Kern Carter's Blog, page 11

Call For Submissions: Writing Therapy

Writing has so many benefits. I can’t tell you how many times someone has told me or emailed me about how writing has helped them to heal in some way.

At our latest Superstar Session writer convo, Jessica Duenas led the discussion about the role writing played in her sobriety. It was such an inspirational hour and all the CRY writers who attended contributed to making that session an incredible learning experience. If you haven’t signed up for those sessions yet, we have two more left this round and will continue to host sessions year-round. Sign up free here.

For this week’s writing prompt, reflect on a time that writing has been healing. What were you going through? Why did you turn to writing? How did writing get you through whatever was holding you down?

Same rules as always:You can submit to this or ANY of our past writing prompts. Just scroll through our previous newsletters. They’ll be marked “Call for Submissions.”If you’re already a writer for CRY, go ahead and submit.Be as creative as you want in your submissions. As long as you stick to the topic, we’ll consider it.Just because you submit doesn’t mean we’ll post. If you haven’t heard back from us in three days, consider that a pass.[image error]

Call For Submissions: Writing Therapy was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

She Made it to 25

When she swore she never would

Continue reading on CRY Magazine »

Boogieman

What if the boogieman doesn’t want to kill?

Using bones like an instrument;

The xylophone of a skeleton,

A rib cage, in the shadow of fangs;

But these teeth want mother's chicken soup

And these hands want a fireplace

And these haunting notes sound like a wailing chalkboard,

He plays with eyes squeezed shut.

“The kids are crying

Good people dying

And he’s it alone.”

The doctors said he feels pain

Yet not a word escapes his inner prison — ;

How does he not inflate like a balloon?

How does he not pop?

But I guess he does pop,

Doesn’t he?

Ain’t that right, pops?

Photo by I.am_nah on Unsplash[image error]

Boogieman was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Rainbow Connections

Three Conversations and a Rainbow Mat on Holiday

There are several surreal stories contained in a weather-beaten iPhone filled with digital photographs. Each begins with a question and ends with a rainbow. You might ask, how does a rainbow find its way into a holiday? Well, I contemplated the same question and I should begin first with the question to the woman seen in a photo on the cracked iPhone, her silhouette looking away, appearing silent and distant as if waiting for someone or something to happen.

‘Are you still liminal?’ A blue text beeps on the mobile in her hand.

Winona had been… very much indeed. Furthermore, she believes she might still be caught in between two or more worlds of her making, not quite here nor there; somewhere and nowhere on the borders of the in-between loosely marked by both geographies and time. Between the fine sands of East Africa and the corridors of Asia, there might be some rainbow magic delineating a very ordinary-looking, liminal doorway, in the shape of a rainbow mat.

‘Have you been half asleep
And have you heard voices?
I’ve heard them calling my name

(The Rainbow Connection by Kermit the Frog)

Photo by Alex Jackman on Unsplash

“Hey look, isn’t that our rainbow mat?!” Winona gestured wildly to the neighbouring unit’s straw mat at the foot of their door. It looked like it was hastily purchased at IKEA. The lyrics of The Rainbow Connection song popped into her mind,

‘Rainbows are visions
But only illusions
And rainbows have nothing to hide’

She pondered the rainbow sightings on her recent travels. She had seen her fair share of rainbows but never in experiential succession. Winona was taken back to three conversations she had in three countries in the last three weeks. The conversations themselves were not overwhelmingly interesting, but a happenstance of three similar instances in a row…?

Back on the 9th floor, Winona polled her thoughts in, as—
clanky lift doors open,
kids board in,
shouts to screams,
doors close.

For ten days, they walked right past the placid demeanour of the rainbow ‘doorway’, without blinking an eyelid. Everybody busying about with stories in their heads, whining about each other. When it grew quite impossible to ignore screaming children altogether, Winona cast her mind back to her not-so-distant memory of their recent holiday — on the white shores of Mombasa — where she was drawn to its chasmic pockets of peace. At night, the enormity of the dark sea under the fullness of the bright-eyed Yuletide moon brought forth stirrings of bliss beneath a canopy of twinkling skies.

