Like a paintbrush is a tool for detailed masterpieces, breathing life into strokes, creating stories out of pigment, adding beauty to the world. It’s a tool like a jackhammer is a tool for getting shit done. It’s beautiful, freeing, and allows me to create. My philosophy towards writing allows me to understand the world through language, translating somatic experiences into words and the like.
Thank you for coming along on my writing journey!
start here:
other works
“You’re no poet”- Poem, Writer to Writer Literary Journal
“Prime Suspect”, “Sweet”, “Pockets”- Zines, Writing 160
The Process
Choosing a genre: I wish I had a more introspective reason for choosing the genres of my experiments and FRP, but the truth is that I chose what I liked reading and let that inspire what sounded fun to write about. Some pieces of writing I chose as inspiration included:
- “Aubergine” by Julia Cho
- “The Book of Delights” by Ross Gay
- “ Human Dark with Sugar” by Brenda Shaughnessy
Complete Annotated Bibliography
Intro to the minor in writing
the purpose of this course was to experiment with modalities, as well as to learn to effectively and constructively peer review, and reflect on our growth. Starting with a previous piece of writing that spoke to us, our ‘origin piece’, we worked during the length of the semester to transform our piece into different works, first through experimentation, then through the development of an e-portfolio showcasing our process and a fully realized project.
frp: The lyric essays
During our class genre exploration, we listened to “Loitering,” a lyric essay from Ross Gay’s “The Book of Delights”. After class, the first thing I did was go to the library to take the book home. I’d never heard of lyric essays before, but I was drawn in by both the storytelling element, and straight-forward yet layered prose. The lyric essay delivers versatility, can be intertextual, and is a very accessible format. Because of these elements, and after reading “The Book of Delights”, I knew I wanted to attempt to write in the genre of the lyric essay for my fully realized project.
origin piece
I wrote “Sweet!” because since coming to college, food has been on my mind in terms of eating culture, diet culture and its intersections with identity. How and what girls and women eat differs from men, differs between cultures, and is often overlooked as a topic of interest because of its ubiquitousness. The transition to college allowed me a greater sense of awareness to differing eating behaviors, and I found that worth exploring. Writing 160 presented me with an opportunity to do so, and thus “Sweet!” was created.
click or scan to read!
Lyric Essay
Plenty and Enough
I’m fine. When I told them this, my friends Plenny and Enoff, looked at me like I was crazy. I don't blame them; prosperity is wasted when girls like me are in control. But I am, in control that is, and a logical person for that matter. Which is exactly why I don’t see any shame in admitting I like to count.
At eight or nine or even older, I would keep my eyes open when driving past the cemeteries. It would make me dizzy, but I counted the tombstones, counted how long my eyes were open for, then, feeling guilty for all the living I was doing right in front of them, began to count my breaths.
You might think this is stupid but sometimes I feel like I’m wasting air just by breathing it, wasting water just by drinking it, wasting food just to lay around all day, letting all that energy sink into my stomach, to my thighs, to the sad, sagging mattress beneath me.
Plenny says that life’s a cycle, not created or destroyed, and all that emo shit is probably just because I’m hungry. I tell her in my head to go to hell, but out loud I just say I’ll eat her mom. It doesn’t feel right. What she says doesn’t feel true.
Enoff just listens, like he mostly does, but looks at her like I used to look at food, and I have to turn away.
It’s not an exact science, mostly I don’t do it consciously, but there is a magic number in my head that I want to reach, then I’ll stop I swear, and the only way I get there is by keeping the capital C’s to a minimum. I ask myself, are you really hungry? Then throw a phone in my face before I have the chance to answer. I go to sleep when it starts to hurt, and little by little, nothing happens.
When I last went to the doctor, and she looked at my growth curve, she told me that I had a very stable weight. “You have not gained or lost a single pound in the last three years.” I want to tell her, “I lost ten during the school year then gained it back in the summer, and actually I gained five ounces overall,” but that makes it sound like I have an E.D. Jesus knows I don’t, It just doesn’t hurt to be well informed.
It’s not a disorder, it’s disordered, and actually, it’s pretty fucking organized, thank you very much. God what the fuck is the matter with everyone nowadays? They watch 10 tik toks and suddenly boom! A diagnostician.
Let the record state that
I FUCKING LOVE FOOD.
Enoff in a change of pace turned to me, snowflakes cutting through the air between us then, and said “why don’t you marry it then.” Plenny gave a deep sigh and put her face in her hands. I burst into tears.
As they put their arms around me, and said “let’s go home,” I had a sudden realization of all that I was missing, all that I had given.
I remembered then, me as young as five years old thinking I was fat, for the way my body wrapped around me, still solid and soft like a baby.
I remember hiding in the pantry, ruining my dinner with candy, a smile on my face, corn syrup on my hands.
I remember baking muffins during sleepovers, picking out the best shade of pink for the frosting, making an absolute mess of the kitchen.
I remembered going out every Monday night with my grandma and my mama, and getting an adult size order of sushi each. And it was good, and it was love.
I remembered food, I remembered joy, and I remembered who my friends were.
There’s Plenny, and there’s Enoff. I'm looking at them now, and I think they might have been right about so many things.
Their hands around my shoulders, snow melting sharply on my tear-stained cheeks, we began walking home.
And I didn’t count my steps.
Conceptual Play
Chaos in the Kitchen
Enigmatic Restanteur
Multiple Scenes, Same Location
Missing on opening night!
Somehow their stories are interconnected, they don’t know how yet. Each table dealing with their own problems. A proposal gone wrong, a critic, an almond mom and her resentful daughter, a group of friends hosting a surprise wedding, and they’re all hungry for answers.
Staff overwhelmed, missing recipe for special soup, owner is the only one who has it.
Pressure because of a critic dining in. Noises Off! type of problems, acting ‘normal’ for customers, but it is failing spectacularly.
Our narrator, seems to be aware of all the problems his absence is causing, seems to not care. Seems to have orchestrated this.
Food has been on my mind for quite some time. I would hate to speak for all of us, but Mexicans take a lot of pride in their cuisine. Food is culture, food is behavior, food is an art. And I take pride in eating, I strive for a diverse diet in flavors, cultures, history and more. But for my Fully Realized Project, I turned this search for history inwards, and contemplated my own life connections to the consumption of food. Ouroboros are mythological symbols of destruction and re-creation. By eating themselves they sustain themselves, are unified and reborn. I have likewise sifted through my own memories and experiences, soaking them in to extract a new meaning and create something new. “Ouroboros” is a collection of lyric essay “picture books” comprised of six common or defining relationships I have with food, eating, love, and life as a whole. Holistically they encompass moments of empathy, confusion, joy and frustration I’ve had, and tell stories that I hope might be a tad familiar. My experiences, culture, and thoughts are not universal, but food is, and the value of these stories might exist as intrinsically as everything else. Thank you for reading, and Bon Appétit!
-Jocelyn
