couple strangers in, pretty soon you're welcoming the entire world."
Such a very accurate quote. When I heard this, I was at a very formal luncheon with a few kids from my journalism class in which we produced the school's newspaper: The Jagged Edge. It was an awards ceremony for individual work as well as our newspaper as a whole to be recognized. Granted, it was a local newspaper that was sponsoring the event, nothing major, but it was a big deal for me - for us.
In our class - Digital Design- I can't explain what it's like. I don't know if any of wewe have been in such a class before, but we're like family. There aren't many of us, but I'd say about 80% of us are dedicated to journalism, all aspiring to be journalists. That 80% was there with me, sitting around the meza, jedwali all dressed up, proud of our lowly funded newspaper. The newspaper without color, without someone sponsoring us, giving us all the money we needed, without gifted artists and a committed school. Just us, teacher included. I'm the only freshman there, many of them are seniors who have been with the paper for several years. This is their last go around the track, their final show, yet they welcome me with open arms, teaching me what they know. They're clearly in charge, but they work with us, asking for our ideas and molding them into the plan.
As evidenced kwa former students who have moved on to become journalists, the class mimics a real newsroom. We don't go in every siku and do work out of a book,or off the board, nothing like that. We don't even ask our teacher what we need to do; we know. We're out getting quotes, doing interviews, researching what we need for our articles, thinking up ideas to improve the newspaper, designing the layouts, getting the ads for funds, asking our editors when we have a question, taking pictures, looking to our teacher for approval - we do it all. We help each other. We work as a team.
Then, at the end of the year, as we sat at that meza, jedwali and listened as the awards were called out, we smiled. A few of us collected awards for our articles, our layouts, etc. There were perhaps 20 schools, each with a party of 8-10 students, and we all hollered and cheered as every student went up. Cheering them on for their dreams. Sure, we were especially proud for our awards, but it felt like we were cheering everyone on all at once. wewe could see it in the eyes of the winners, the familiar wet glaze over their eyes, the satisfaction that they're pursing what they want to be with all their heart. It's magical, really. We didn't win amazing, but then it was time for the final award. Adviser of the Year. It's an award that goes to the teacher who really put their moyo into the newspaper and had outstanding effect on the students. I'm sure wewe can all imagine the kind of criteria I mean.
Rather than calling the winner's name and then kusoma off the reasons why they were chosen, the reasons were alisema before the name for this award. Two au three of the seniors wrote letters, as was asked, highlighting the reasons our teacher should win. Two of them sat kwa me as the description was read, the other at nyumbani sick. I glanced back at my teacher (like everyone else at our table), but she was shaking her head as if she knew she wouldn't win, yet as the judge continued to talk I could hear the hushed whispers of the seniors saying 'that sounds like what I wrote, I think I mentioned that in my letter, do you-' but it was cut off as our teacher's name was announced. To be truthful, all of us got a little teary eyed as our teacher stood to get her award. She walked to the seniors beside me, hugging them tightly before moving to the front to accept the prestigious award and get her picture taken. She came back in silent tears, smiling, and we were all so very proud.
It was during this time that I realized again why I upendo writing. The feeling of being rewarded for your hard work, the people wewe work with close at hand, ready to give wewe a pat on the back for a job well done, your name plastered over a piece of work that you're proud of, seeing and kusoma the maoni of those that enjoyed your work, those that may not have, and the unexplainable feeling wewe get when everything is over.
In class now, I stand at the white board with the marker, uandishi down ideas for inayofuata year. The older kids told me to do it - my friends, told me they were passing the marker to the inayofuata generation with this joking tone and goofy grins, but when I look in their eyes I know they mean it. They're ready to go, sad, but ready, and they know I'll be here inayofuata mwaka filling their shoes. And they're proud. We're all proud. I know they'll come back inayofuata year, criticizing the newspaper with a new eye, laughing, hugging me and a few others in a small reunion, spilling their accomplishments to us, and again I'll get that feeling. That inexplainable, wonderful feeling, and I'll remember why it is I write.
Darkest light, brightest sight
Midnight sky, Nyx's day
That navy ribbon shall lead the way
Full moon, Selene's sun
It soon shall be the only one...
heres another one
No red,
No yellow,
No blue,
No white,
Nature is gone,
The flowers are dead,
There be no zaidi light,
Black!
