Write With Adora

the collected works of youth literati. read. write. publish.

You’ve got to sell your heart, your strongest reactions, not the little minor things that only touch you lightly, the little experiences that you might tell at dinner. This is especially true when you begin to write, when you have not yet developed the tricks of interesting people on paper, when you have none of the technique which it takes time to learn. When, in short, you have only your emotions to sell.

This is the experience of all writers.

F. Scott Fitzgerald on the Secret to Great Writing (via theatlantic)

(via theatlantic)

Halloween is approaching… and so is our deadline.


We’re a great chance for new writers to get published, just saying. What we’re looking for is a bit of analysis, short or long, about something that deals with both art and politics - like political cartoons or the class politics of modern television. We’re up for lots of new ideas and new writers from all over (we’re not limited to US or Western culture….). 

Here are our guidelines.

We tweet, tumble, and readily answer your questions!.

(via thepoliticalnotebook)

things i'm bad at: ARTISTS OF SEATTLE


So, if you’re under 20 and you live in Seattle, there’s this really cool conference called TEDxRedmond. And you can come even if you’re like 120 but your ticket is FREE if you’re under 20.

But that’s not the point of this post. The point is that we’re having a youth art gallery, and if you’re…

(Source: nylasaur)


Open. Close. 

Better yet, hang it on the door.

I’ll wait until no one is around,

So I can freely stick my head out,

Grab between my fingers, hold tight,

Take command, break night;

And then, slowly, unbutton, unzip, untie,

Uninhibited simulations of what it holds

To get a glimpse of what could come to be.

On. Off.

Or perhaps, a fixed blank stare; that, 

Leaves me unable to read 

What your eyes now eagerly try to disclose.

I can’t understand them for mine remain

Distant in that blank stare you first gave

When you shook my hands, and politely tried to

Fake delight, when it actually resided elsewhere.

In. Out. 

Or right in between. Stuck in the middle.

Too afraid to move

Up or down; 

    a definite position is terrifying to embrace.

Living halfway, just as unbearable.

What to do, I ask myself, over burnt toast

     and an emptying glass of hope.

Wait, replies the draft that escapes from under the door.

Same door that hung uninhibited simulations

Of what could come to be, but hasn’t yet come to pass.

Reset. Wait… Enjoy. 

By Ginel Salvador



To Sun

Sun who feels the changing of day

Modestly like an unending

Cycle of beautiful life

How fortunate! For us

That we may live on this earth!


O Sun! Be thankful

Of your people’s worship

You are one of many names

Yet in the end, you are the same

As Sunset you are a beauty show, the

Winding-down of the day


As Sunrise you are majestic

Like a queen you rise

To greet your subjects

Hope disguised in gold

How fortunate we are! Yet often

Ignorant of your beauty and



Without you what would life be

On this world shadowed in darkness?

Colorless, tasteless and bland

Without you to guide the plants to sprout

There is a fragile cycle of life

Of which you are the beginning


And as you age, ever more


Your sunset deeper

Of more marbled shades

So becoming to your

Perfect figure

Let us embrace you

When you come, for

How fortunate! For us

That we may live on this earth!

Two queens poem - by Ginel Salvador

(I would appreciate your critique on this) Queen of Concealment. And, Queen of acetate White. The wind does not discriminate When it dances with their hair; Yet luck has kissed Concealment’s fleshy cheeks And teases the other with a song of promised favor. In Whiteness, all colors can shine through, But Black keeps the eye comfortably unaware… Too much of a good thing can overwhelm, and too much of a bad thing numbs. Such intoxicating stupefaction has the starved and thirsty peasantry feeding off of poisoned dishes and salted water. Foods that, in the darkness of their senses, they can’t tell is killing them…  Translucent queen can only offer reality: A basket with a few rotten apples, almost stale bread, and forgettable meals; blended ups and downs, balanced joy and sorrow, a melancholic smile with bright, beaming eyes, sharp words laced with the softest whisper of good will, The beauty of variety entwined with the calming consolation of imperfection… This Raw queen’s heart longs for an embrace that won’t break at the sight of tantrums or demands of affection, and This queen weeps because no one can withstand the clarity. Capricious, sweet queen; and, Tempestuous, genuine queen. Hidden trash is better than exposed truths, it seems. Pretense has become the Capricious queen’s favorite perfume, and she wears it under the sheets and when she speaks to God.   Pretense has become the Explosive queen’s most hated scent, yet she is forced to breathe in its stench. However, in the end, light swallows the shadows and truth triumphs over the best construed lies. The queens are left to mend themselves: one for murdering all who loved her, and the other one to clean up the carcasses.  Ginel Salvador

candyland - by Adora Svitak

The candy-colored bows flutter to the ground like so many
            Cakes imploding,
            Whipped cream whites, mint greens, striped red and lemon-drop yellow
            A heap on the ground,
            As if a hurricane barreled through Willy Wonka’s factory and took
            All it liked
            Transforming it into fabrics and whispers and words—
So cloyingly,
            We play on our verandahs of candy-colored facades,
            Evil like
            The witch with the gingerbread house entrancing Hansel and Gretel
            Only we do not know what we do,
            Only we are lost in the forest too.

The Power of Friendship (written for a homesick friend)

Submitted by Sarah.

The world may seem a lonely place

Where comfort is brought by a familiar face

And when one travels far from home

And finds themself so, so alone,

It is hard to find warmth, and comfort, and care,

When you’re far away, and your loved ones aren’t there.

When thought of them brings on a tear,

Being far from the ones whom you hold most dear,

It is hard to be brave, to be bold, to be strong,

But to feel alone can’t be nearer to wrong!

Because no matter how far away they are,

They’ll love you forever, you’re their shining star.

So whether you’re sad, or you’re caught in a snare,

Remember: your friends will always be there.

Anonymous asked: Can we submit some haiku poetry?

Of course!