Senior Writing Portfolio Fall 2005 / Julie Trueblood
Millikin University
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Julie Trueblood

Julie Trueblood

Julie Trueblood is currently a senior Writing and Literature double major at Millikin University. Currently, she is proud Vice President of Millikin's honorary English fraternity, Sigma Tau Delta. (Yes, it is a real fraternity!) Julie spends a lot (correction: ALL) of her free time working for Sodexho Dining Services and has been told on numerous occasions, though she is gratuitously underpaid and undervalued, she does happen to make a damned good omelet! However, when Julie is not at work or in class, she enjoys watching movies, eating hot wings, reading fine novels, hustling at karaoke, and spoiling her Wire Haired Fox Terrier, Eddie. Because, let's face it. He's cute.

Overall, Julie views her college career as fruitful and it's true, there are brief moments of inspiration when Julie might find that she has some clue as to what her future holds, but as doubt creeps in, she constantly finds herself back at square one.

Writing?
Studying literature at grad school?
Publishing?
Graphic design?
A lifetime of Sodexho?

Julie realizes that, as of May 2006, the world is officially her oyster.

Statement of Poetics

Much of the writing that I do is largely influenced by the books that I read. For instance, after completing a ribald Chuck Palahniuk novel (and this has happened EVERY time!), I often find that I have subconsciously picked up many of the quirky traits that make Chuck the writer that he is and incorporated them into my own speech and writing style.

Imitation isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind. See also: Genius.

I cannot fathom it to be anything else. And perhaps it's merely that I am just that impressionable of a person. I'll leave that to be decided...

However, I will say this: A piece of writing can be just as entertaining as it needs to be. It can sit on top of the bestsellers list for 3 years straight. It can spark multiple reprints. Oprah can brand it with her seal of approval. But if it does not work to inspire, then it's just ink on paper.

Anyone can put down a book and pick up the remote control, but think of how the world would be if we could all gather up the courage to put down that book and pick up a pen!

Now that'd be beautiful.

Introduction to "Norman"

I wrote this sestina for the very first creative writing course I ever took at Millikin. And though I can nine times out of ten confidently state that I hate poetry, I personally feel that this piece is the best thing I have ever written. It is one of the few pieces of my writing that I will proudly hand to anyone to read without consciously worrying whether or not it has been given to the "right" audience. I may never find my audience. But for the time being, I will say this:

I heart Norman Bates.

• • •
 

 

Norman

A scream,

and then silence.

Tears of hatred fill his eyes as she walks into the house.

Mother, oh God, Mother

blood, blood!

He turns away from her, and his stomach heaves. The woman, the motel....

Before the motel

was built, in the hushed silence

of the deserted countryside, Norman sat alone in his room, in the house.

A towering, intimidating Victorian house that made his blood,

made his blood boil. All night long, he could hear her torrid screams

of passion, not pain. That wicked man-whore and his mother....

Oh mother,

She had such a hold on him, but this man in his house

had such a hold on her. They built the motel.

What a joke, there were no customers anymore, just silence.

On occasion he would hear screaming

from rowdy teenagers out to vandalize his property, taint him with their evil blood.

He wipes away the evidence, but there is blood

everywhere. In the motel,

on his hands, in his eyes. Oh mother.

Oh God. There are droplets in his house,

in his soul, and the crime replays itself. The screams,

and then, dead silence.

Silence

is what he knows, what he likes, what he screams.

Alone with his motel

his mother,

the invalid, his dead weight, his flesh and blood.

Mother, the murderer and protector of the house.

It is the house

more than anything that he hates. The memories--his mother

the flirting and evilness. She tortured him, oh so much. Burn the motel,

burn the house, curse her and leave her forever. But he can't. She is him, his flesh and blood.

He knows that he cannot but he wants to stand up to her, to scream.

Death, screams, and blood may have blinded him,

but no house nor motel could silence their eternal bond.

A boy's best friend is his mother.

 

• • •

©2005 Randy Brooks—all rights return to the authors upon publication.