Opusia Logo
  • Home
    • Alleen zoeken naar auteurs
  • Gast
    • Inloggen
    • Registereren
    • Nachtstand
Emily Davis Cover Image
User Image
Sleep naar de juiste positie
Emily Davis Profile Picture
Emily Davis

"Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers." ~ Isaac Asimov

  • Details
  • 288 posts
  • Vrouw
  • 01-01-70
  • Leven in United Kingdom

Foto's

No posts found
  • Tijdlijn
  • Foto's
  • Video's
    • Volgend
    • Volgers
Emily Davis profile picture
Emily Davis
Vertalen   7 jaren geleden

Writing About Ugliness Writing About Ugliness (Theory Paper) The first book I ever wrote (I use the term “book” very loosely) was called The White Fairy. I was nine years old. I remember sitting with all of the eagerness of an inspired writer, tenderly typing the first sentence: “‘They have found me,’ Aurora said to herself as she heard an arrow strike a tree.” The protagonist, Aurora, is as two-dimensional and static as flat characters come. She is nothing but a victim of her pursuer, Grimloc, an evil man driven to capture her because of her unbelievable beauty and her rarity as a “white” fairy, which I am quite sure I never clarify what that exactly means. Aurora makes some friends during her escape from Grimloc’s cruel clutches: A second Aurora, who I as the author literally refer to as “Aurora2”, and a handsome prince named Aaron, who also (shockingly) falls in love with the first Aurora. In the end, all is well. Aurora and Aaron live happily ever after, and the second Aurora is a much-too-cheerful third wheel that is perfectly content with living with a newlywed couple in their castle. I end the monstrosity in a way that I thought was extremely clever, and now, looking back at it, makes me cringe: “Aaron kissed Aurora on the cheek, looked up at Emily Davis and said, ‘Thank you for a happy ending’.” I cannot begin to describe the pride that I had in this work. It was my brainchild. Truthfully, it was an upgrade from my other elementary school works. However as I grew older, my writing continued to evolve. Characters soon adopted more depth, plots became less predictable, and as my vocabulary expanded, my ability to express ideas and thoughts flourished. By the time I finished high school, I was quite proud of my three most popular works receiving enormous amounts of attention online. But two years later, looking at these works being read by thousands, I still cringe. Because through taking several college writing courses, I know now what power writing can possess. And I know what being a “writer” truly is. It is one thing to be able to string pretty words together like literary necklaces, but it is another entirely to change perspectives and speak for those that can’t speak for themselves. That is our duty as writers. We have a power that many do not possess. Why waste our time trying to impress people with things that only sound good on paper? Why would we not use our gift to do some good? Perhaps I am being ridiculously over-dramatic. Perhaps artists like RM Drake have spit out their drinks and are staring at me, stung. I must hand it to Drake; he looks really good on paper. He is the McDonald’s Big Mac of the literary world, which he can take as he will. But what about people like Eula Bliss, or Barry Hannah, or Carolyn Forché? These are people who are writing not to sound good. They do not write about white fairies, about happily-ever-afters. They write the truth. And not only do they write the truth, but they write it for somebody else. Eula Bliss in Black News writes for the African American woman whose four-day-old baby was taken away by Child Protective Services. Barry Hannah writes for soldiers with PTSD in Sick Soldier at Your Door. Even Carolyn Forché writes for someone in The Colonel. She writes for the voiceless human ears that she witnesses being poured on the floor by the colonel himself. She writes for these ears and she writes for us, urging us to stare war’s hideousness straight in the face. These are writers, not because they know how to form a punchy sentence, but because what they write about and how they write it punches the reader in the gut. That is what I want my writing to do. That is the goal. Perhaps my characters aren’t white fairies anymore, but they are not nearly as real and raw and genuine as they could be. This is what this class in particular has taught me. That our duty is to write for the world’s good, even if that means writing about the jarring, ugly truth. If my nine-year-old self could hear me now, I would probably break her heart. If RM Drake could hear me now, he would probably smirk and show me his Twitter following. Unfortunately, much like Aaron in Emily Davis’s The White Fairy, I think this world is lost in the deception that prettiness is the only quality that matters. We can see it in photography, in music, and in writing. It is not about truth. It is about aesthetic. As writers, it is our job to challenge that. And as we have seen from the pieces that we have read in this class, sometimes—in fact, usually—the truth can be unbearably hideous. In writing about it, in exposing the world’s ugliness to those who only know prettiness, we are speaking for those that the ugliness truly affects. We are writing for those victimized by the ugliness. We are writing for those who do not have the voice to express it. Ironically, that is what makes “ugly” writing so unbelievably beautiful.