That afternoon, a rainbow had graced the dusky evening—hues of purples, blues and pinks painted across the horizon. Right there on the forsaken sands lay a world beyond Winona’s grasp — the feeling, as if she were standing at the end of the world — its tantalizing smell of freedom matched equally by the weight of the earlier afternoon heat tanning her round shoulders. She sucked the vision of wonder in, threw her head back to the dance beats of the poolside DJ coo-ing, breathily… “on that serious note…” The Rainbow Connection played in her mind again.

[image error]Original photo by Li-Shen (December 2022)

‘Why are there so many
Songs about rainbows
And what’s on the other side?’

Time and rain / rolling in / in sweet accordance with, the / ebb and flow of the sea. Pounding beats cradled her into the night soon to be greeted by a gentle peachy glow reflected in her slow morning smile. Time remains unhurried and unmoved along the devastatingly beautiful coastline, where a lone fishing boat fishes for prawns, fish, and lobsters to cater to the local demands. In the early hours of the next morning, she breathed in the salt in the air, its taste latching onto the tip of her tongue. She leaned over the towering balcony on the fifth floor to confront her fear of heights by looking directly below. As if looking past a moment into the future… might there be an invisible doorway? Perhaps one that comes in the shape of a rainbow after the rain.

No one could forget the rainbow on ‘maimahue’ road after the rain on the way back to lake Naivasha that evening. Rain washed down, cleansing the dust from the air, trees, and plants, which had already brightened up as if to thank the sky with its lush greenery. This particular rainbow reminded her that falling short of expectations is one of the few social conventions Winona can let go of. Perhaps, they did not expect her to converse in such a colloquial way? Few could deny there is joy in rediscovering simple awkward pleasures in unfamiliar surroundings, much like finding a rainbow and several connections...

Original photo by Li Shen (December 2022)

Juliana, the cleaning lady in Mombasa, was so excellent in her service that Winona was missing her. Winona recollects Juliana bristling with indignation at her suggestion to forgo cleaning that day. “Mzuri sana… still, the cleaning should be done today,” Juliana insisted, as there are young children. She insisted on changing the bedsheets and towels, then on wiping the floor dry with her poised foot like a cat ready to pounce on her meal. On the first day, there was no water. The only working taps were churning out seawater, probably unsuitable for cooking, Winona surmised. On the second day, Juliana smiled warmly with a wave of her hand, “M’am, let me come again after 1 pm. You take your time with the children… it is hot… but at least, now the aircon is working.” She smiled.

They had spent a couple of hours trying to fix or pump into rusted corroded units worn down by the salt in the air and aged past their printed functional date.

“Oh, you are not going out today?” Juliana queried, inquisitively.

“If you need anything, anything at all, you can call me…” she leaned forward with an emphasis in her melodic singsong voice, her hand waving her mobile in front of Winona’s vision.

Pushing aside the tattered rainbow straw mat with her foot holding the door open, her mobile in mid-air, she made sure to make eye contact to confirm again that cleaning was to be done every two days.

‘Mzuri!’ Winona nodded, staring at the doormat thoughtfully.

Juliana retreated gingerly with a bow and a lingering concern that she might not be needed after all.

In a kitchen in an off-road motel in a town called Emali, the long pause in the conversation felt incredibly awkward. So much so that Winona wished she had said nothing at all. Three of them stood there side by side in a dank kitchen with chequered green tiles from the floor beneath their feet to the walls halfway. The slow heat crept on them from all sides as they remained motionless watching the centrepiece electric stove struggle to set to boiling two uneven steel containers (‘sufurias’) of tap water.

“You want to boil water for tea?” she asked somewhat contemptuously with a small measure of disbelief.

Winona nodded slowly before it dawned on her… that was probably the wrong option, as was the choice to cook instant noodles in these uneven steel medieval-beaming receptacles with no handles.

