Words Become the Stage
By Tyler Erhard
People say hearing voices in your head is a sign of mental disorder. Perhaps they are right, but it shouldn’t be insanity if I’m the one who put those voices there. The voices of Aragorn, Don Corleone, Holden Caulfield, Jonathan Harker, John Snow and even Katniss Everdeen; the voices of the ones whose stories I’ve experienced through reading. Their voices fill my head every time I live their adventures. Literacy, to me, isn’t just putting your eyes to a page and filling your head with words. It’s seeing those words form objects, people and voices; the makings of a stage in a play or set in a film. These words translate into tangible elements in my mind, then a blank screen fills with a bright field, or a dark dungeon; a scene forms with the characters in play. With writing, it’s just flipped around. Pictures of words I see and my attitude towards the subject fill the page causing it to come alive to me. However, it wasn’t always that way.
I was that kid; the special one that got to sit in the back with the teacher and learn one on one. No, this wasn’t because I had trouble learning, it was actually the opposite. I could read chapter books at age 5 while everyone else was still reading pictures. The teacher recognized it early on and pulled me aside with another girl to read bigger books. I didn’t want that. I wanted to be with everyone else. I didn’t like the isolation. I was Tyler the outcast. She thought that my mind could understand this but it couldn’t at the time. All my mind could comprehend was how I was going to steal the teacher’s chocolates when she left the room. Reeses, I had to at least try. Mischief aside, I was just good at sounding out words but those words made no sense to me. I had no idea what any of them meant or what the story was, I just could read them.
I still remember the smell of the books. They had that old used book smell to them. Like 90% of the books you would read in High School. Apparently it’s the old style paper and ink but they just smelled like a rest home. Some people enjoy that smell; they feel it gives the book life, but not for me. She would stare at me from the other side of the table, her floral dress a testament to the atrocities of a dying style in the 90’s. She’d wait for my response when I was done with the page. What did I think? What mischief were the Bailey School Kids getting up to this time? I could tell her what I was hungry for but that’s all she would get out of me. My fingers would thumb through the yellowing pages to pass the time while she worked with the other girl, the paper as dry as my skin that day. She would look at me and think to herself “At least he can sound them out.” I do love being a one trick pony.
Writing was a different case. I had and still have the hand writing of someone years younger than me. Words became a mess of scribbles and bad punctuation. I was writing off the lines and in styles that made any kid next to me look like the next Chaucer. However, my ideas flowed. If a teacher could comprehend what I was writing, I could let them into my world; a world of sarcasm, cynicism and a bit of wild imaginings. Anyone who has seen my handwriting can understand what a blessing computer’s are. For some reason though, all through elementary school and into middle school, the words still didn’t make sense.
In middle school, I tried my hand at tougher reading. The Godfather, Dracula, Tom Clancy novels were among the list. Through the years I had read plenty of books but I didn’t remember or understand much from them. I loved movies and TV. Those were my stories. I tried reading The Fellowship of the Ring but I couldn’t get past Bilbo’s birthday party. The words didn’t make any sense. They just meshed together in my head to form only what I remembered from the movie. That wasn’t reading but the thought of the movie did give me an idea. I don’t know how to explain it but I’ll do my best. I started by imagining the characters in the movie as I read, and soon was able to add their voices to the characters. The narrator’s voice was one I made up; a stern voice. The words started to form a scene. The scene played out as I read and before I knew it, it wasn’t reading but more seeing. My imagination took over. Characters that I previously had no idea about got new voices and my own image of how they should look. It was surreal.
Soon I adopted this technique into everything I read and wrote. Words weren’t words anymore. They were scenes to me playing out on the stage in my head. On books that I didn’t have a film or TV reference for, It was possible to create the character. Usually giving them some familiar voice and making them look like how I wanted them to be. With writing, I put myself on the page. How I wanted to be represented came out and allowed me to be myself. I ditched hand writing and went to typing. My ideas flowed and words made sense with a keyboard under my fingers.
Ever since then, reading and writing wasn’t a chore but an experience. Every paper I wrote was a part of me. They were my thoughts sealed forever in writing. I kept most of my papers because I felt that they were mine and all the books I read were sealed in my mind. I felt like I owned them more than just in having a copy. Literacy is more than reading and writing, its words coming alive. Its someone else’s thoughts speaking to you.
Payne in Respite
By Tyler Erhard
*Told from the perspective of Max Payne, a video game character.
Back at the precinct, they told me to see Utah. Ski the slopes and see the West. Maybe that was what I needed, to lose thought of Michelle and the baby: the family I had lost. Instead, it was just another place to lose myself in the drink. “Come on Max. You haven’t taken a break in years.” “Yeah, Payne, you’re a half dead these days.” They would say. I always said the same thing, “Thanks guys but I’m as fine as a point blank bullet to the heart.” Fine was always the comforting word. Being in this house, however, isn’t an ideal time to use “Fine.”
This place isn’t my type of brewhouse. Coffee shops were a penny a dozen back in New York. This one stinks just like the rest of them. It’s obnoxious liberalism floating through the air amongst a swamp of hipsters and low lifes. However, it was the only “Good Morning” shop in town and after a bottle of Jack with only two hours of sleep, you don’t get picky. It makes no difference to me. I never liked these dens or the types that litter them. Still, it doesn’t hurt to maybe take a break and see how the other side lives.