Respect!
  • Respect!
  • Liefde
  • HaHa
  • Wauw
  • verdrietig
  • Boos
Kommentar
Delen
  • 00:00
     
    Emily Davis profile picture
    Emily Davis
    Vertalen   7 jaren geleden

    Writing About Ugliness Writing About Ugliness (Theory Paper) The first book I ever wrote (I use the term “book” very loosely) was called The White Fairy. I was nine years old. I remember sitting with all of the eagerness of an inspired writer, tenderly typing the first sentence: “‘They have found me,’ Aurora said to herself as she heard an arrow strike a tree.” The protagonist, Aurora, is as two-dimensional and static as flat characters come. She is nothing but a victim of her pursuer, Grimloc, an evil man driven to capture her because of her unbelievable beauty and her rarity as a “white” fairy, which I am quite sure I never clarify what that exactly means. Aurora makes some friends during her escape from Grimloc’s cruel clutches: A second Aurora, who I as the author literally refer to as “Aurora2”, and a handsome prince named Aaron, who also (shockingly) falls in love with the first Aurora. In the end, all is well. Aurora and Aaron live happily ever after, and the second Aurora is a much-too-cheerful third wheel that is perfectly content with living with a newlywed couple in their castle. I end the monstrosity in a way that I thought was extremely clever, and now, looking back at it, makes me cringe: “Aaron kissed Aurora on the cheek, looked up at Emily Davis and said, ‘Thank you for a happy ending’.” I cannot begin to describe the pride that I had in this work. It was my brainchild. Truthfully, it was an upgrade from my other elementary school works. However as I grew older, my writing continued to evolve. Characters soon adopted more depth, plots became less predictable, and as my vocabulary expanded, my ability to express ideas and thoughts flourished. By the time I finished high school, I was quite proud of my three most popular works receiving enormous amounts of attention online. But two years later, looking at these works being read by thousands, I still cringe. Because through taking several college writing courses, I know now what power writing can possess. And I know what being a “writer” truly is. It is one thing to be able to string pretty words together like literary necklaces, but it is another entirely to change perspectives and speak for those that can’t speak for themselves. That is our duty as writers. We have a power that many do not possess. Why waste our time trying to impress people with things that only sound good on paper? Why would we not use our gift to do some good? Perhaps I am being ridiculously over-dramatic. Perhaps artists like RM Drake have spit out their drinks and are staring at me, stung. I must hand it to Drake; he looks really good on paper. He is the McDonald’s Big Mac of the literary world, which he can take as he will. But what about people like Eula Bliss, or Barry Hannah, or Carolyn Forché? These are people who are writing not to sound good. They do not write about white fairies, about happily-ever-afters. They write the truth. And not only do they write the truth, but they write it for somebody else. Eula Bliss in Black News writes for the African American woman whose four-day-old baby was taken away by Child Protective Services. Barry Hannah writes for soldiers with PTSD in Sick Soldier at Your Door. Even Carolyn Forché writes for someone in The Colonel. She writes for the voiceless human ears that she witnesses being poured on the floor by the colonel himself. She writes for these ears and she writes for us, urging us to stare war’s hideousness straight in the face. These are writers, not because they know how to form a punchy sentence, but because what they write about and how they write it punches the reader in the gut. That is what I want my writing to do. That is the goal. Perhaps my characters aren’t white fairies anymore, but they are not nearly as real and raw and genuine as they could be. This is what this class in particular has taught me. That our duty is to write for the world’s good, even if that means writing about the jarring, ugly truth. If my nine-year-old self could hear me now, I would probably break her heart. If RM Drake could hear me now, he would probably smirk and show me his Twitter following. Unfortunately, much like Aaron in Emily Davis’s The White Fairy, I think this world is lost in the deception that prettiness is the only quality that matters. We can see it in photography, in music, and in writing. It is not about truth. It is about aesthetic. As writers, it is our job to challenge that. And as we have seen from the pieces that we have read in this class, sometimes—in fact, usually—the truth can be unbearably hideous. In writing about it, in exposing the world’s ugliness to those who only know prettiness, we are speaking for those that the ugliness truly affects. We are writing for those victimized by the ugliness. We are writing for those who do not have the voice to express it. Ironically, that is what makes “ugly” writing so unbelievably beautiful.

