By Holly Thomas
I find writing SCABs kind of stressful. I guess because Marc is always emphasizing how every opportunity is an opportunity to sell yourself. But honestly, I just don’t have the words to say something meaningful each SCAB I write.
I want to be a writer, so sometimes it feels like every time you put fingers to keyboard, you have to produce written gold. Especially if you want people to want to work with you. While we are on the subject – does anyone else ever have moments of clarity where you realize how weird it is to pick a working partner? Try explaining the concept to a friend, not in the advertising world and it’s a pretty helpful reminder. Navigating your own world is daunting enough, let alone in parallel to another living, breathing human. I hope that everyone at school finds someone that makes their mind soar.
I sometimes worry that brilliance and pain are connected. A lot of writers I admire were desperately sad, and perhaps that is how they wrote things that touch you in your insides. I know for sure that when I’m sad I write uncontrollably. But I don’t want to be sad. I want to be happy. I want to write about what is real and true but I want to be happy most of all.
I have been very sad before, and words were my best friends. They cared for me and helped me understand what I was feeling. They helped me communicate my sadness to people that needed to know. They distracted me and took me to far away places when I couldn’t imagine anything other than my own pain. I still love them; I just have to develop a different relationship with them. Words and I need to evolve. For this SCAB I was writing a poem about the connection between forgotten words and forgotten people, but it wasn’t quite finished and I didn’t want to rush it for the sake of meeting a deadline.
Here’s a short poem I wrote about being hungover instead. It won’t change the world but I had fun with the words, and I think that’s just as valid for me right now (particularly enjoy the moment I rhyme ‘free’ with ‘zombie’).
HUNGOVER ON A SATURDAY MORNING
There is no alcohol left in the world because I drank it all last night
I was surprised to be alive this morning, my head throbbing and tight
I was lured by swimming sirens who softly whispered “drink me, this way greatness lies” They lied, that way there is nothing for me or for you, just some drunken veggie pies
I sipped then glugged, drowning my internal organs with beer upon beer
Until that gloriously warm feeling – inhibitions abandoned with no room for fear.
That feeling you get, when you just have to dance
Because you’ve discovered your limbs anew, and all at once In your mind, you are careless, beautiful and free
To others, you move like an infected zombie.
All concept of time and money is lost
“More prosecco” you shout, no matter the cost
You love everyone around you, and you tell them so Even when you only met them 5 minutes ago.
In the morning you say that this is the last time
The fun isn’t worth the way it confuddles your mind
It makes you mediocre – you write poems like this one Until the sun goes down and you are ready for more fun.