As I sit down with my cup, I let myself take in the house. A smell of espresso fills the air, sweet and bitter. I’m no expert in beans but I’d say their high quality. I notice the chill in the air; hairs stand on end and my hands seek the relief of the warm cup. The hard cement floors don’t help. It’s like an air conditioning bill is just a useless piece of paper to them; useless as the idea of having a normal décor.
The tables are round, and wooden with leather bar stools: three stools each to four tables and all black. The round tables were probably the owner’s choice because he didn’t feel like being “Square” like society or some babble like that. The chairs are soft yet wobbly. I can hardly sit in them. Sofas line the walls of a small corner: three of them, all black leather. Watching the room, I feel my hands warm from the cup that I’ve forgotten. I get a taste of the brew, finally. Bitter as a soldier who lost the war…..or a father who lost a daughter. It offers a respite from the previous night’s effects on me. Respite I need because this interior decorating only enhances my latest foray into being truly hungover.
On the west wall there are three paintings: One of Nelson Mandela, Gandhi and one of the Tiananmen Square incident; all in light orange colors. God, if there is an award for “Most Stereotypical Activist Hub” then call the Academy because we have a winner. The stage behind me catches my eye; hard, black wood with a fake fireplace lining it. Sofas occupy it now with a light wood coffee table. I’m pretty sure that weekends or evenings would turn it into a platform for fledgling comedians and artistic morons. My opinions for people, however, are more refined than they are for interior decorating.
There’s an old man sitting across from me at another “Rebellious” table. He was in a blue polo shirt, khakis, loafers, glasses and a laptop. His retirement must have worked out well for him. Sounds come from his headphones but I can’t discern them. He looks amused at the laptop, like it was an old friend. He is the only one, besides the baristas, in here with me. His black, iced coffee suggests maybe he prefers the bitterness of life, like me. His graying hair suggests mid to early 60’s but I could be wrong.
Sitting there with him is quiet for a few minutes. Then in comes the vixen, a tall blonde in a blue skirt, white blouse and high heels. Her face is angelic under her natural hair color. She walks with purpose yet time to spare. She orders a tall iced mocha. I’d have pegged her for a macchiato type of girl but we can’t all be right. She has an air that screams “I know I’m beautiful but I won’t take it for granted. I’m going to seize it.” She takes a seat behind me on the stage. She plugs her phone in to the wall and starts twirling her hair at a magazine. ‘Yeah’ I think ‘You’ve got us all under your spell, but I’ve got better things to do today, honey.’ Leaving was slightly harder with her in the corner of my eye, causing me to resist. She’s just another spoke in this wheel of roasted business that gives the house life.
This place leaves the impression of Hell in my mind, but a Heaven for others. It’s a den of free love and good coffee. It’s a place where old men can find a little peace and beautiful women can present themselves. I’m just the one guy that woke up on the floor and decided he needed a brew, but I know this place sees more interesting people than me; artists, musicians, writers, bums, students, and maybe the occasional drunk cop. I gave it a chance but that’s all I can say for plenty of other things. It’s just a place to go, and I guess people need that sometimes. They need an escape, a way out, a safe haven. It seems that this house provides that to some people. It’s nice to know that some people are privileged to have something like that. It’s hard to know that you aren’t.
In terms of Writing.
Tyler Erhard
English 1010
Rachel Meads - Jardine
You could say that my definition of writer is someone who writes with a purpose other than day to day penciling. Writing such as stories, news stories or books. I write, sometimes, for the inner need to write or the urge to write. I write because I want to, not because I get paid for it. I won't give myself the title of writer. I, personally, don't think I fall under the title of writer. However, after I say what I have to say, I'll leave it up to you to decide if I am one or not. I at least have a typical writer's environment.
A writing environment in my case involves a slurpee, cookies, a cluttered desk and a half visible keyboard. I like to write in relative silence with just the sound of my typing and the whirring of the computer. I always wear my glasses when I'm writing to look clever. I'm near sighted so they don't make a difference. If all these requirements are met, I can tap out a page or two. Usually, my writing takes place on facebook.
To start, social media may be considered the death of casual conversation but I consider it to be a playground. A board for me to post up my one-liners and straight faced monologues. I may not have many friends on Facebook but the ones I have are my audience. Most famously, I wrote a one page satire post about a common trend that was bugging me at the time. I recieved a lot of positive feedback from it but one person de-friended me because of it. It showed how I could reach out to people with what I had to say and how I could get the urge to write out of no where.
Another instance of writing because I had the impulse to or the inward need to was last year. I was sitting at my desk and I had Noir on the mind. Film Noir, to be exact. Trenchcoats, dirty streets, detectives and smoke; All filled my head. It brought a powerful feeling in me to tell a story. So I put on jazz music and just typed my fingers off. I wrote of back alleys, tired eyed prostitutes, a slum joint and a gunman in the streetlight. I wrote for what seemed like ten minutes. It was more like thirty and I had three pages sitting in front of me. They were definitely rough but it was a story. I had never written a story like that before. I had written the silly "The Knight saves the queen" stories back in Elementary school but nothing with a real narrative. It was amazing to me. I wrote because I HAD to. I realized this and it all made sense. I didn't have to write for an assignment only, I could write because I wanted to.
I guess that's my main point in all of this. I write with the urge for self expression or just the impulse to write. It's liberating in a sense. I feel like I can say anything in my writings. But these of course aren't professional writings, just simple taps of the keyboard here or there. It's what I do to pass the time, I guess. So, you tell me, am I a writer?