    Respect!
    • Respect!
    • Liefde
    • HaHa
    • Wauw
    • verdrietig
    • Boos
    Kommentar
    Delen
    • 00:00
       
      Emily Davis profile picture
      Emily Davis
      Vertalen   7 jaren geleden

      How To Make German Chocolate Cake How To Make German Chocolate Cake Ingredients: This is a list of things, half of which you do not have in the house, the other half of which you have no idea what they are. You are going to give up on baking this before you’ve even begun the batter, but you don’t know that yet. All you’re really trying to do is desperately make your wife happy, which, just like baking a German chocolate cake, you will realize you have absolutely no idea how to do Directions: Stumble into the kitchen. The linoleum is too cold on your bare feet and the air conditioning nips at your legs. In your hurry to get downstairs, you arrived in nothing but your boxers. Shake your head, grab at your hair, and wonder how on Earth you’re going to make a German chocolate cake, which happens to be your wife’s favorite Consult the recipe of your wife, who refuses to speak to you at the present time. You’ve had another fight, this time about that pile of your dirty socks that she says is growing exponentially. She uses fancy words when she’s mad, and lately, though you don’t know why, her vocabulary has been extra colorful. It needs coconut?! After desperately searching the refrigerator, pantry, and silverware drawer, Google "coconut substitutes" Peruse possible coconut stand-ins and grow severely discouraged without even printing out a recipe, let alone attempting to bake the blasted thing Google "how to make german chocolate cake without coconut" After having stared at recipe after recipe for five minutes, slam laptop closed Realize that this is going to be harder than you thought. Put your head in your hands. Why can’t you make your wife happy? You imagine her, wild, blonde curls just reaching her shoulders, big eyes that used to hold a glimmer, but now hold a coldness that for the #life of you, you can’t figure out how to thaw. Wander into the living room, cake-making put on pause. See wedding photo on side table next to the couch. Lift, stare. Sigh. Seven years ago, she told you she was the happiest girl in the world. Seven minutes ago, she told you you were the stupidest man in the world. All because you didn’t put your dirty socks in the hamper. It doesn’t make any sense. Fall into the easy chair, still holding that picture. You have a sinking feeling. That all the puppy love you still feel for your beautiful wife isn’t matched anymore. That she’s somehow realized she could have done better. Bite your lip. You’ll show her you’re good enough. Stand up, setting your wedding picture carefully back down on the side table. Return to kitchen, determined to bake the best German Chocolate Cake your wife has ever and will ever taste. Realize that you can't bake cake without milk, which you forgot to buy. She’d complained about that from the time she realized you’d forgotten, to when you left for work. Spend the next two minutes looking for car keys. Acquire car keys. Realize you can't go to the store without pants. Swear, because you’re going to have to go to your room, and she’ll be there. Setting foot in there could be like pulling the pin on a grenade. Gingerly open bedroom door. See beautiful wife sitting on bed, pouting at a book. Try to say hello, voice cracks. Your voice hasn't cracked like that since puberty. Freeze when your wife finally speaks. "What are you doing in the kitchen this late with no clothes?" That voice you’ve heard for seven years still makes you weak in the knees. Stare stupidly at your wife. "I'm making you something." Endure loud, shrill bouts of laughter. "You can't cook. Go to sleep." Sigh. "I just came to get some clothes so I can run to the store real quick." Close your eyes as you hear your wife’s voice once more. “Oh, are you finally buying some milk so I can stop eating dry cereal?” Nod. “Once again, I’m sorry for forgetting.” But your wife still isn’t satisfied. “What do you need milk for? Are you baking something?” Nod again, confidently. “It’s a surprise.” Slide open dresser drawers and pull on a pair of pants and t-shirt. Turn to your wife as she says, "You're bribing me." Smile. "Maybe I am." For good measure, you pick up the armful of socks on the floor and drop them into the hamper. Satisfied, descend staircase. Drive to store and grab four cartons of milk. Now she won’t have anything to complain about. Come home. Stumble into kitchen. Cakes are made in bowls, right? With spoons? Acquire bowl and wooden spoon. Smile. You are making progress. Read Betty Crocker directions, which say to chop a bunch of “baking chocolate” and heat it in a pan. Baking chocolate? Unsure of the significance of the difference between chocolates, acquire bittersweet chocolate chips. They are hard to chop. Throw chips in pot. Stir awkwardly. Realize you have no idea what you’re doing. Burn chocolate. Swear. Attempt to heat chocolate four more times. Fail each. Hear the gentle flaff flaff of your wife’s slippers. Wince. Feel your fists clench as her musical voice drips with sarcasm. “That smells delicious.” Hate how in love you are with the woman in front of you, in pink plaid pajama bottoms, hair wild around her face. Mumble, “I’m trying.” You’re doing more than trying to bake a cake. You’re trying to salvage the love you used to have. The magic whose final twinkles are vanishing before your eyes. You’re trying to show this woman why she married you, because it seems she’s beginning to forget. Frown when she laughs and says. “You’re failing.” Let your eyes follow her as she opens a cupboard, pulling a brick wrapped in bright yellow and red paper from a shelf. She plops it on the counter next to the stove, where your fifth batch of chocolate is burning. Watch her leave the kitchen. Turn off the stove. Stare at the burned chocolate, the chocolate you’d tried to save but somehow managed to ruin every time. Glare at the wooden bowl, the spoon, the four cartons of milk still in their plastic grocery bag. Wonder if she meant you’re failing at the cake, or failing your marriage. In one fluid, angry sweep, shove all cake ingredients and baking equipment off of the counter. As it all hits the floor, tears sting your eyes. Because you’ve realized that the answer is both.