Winona and the girl staffer wait in what felt like a long and insufferable silence... … “It is taking long, huh… Does it have to be boiling?” the girl staffer finally breaks the tension.

Winona’s second mistake was to agree to the warm instead of boiling water. How daft — to be taken in by a petulant-looking, stout teenage girl in her matching tile-green chequer pinafore.

How is the water going to be transferred? Winona wondered. The girl, as if she had overheard the thoughts she might have said aloud, quickly replied, “I’ll show you how it’s done,” she said, smugly.

Her strong arms hoisted the two silver urns of steamy water with a red and white dish towel held precariously between her fingers. She shepherded the hot water deftly into two silver stainless steel insulated jugs, accomplishing the task with a refined measure of precision.

For a brief second, she appeared to smile since their first encounter. It was the strangest of all encounters because of the surreal quality of ‘making do’ in this roadside motel for truckers and before this querulous girl. It was as if they were meant and not meant to be there. It took some reimagining that the rooms have no locks or handles. The swinging door could be bolted with its long slim latch-and-catch type of closing. The police station next door is meant as a reassuring presence, but was it?

It was only after the electric hot water short-circuited the shower that it dawned on Winona that the warm water waiting patiently in anticipation of tea in the two pertinent jugs precariously perched on the low side table was not meant for tea at all.

Later in the evening, Winona walked back into the kitchen to look for the fridge. The fridge was surreptitiously tucked away in a narrow corridor behind the squarish kitchen. At its centre stood the electric stove where a tall woman with narrow rainbow-coloured braids was amusedly frying an omelette for dinner. Most likely the evening receptionist, Winona surmised. As Winona flicked the light switch off, from the corner of her eye she caught sight of two large cockroaches racing across the dim green floor.

Next door in unit 902, Winona struck up a semblance of conversation with the elderly lady cleaner in her 60s who rattled off in spurts of Mandarin pausing now and then mid-conversation to receive a confirmation to (in her limited English) some pre-fabricated assumption she had formed about her and her friend as they opened their second bottle of Italian wine. Winona was in the middle of describing the moment she thought she saw an otter emerge from the brown waters of the Singapore River. Brown like the vintage sepia photographs of the same river 80 years ago, as if unmarked by time. For lack of a better description, she said she felt as if she had forged a rainbow connection with the otter, just like the moment when she had a similar stupendous encounter on the Cable Car ride. There was a semi-formed rainbow. It materialised slowly, streaking across the grey sky.

An unbusy state
of being follows her, like
time slow-sipping wine.

“Each person is at each moment capable of remembering all that has ever happened to him and of perceiving everything that is happening everywhere in the universe”

(Huxley, The Doors of Perception)

The rocky terrain Downunder on her walk this morning reminded her of the slow stroll towards Lake Naivasha on that one quiet December evening. So much care was taken to carefully side-step the thorny plants capable of skewering a pair of the children’s crocs. The gentle lapping of water licking the banks, and the cries of wild birds screeching across tore at her soul, wrenching from her body like a banshee wailing for love lost, like the wind howling twenty floors up on a stormy Singapore afternoon, she thought. The wetlands in Australia have dried out. It is no wonder rainbow serpents are revered, said to reappear around waterholes.

She stood transfixed at their front door. For the first time since arriving home, she felt disoriented. In front of her was their rainbow straw mat from IKEA. A familiarity rushed across the unfamiliarities of time and space as if the mat too had gone on a holiday. Tagging along like a string of conversations strung from revolving doors, physical and emotional connections find ways to surface around water bodies.

Observing the rain that evening, Winona contemplated on the rainbow and the ways liminality has snaked its way into her world, making itself comfortable in the deepest pockets of a waking day. Could rainbow doorways be reserved for surreal travellers intent on writing hunched over in cosy corners?

Winona thought about the three conversations over the last three weeks. She missed Juliana the most. She stared into the raindrops, angling the rainbow straw mat with her foot, looking into the distance as though looking through a moment into the past.

