August 29, 2013

"Limbo Language"

There are those warm, hazy summer nights that seem to last an eternity. Where the darkness stretches out before you in a way that makes it seem so full of possibilities instead of the fear of the unknown. The nights that seem to surround an era, in the beginning and ends of all things. Where bicycle wheels sound loud on the pavement at 2am and the shock of a sprinkler hitting you as you lay outstretched, watching the sun come up. Those nights are the ones that keep us coming back for more. The ones where you are tired and sleep would probably be the logical, sensible choice, but after one phone call, you’re slipping on flip flops and sprinting out the door, on a whole new energy-high of crickets and buzzing heat. Those are the nights you remember and never, never regret.

There was a night in Salzburg that, I swear, would last an eternity. It was our last hurrah, our last beer-busting, shot-shooting craze ending in puke and cigarettes. We were at the end of the pub crawl, having ushered some 39 children from bar to bar, pushing through the muttering Austrians and dancing obnoxiously to Macklemore’s “Thrift Shop,” as onlookers watched, bemused. We were at the end, but we were not ready for an end. I remember watching the others fight to be let into a club that was “full” and I remember looking at Hanna and without a word, sitting on the street curb, our legs stretched in front of us, our heels obnoxious on the cobblestones. I leaned back on my hands and looked up between the old plaster houses that filled the narrow street, up to the stars that were barely visible, and felt, in that moment, a sort of infinite that only happens on nights like those. I looked across at Hanna, to see that Cassie, Laura and Grace had all assumed our position. And we sat, feet outstretched, looking up and not saying a word - the silence filling the gaps where words were left unsaid, and the threat of the unknown, the looming goodbyes were left alone, while we grasped hold of the possibilities in that night sky instead. No one knew what would happen. We didn’t know what to expect. We just knew that it was an end of sorts - and we weren’t ready for any of this to end.

- Kelsey Weyerbacher
  June 13, 2013.




   I wrote this piece after returning from living in Salzburg, Austria for more than nine months. I was experiencing a sort of culture-shock that I hadn't known existed and was terrified of the changes I saw occurring in my life. I was missing Europe. I was missing the simplicity with which Austrians live and the family that I had acquired while living in a center with forty people that I couldn't get away from. I think that this piece, for the first time in a long time, finally presented a level of emotion I had previously hid. Showing a depth of personal emotion is something I struggle with. I like to remain private with events, places and people that I truly love. As I mature in both my writing and personal life, I have come to learn that hiding my emotions is simply stupid. Everyone has emotions and everyone is passionate about something. Why should I be any different? As I continue with this course, I hope to be able to "dig" deep enough to write about those emotions I've pushed down.

   As I look back at this piece, I notice several weaknesses in my writing:

#1: I suck at introductions. I just do. I try so hard to get something that grabs my audience's attention that I end up pulling some corny, ridiculous saying out of nowhere. 

#2: I forget that the people reading my pieces do not know these people and places the way I do. I don't describe the visual enough the majority of the time and I think that either leaves a lot to my audience's imaginations or leaves my piece lacking a finishing touch.

#3: I write the way I speak. I still haven't decided if that is a good thing or not, but it's a trend I notice more and more in my writing. Not that I think I should ignore my voice, but I do think that the way I speak may be confusing to some readers.

   I've been able to spend a lot of time musing over my desire to be a writer. The decision to transfer from the University of Portland in order to pursue my writing was a huge choice for me. I don't make decisions such as that lightly. While living in Austria for the last year, I struggled with my writing. I wasn't taking a single English class. I wasn't even taking a general course that I enjoyed, besides Art History. (But, the only reason I loved that class was because of Frau Loos. However, I will save that story for another time. That woman deserves a series dedicated to her fabulous self.) My writing is an outlet for me. As I stated earlier, I struggle with conveying emotion. At a young age, I discovered that the only way I could express myself was through writing and art. I rebelled against that truth for a long time, but I feel that every teenager needs to undergo the "Dark Years." Finally, I find myself coming back to that truth.

   I believe that the greatest thing I will learn from the courses I am taking at MSU is that I need to write. I love to write and I would like to think that I have some sort of a skill that allows me to call myself an English major, but in order to succeed and improve - I JUST NEED TO FREAKING WRITE. I think that the most frustrating part of writing is that I am so critical of my own work that I often discourage myself from writing unless I have a large moment of *inspiration*. So, I've committed this semester to "Shut Up and Write!" So, dammit, I'm going to shut up now and go write.