      Respect!
      • Respect!
      • Liefde
      • HaHa
      • Wauw
      • verdrietig
      • Boos
      Kommentar
      Delen
      • 00:00
         
        Emily Davis profile picture
        Emily Davis
        Vertalen   7 jaren geleden

        Speech of the Deflated Ego Speech of the Deflated Ego You’ve got to get something straight. I’m twenty-four, six feet tall, And able to guitar-riff this place to the ground. Three crop-tops and a mini-skirt Have all tried to buy me a drink Probably hoping they’re also buying their way Into my bedroom. And even though It could have been so easy To reimburse their drink offer In the back of a taxi cab, I turned them down. I turned them down Because of you. You’ve been sitting here, nursing a martini While I’m trying to hold together the dignity That you could so easily grind Under the soles of those kitten heels. The glacial gaze you’re giving me With those ice-colored eyes, Is somehow melting me. You’ve scowled at every leather jacket And college sweatshirt that tried, Tried to make a move on you, But the moment our gazes locked from across the bar, I couldn’t focus on anything. Except for the way your lips moved When you mouthed, “I dare you.”

        Respect!
        • Respect!
        • Liefde
        • HaHa
        • Wauw
        • verdrietig
        • Boos
        Kommentar
        Delen
        • 00:00
           
          Emily Davis profile picture
          Emily Davis
          Vertalen   7 jaren geleden

          I'm Back It's been a while. I want to separate my old Opuses (which are terribly depressing) with my new ones. I hope you enjoy

          Respect!
          • Respect!
          • Liefde
          • HaHa
          • Wauw
          • verdrietig
          • Boos
          Kommentar
          Delen
          • 00:00
             
            Laad meer berichten
            • Meer informatie
            • Meer informatie
            • Meer informatie
            • Volgend 24

            • GingerNut
              Aiyanna Jo
              Beth
              India Spar
              Nick Stoke
              Jacob Lowe
              Haro
              Jacob
              AJ
            • Meer informatie
            • Volgers 139

            • Zofi
              Honza
              Camia Cas
              smoking th
              Jordan
              fly-bye
              celticgirl
              ❤ Skyla
              christelle
            Language
            • English
            • Arabic
            • Dutch
            • French
            • German
            • Italian
            • Portuguese
            • Russian
            • Spanish
            • Turkish

            © 2025 Opusia

            • About
            • Contact Us
            • Meer
              • Privacy Policy
              • Terms of Use

            Unfriend

            Weet je zeker dat je wilt ontvrienden?

            Rapporteer deze gebruiker

            Belangrijk!

            Weet u zeker dat u dit lid van uw familie wilt verwijderen?

            Je hebt geplooid Blingey123

            Nieuw lid is succesvol toegevoegd aan je familielijst!

            Snijd je avatar bij

            avatar

            © 2025 Opusia

            Language
            • English
            • Arabic
            • Dutch
            • French
            • German
            • Italian
            • Portuguese
            • Russian
            • Spanish
            • Turkish
            • Home
            • About
            • Contact Us
            • Privacy Policy
            • Terms of Use

            Reactie succesvol gerapporteerd.

            Post is succesvol toegevoegd aan je tijdlijn!

            U heeft uw limiet van vrienden bereikt!

            Bestandsgrootte fout: Het bestand overschrijdt de limiet toegestaan ​​(6 MB) en kan niet worden geüpload.

            Kan een bestand niet uploaden: dit bestandstype wordt niet ondersteund.

            We hebben een aantal inhoud voor volwassenen gevonden in de afbeelding die je hebt geüpload. Daarom hebben we je uploadproces geweigerd.

            Je bericht is verzonden. We zullen je inhoud binnenkort beoordelen.

            Om afbeeldingen, videos en audiobestanden te uploaden, moet je upgraden naar pro-lid. Upgraden naar Pro

            Aanbieding bewerken

            0%