Nerd, artist, author
I am a young female writer. I play 5 instruments and sing, and I also write music. I draw and read quite a bit, too. I watch a lot of anime and read a lot of manga.
We’ve interviewed each writer and below are their answers.
I am inspired to write by small things: the colour of the sky before sunset, the sound of the wind in the trees, the crackling of gravel beneath a heavy car. It’s the tiny details that really get me in the mood to write. I also listen to music to inspire me, especially indie music or classical music.
I have been writing short stories since about first grade, and I have been writing novels since sixth grade. Perhaps they weren’t of great quality, but I did write them a lot back then.
I prefer writing sci-fi, thriller, and historical fiction novels for young adults.
I come up with my settings by looking at the world around me. I try to create realities that seem like they could exist, even if they have magic in them. For characters, I come up with a name and then build off from there. If the name seems like that of a timid character, the character is timid; if the name seems brave, the character is brave. If they seem like they should have red hair, then they will have red hair; if they seem more like a brunette, then they are a brunette.
making an uproar or loud, confused noise
unnecessary, especially through being more than enough
the action, process, or result of combining or uniting
A few authors that inspire me and that I would recommend are Lex Thomas, Todd Strasser, Hiromu Arakawa, Yuki Urushibara, Kafka Asagiri, and Janne Teller.
Write something that you would enjoy to read. Write something that you will be proud of, even years in the future. The key to writing something like that: writing while you’re inspired. Inspiration is the key to an interesting story. If you are inspired and really engaged with your writing, then you will write something that you will be proud of.
The animal that I would probably be would be a bird. I am rather loud, and I prefer to be in large “flocks” of people.
Sarah F's Work
Blood is an odd color. It’s red, but it’s a void of a sort— a coat of nothing, as Professor likes to call it, because a layer of blood makes it look as if there’s just an endless pool. It’s interesting, to say the least, to think of blood as a bottomless liquid, but Henry prefers not to see it.
Henry prefers not to see any of it. He doesn’t want to see the bodies, or the blood, but he can’t help it this time. It’s right in front of him; its pale face, its jaw hanging to its chest, the smell of its rotting flesh. This one has been here for a while, and there’s no chance of the soul being in it at all; all the better and all the worse. All the better for the experiment, all the worse for him. The fact that he has to carry the revolting thing…
At least she’s beyond dead and there’s no chance of anything leaking on him– well, no chance of anything besides sewage.
Stop thinking of that and get your job done, Henry.
It was dark outside, seeing as it was midnight, and the stars above were almost entirely invisible thanks to the bright city below them. They seemed shrouded behind the cloth of the busy night air.
Rachel Sean felt that night air shrouding her too. Surrounded by only silence and looking out at the vast city, she felt so small. Her navy blue dress, painted with small silver speckles so it appeared to be an unpolluted night sky, sparkled blindingly in the surrounding lights. Still, she
paid no mind to the lights surrounding her, nor how they reflected off of her dress to make it look like a starry night sky.
No, she focused on the city below her balcony. It was so large– so stunning and beautiful– that she felt unworthy, like a speck of dirt beside a bar of gold. She felt like she should bow before it like it were a queen.
Her long, slender fingers ran across the thick, concrete-formed vines that wrapped around the railing of the balcony. She’d come out here for a breather, but now she stood in awe of the city,
the sounds of the loud, clear music just inside the door muffled as it hit her ears, as if her brain,
deep in thought, would not allow it to permeate its walls.
Just like every morning, it takes me a moment to remember where I am this morning, for me to remember who I am, and then it takes me even longer to remember how I got here, but I, as always, like every single time, remember who the girl beside me is. I know who she is even more than I know myself.
Every morning I study her face. This morning more than others, I notice how much it
reminds me of my mother’s. Her soft, round features, the light freckles across the cheeks and her forehead, the blossoming pink lips.
And, just like every day, I look at the top of her head and think of how much of a shame it is that she shaved her hair. She hated her hair. I loved it. Of course, I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t tell her that I loved how orange her hair was, that I called her Orange because of it, that I still called her Orange and prayed that she’d grow it back out so that I could see the lovely curls of that orange hair