‘Mzuri sana’, she said softly.

Original photo by Li Shen (January 2023)

“The raindrops stare back,
lined up on the window like
small faces, each drop
one second of my life. I
watch them to see which
will get too heavy and fall.
They have done their jobs.
Now in their old age,
everything said comes too late.”

(Victoria Chang in The Trees Witness Everything, ‘Rain Travel’)

Original photo by Li Shen (January 2023)

Winona whipped out her mobile, and mouthed “back tomorrow.”

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Rainbow Connections was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

My Special Thanks to Family, the Universe, Educators, Writers, and Editors

I wouldn’t be the writer I am today if it wasn’t for all of you!Image by Daniel Andrade: https://unsplash.com/photos/WZQgt3MZCe0

Writing is something I’ve always been passionate about. Words have always been there for me through the good times and the bad. If it wasn’t for the written word, I’d probably be someone completely different, and if I’m being honest, I don’t want to be anyone else but who I was always meant to be. I didn’t get this far all on my own. In fact, there are several people I’d like to thank.

God or the UniverseImage by Greg Rakozy: https://unsplash.com/photos/oMpAz-DN-9I

I used to be a devoted Christian growing up. Now that I’m an adult, I’m not quite sure there is a God, a Christian version of God anyway. I believe in a higher power, and although God or the Universe isn’t people, I think a higher power gave me the gift of writing. Still learning and researching different beliefs so I can’t 100% speak about this topic. So whether it’s God or the Universe, I thank you for blessing me with a beautiful gift that I can openly share with others.

My High School English Teacher[image error]Image by Ivan Aleksic: https://unsplash.com/photos/PDRFeeDniCk

I mentioned in my article, What I’m Looking Forward To that my English teacher has seen the brilliant writer in me when I didn’t want to see it within myself. He encouraged me to keep going and learning, and I wholeheartedly wish I took his words seriously instead of worrying about what my family thought of my words. To him and all English teachers everywhere, please continue to see the great potential writers out there and keep on encouraging them to never fold, crumble or tear apart their work when writing gets hard.

My Husband and KidsImage by Albert H: https://www.pexels.com/photo/white-framed-family-quote-printed-decorative-frame-3317974/

Writing while raising a family is not an easy feat, and I’m very thankful to my husband and daughters for giving me some quiet time to write. They all know it’s my passion, and that I want to provide them with a great future by becoming a full-time writer. My daughters see how hard I work, and I’m hoping that it inspires them to never give up on their dreams. They are the most important people to me and I love them.

The Cry Magazine CrewImage by Donald Tong: https://www.pexels.com/photo/brown-thank-you-card-on-pink-and-blue-small-bottle-89478/

Lastly, I thank all of you readers, writers, and editors here at Cry. You all inspire me to keep trying. Your comments and feedback keep me going when I want to give up. Seeing how well everyone works hard to give out writing advice and tell their stories shows a lot of bravery. Your stories have a huge impact and I’m learning so much. Keep it up, everyone!

Image by Christina Morillo: https://www.pexels.com/photo/three-woman-in-front-of-laptop-computer-1181233/

Being a writer isn’t always easy, and figuring out which path to take is always a new learning experience that I’m going to try my best at. To the professional writers, to the writers who are at their wit's end, and to future writers, I see you. Keep going and don’t give up on what you want in life. Thank you!

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My Special Thanks to Family, the Universe, Educators, Writers, and Editors was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Writing workshop Saturday

Hello friends,

We started our new round of writing workshops last Saturday exclusively for the CRY community. When I say exclusively, I mean we didn’t advertise anywhere else except through our newsletters. This is for CRY only!

Our second workshop is this Saturday from 1:00 pm — 2:00 pm EST. I know I messaged many of you personally, but in case I missed anyone, SIGN UP HERE and I will send you the meeting link.

Calling it a workshop is also a bit misleading. These are conversations led by writers in different fields that have had a level of success. We bring these writers in to lead discussions, but they are not there to lecture.