Everywhere around.
Scream!
There is no other sound.
All is lost.
And then another:
Fly,
So high,
HIgh as the sky,
Into seeping blackness.
No light is upon us,
And nothing is ever clear.
Diamond bright,
Beauty in there eyes,
The stars are alive.
AND THEN ANOTHER!!!!
Midnight sky,
Burning ice,
No more, no more, no more,
Say it thrice.
Light will be engulfed in a black haze.
We have gone through the Council's faze.
BLOODY HELL!!!!!!
what yu think it means?
yu think its a prophesy?
idk! HELP!!!! i sometimes write poems in my sleep!! i dont memba riting them but they in my handwriting!! TELL ME WHAT IS HAPPENING!!!!
Midnight sky, Nyx's day
That navy ribbon shall lead the way
Full moon, Selene's sun
It soon shall be the only one...
heres another one
No red,
No yellow,
No blue,
No white,
Nature is gone,
The flowers are dead,
There be no zaidi light,
Black!
Everywhere around.
Scream!
There is no other sound.
All is lost.
And then another:
Fly,
So high,
HIgh as the sky,
Into seeping blackness.
No light is upon us,
And nothing is ever clear.
Diamond bright,
Beauty in there eyes,
The stars are alive.
AND THEN ANOTHER!!!!
Midnight sky,
Burning ice,
No more, no more, no more,
Say it thrice.
Light will be engulfed in a black haze.
We have gone through the Council's faze.
BLOODY HELL!!!!!!
what yu think it means?
yu think its a prophesy?
idk! HELP!!!! i sometimes write poems in my sleep!! i dont memba riting them but they in my handwriting!! TELL ME WHAT IS HAPPENING!!!!
Most Irritating Moments
- Morning Alarm
Most Difficult Task
- To find Socks
Most Dreadful Journey
- Way to Class
Most Lovely Time
- Meeting Friends
Most Tragic Moments
- Surprise Test in 1st Period
Most Wonderful News
- TEACHER IS ABSENT
Maybe this happens with everyone.Nobody likes school life but it get interesting with our Marafiki playing tricks with others,not doing homework,tests ect.We learn lots of things from school and we doesn't know how time get pass spending time with our friends.
It's fun.
- Morning Alarm
Most Difficult Task
- To find Socks
Most Dreadful Journey
- Way to Class
Most Lovely Time
- Meeting Friends
Most Tragic Moments
- Surprise Test in 1st Period
Most Wonderful News
- TEACHER IS ABSENT
Maybe this happens with everyone.Nobody likes school life but it get interesting with our Marafiki playing tricks with others,not doing homework,tests ect.We learn lots of things from school and we doesn't know how time get pass spending time with our friends.
It's fun.
Water
My only escape
Where for once my arms that are too pale and scrawny bend perfectly
Where I feel perfect
This is where my spirit will stay
When my body turns grey and dies away
Water
Where my legs that are too chubby au fat kick so strong
I feel perfect
This is the place my spirit will stay
When my body turns grey and dies away
Water
Where pain only makes me only go faster
Better
Prettier
Perfectly
Water
Where my face that's not pretty in never seen
Hidden in waves that make me feel free
This is the place my spirit will stay
When my body turns grey and dies away
Water
When I used to stab myself with needles
And let the blood bleed out
Suddenly is the last thing on my mind
And when I do spill blood
It's only on the days my mom says I can't go
To the water
Where my spirit will stay
When my body grows old and dies away
My only escape
Where for once my arms that are too pale and scrawny bend perfectly
Where I feel perfect
This is where my spirit will stay
When my body turns grey and dies away
Water
Where my legs that are too chubby au fat kick so strong
I feel perfect
This is the place my spirit will stay
When my body turns grey and dies away
Water
Where pain only makes me only go faster
Better
Prettier
Perfectly
Water
Where my face that's not pretty in never seen
Hidden in waves that make me feel free
This is the place my spirit will stay
When my body turns grey and dies away
Water
When I used to stab myself with needles
And let the blood bleed out
Suddenly is the last thing on my mind
And when I do spill blood
It's only on the days my mom says I can't go
To the water
Where my spirit will stay
When my body grows old and dies away