In our first session, most of the hour was spent with our writers asking questions that they wanted answered and that’s how these sessions are meant to go. It’s all about YOU and what you need to become a better writer or advance your career.

So if you’re interested, here’s the signup page again. You’ll be added to a special newsletter and sent the link Saturday morning.

See you soon!

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Writing workshop Saturday was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

21 Years Later — We Still Support Each Other

I’m blessed to have her. I hope she’s blessed to have me, too.

Continue reading on CRY Magazine »

The Gold

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It is the in-between moments

Continue reading on CRY Magazine »

I Need to Write a Bad Post

Forgive me, readers, I think it’s part of the processArtwork by author (Agnes)

This is not a writer’s block type thing. There are plenty of ideas swimming around in my head, bumping against each other like a drunken school of fish. Perhaps that is the problem or the trigger: not the lack of inspiration that often has us staring at a white page, but rather the dizziness that stems from switching between one half-written idea and the next.

No seashells on the grass

I find myself needing to write a bad post to get it out of the way. Lately, when I read my drafts, they are all missing something, often a sense of direction. I run with the idea, and about halfway through I’m unsure which way to take it. So I keep writing and not publishing. Writing and cringing, editing and cringing, rereading and re-cringing. And I’m not a particularly lazy person, but I don’t want to be forever editing them.

Sometimes we edit and find the diamond in the rough, and sometimes we edit and it turns into a completely different thing: like finding a seashell in the grass or a message in a bottle lodged in a tree trunk. Other times, we trim, hack, collage, only to gaze upon the frankenstory and cringe.

Like cleaning the coffee maker

I find myself needing to write a bad post to get it out of the way. I have this crazy feeling that if I just let myself write it and get it out of my system, throw in all my missteps and question marks and let them stick to the page, maybe it’ll free me to start over fresh with whatever comes next. A little bit like running water through the coffee maker a few times to wash it out: it looks like it is making coffee and sounds like it’s making coffee, but it’s just dirty water in the mug. Still, it’s necessary for the good coffee-brewing process.

And yet, it’s the strangest thing because even as I set out to write a bad post and let it be bad, I am sifting through the drawer of literary devices, pulling similes to illustrate and justify, I am editing the typos and reviewing the grammar. I am not simply sitting here letting the words walk onto the page just like that. Maybe I’m still hoping some fragment of this resonates with whoever is reading this on the other side.

I love writing, even when it’s most frustrating. I love-hate getting ideas at inconvenient times, I love-hate getting so caught up in the story I don’t realize when I switch from third person to first or vice versa, and the very challenging exercise of having to edit those random switches after. I love writing, and I want my writing to be good. Whether it’s posts, poems, or the novels I’m working on, I review the writing, read it out loud, run it through Grammarly, get feedback and edit it again to try and make it the best it can be.

So when I say I find myself needing to write a bad post, it’s not that I purposely set out to waste your time. I’m not sitting here giggling with glee as I imagine readers on the other side rolling their eyes. And I thought about writing this and just letting it go to the drafts folder. I did. But that’s not how spring cleaning works, even the mental ones. You don’t take the clothes from the drawer and stuff them in a bag at the back of the wardrobe, or take the books you didn’t like and put them in a box under the table. I also thought about writing and deleting it, but that hasn’t been working either.

So here I am, writing and sharing this post which has a lot of words but doesn’t say a lot, and has a higher count of the word “like” than I’d like and will likely not get a lot of views or claps.

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I Need to Write a Bad Post was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Job Alert: Technical Writer

My CRY peeps, any of you interested in a technical writing position? One of our connections is looking for a Technical Writer to work remotely. If you’re interested, please respond with your resume/CV. Our email is cry@wecrydeep.com.

Just so you know, we’ll be doing this a bit more often. We see what’s happening out there with so many people getting laid off and we want to be part of the solution. We’ll be more active in sharing opportunities with you to help you make a living.

CRY

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Job Alert: Technical Writer was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.