About Us
Beyond Words is Westford Academy's completely student-run literary magazine. We are committed to celebrating and promoting the talent, creativity, and dedication of our fellow students. We thank all of our contributors for submitting their work.
Interested in joining? We meet every Thursday in Room 244 where we critique and vote on submissions, discuss all things writing, and find a place among creative people like us.
Care to submit? Email your poems, short stories, photographs, artwork, etc. to [email protected].
Below is a poem, by one of our very own, that we believe embodies the emotions of every writer who's ever faced our greatest enemy: writer's block.
Interested in joining? We meet every Thursday in Room 244 where we critique and vote on submissions, discuss all things writing, and find a place among creative people like us.
Care to submit? Email your poems, short stories, photographs, artwork, etc. to [email protected].
Below is a poem, by one of our very own, that we believe embodies the emotions of every writer who's ever faced our greatest enemy: writer's block.
Writer's Block -- Meghana Vadassery
The screen is in front of you.
Your fingers are on the keys.
You await a spark of inspiration that would cause the fervent typing to begin.
But nothing happens.
It takes fifteen more minutes before you lean back,
Vexed.
In the very precious moments of freedom from your work,
The very few moments when creativity is free to be expressed,
You are met with utter disappointment.
Perhaps you're overthinking this, you assure yourself.
Brilliance comes at random moments, and is spurred where one least expects it.
How else did Fitzgerald and Twain create masterpieces?
(Assuming they had crappy laptops and were in the midst of teenage angst)
Right, a diversion may help your scattered thoughts conojoin.
Before you can think otherwise,
YouTube is opened.
What you promised yourself to be a fifteen minute ‘breather’
Becomes a one hour binge of babies playing with kittens and Bush conspiracy theories.
By the time to word ‘writing’ enters your mind again, you realize it’s time to get back to doing just that.
Google Docs is opened,
And you expectantly looks at the blank document,
As if words are supposed to magically appear.
But it doesn’t.
Another groan of frustration is elicited.
You rub your eyes, the exposure to the bright light for consecutive hours burning your retinas.
When you look at the screen again,
All that remains is fuzzy, blinking patches of color,
And no words at all.
Your heart sinks
And you begin to doubt your ability.
Is your imagination non-existent?
Are your characters unappealing?
Just how did Fitzgerald and Twain create masterpieces?
(You remind yourself to looks up more authors later - you sound like a pretentious idiot right now)
These notions are followed by self-deprecation and misery.
What if you aren't cut out for writing?
There are several people that are better than you, anyways.
Having created no significant impact on the world of literature,
Can you ever, truly be a commendable author?
Enough of blaming yourself, time to blame your surroundings.
You desk is cluttered,
Failed test papers from three years ago still hidden under accumulating mountains of wrappers and scrap paper.
This is no condition to work in, obviously.
So that’s got to be the reason for your lack of productivity!
You begin to organize,
Something you haven’t done since the beginning of last year.
While coming across failed drafts that make you wince,
You are filled with a sudden nostalgia
(Oh, just look at your stupid, innocent younger self!)
And just like that,
Looking at yearbooks becomes messaging your old nemesis on Facebook.
And when you narrowly miss liking your fifth grade crush’s year-old Instagram pics,
You are hit with a sudden dose of reality.
Right, back to writing.
Only now, you can’t concentrate.
(But I mean, what else is new?)
You’re cold.
You’re hungry.
You’re thirsty.
And apparently, whiny.
By the time you return with a cup of hot coffee and cookies,
The premise for your story still evades you.
But now, more determined than ever to crank out a few paragraphs,
You begin to type nonsense, assured that the innovation will flow out of you,
Like a rusty, hardly-used watering pump.
Only, it doesn’t.
The words still look like nonsense.
It’s probably time to resort to underhand tricks.
You go online, searching up writing prompts.
And though you come across a wonderful collection on a Tumblr page,
You can’t help but feel guilty.
These ideas,
They aren’t really yours.
Isn’t it borderline plagiarism?
Whatever, you’re desperate.
You begin to type with newfound energy,
The keys making satisfying clicks as your fingers press down.
You may have looked up too many synonyms,
And you may have rushed the character development,
But it’s done.
A strangely-worded, five page short story.
The only thing is,
You’re not happy.
You don’t feel pleased with your work.
It seems fake,
To say in the least.
There is no sense of fulfillment or excitement as you type.
The humor is non-existent,
The emotions are weak,
And now, you’re just tired.
Exhausted of creative potential,
And with no eagerness to re-write the story,
It is all deleted.
Your dismayed thoughts quickly become curious-
If this story were to become published,
And you had committed copyright infringement,
Just what would be the penalty?
Wikipedia is your next resource.
From Copyright Infringement,
You tumble down to Teutonic Order
From there, it’s how to access the Deep Web.
By the time you’ve escaped the depths of the Internet,
It’s dark outside.
Solemnly, still wallowing in guilt,
You resign to your habitual activities in the evening.
And finally, when you go to bed
(Still mourning for your lost time, all the while)
A sudden thought enters your mind.
You still haven’t looked for authors besides Fitzgerald and Twain, you useless, procrastinating
Writer.
Your fingers are on the keys.
You await a spark of inspiration that would cause the fervent typing to begin.
But nothing happens.
It takes fifteen more minutes before you lean back,
Vexed.
In the very precious moments of freedom from your work,
The very few moments when creativity is free to be expressed,
You are met with utter disappointment.
Perhaps you're overthinking this, you assure yourself.
Brilliance comes at random moments, and is spurred where one least expects it.
How else did Fitzgerald and Twain create masterpieces?
(Assuming they had crappy laptops and were in the midst of teenage angst)
Right, a diversion may help your scattered thoughts conojoin.
Before you can think otherwise,
YouTube is opened.
What you promised yourself to be a fifteen minute ‘breather’
Becomes a one hour binge of babies playing with kittens and Bush conspiracy theories.
By the time to word ‘writing’ enters your mind again, you realize it’s time to get back to doing just that.
Google Docs is opened,
And you expectantly looks at the blank document,
As if words are supposed to magically appear.
But it doesn’t.
Another groan of frustration is elicited.
You rub your eyes, the exposure to the bright light for consecutive hours burning your retinas.
When you look at the screen again,
All that remains is fuzzy, blinking patches of color,
And no words at all.
Your heart sinks
And you begin to doubt your ability.
Is your imagination non-existent?
Are your characters unappealing?
Just how did Fitzgerald and Twain create masterpieces?
(You remind yourself to looks up more authors later - you sound like a pretentious idiot right now)
These notions are followed by self-deprecation and misery.
What if you aren't cut out for writing?
There are several people that are better than you, anyways.
Having created no significant impact on the world of literature,
Can you ever, truly be a commendable author?
Enough of blaming yourself, time to blame your surroundings.
You desk is cluttered,
Failed test papers from three years ago still hidden under accumulating mountains of wrappers and scrap paper.
This is no condition to work in, obviously.
So that’s got to be the reason for your lack of productivity!
You begin to organize,
Something you haven’t done since the beginning of last year.
While coming across failed drafts that make you wince,
You are filled with a sudden nostalgia
(Oh, just look at your stupid, innocent younger self!)
And just like that,
Looking at yearbooks becomes messaging your old nemesis on Facebook.
And when you narrowly miss liking your fifth grade crush’s year-old Instagram pics,
You are hit with a sudden dose of reality.
Right, back to writing.
Only now, you can’t concentrate.
(But I mean, what else is new?)
You’re cold.
You’re hungry.
You’re thirsty.
And apparently, whiny.
By the time you return with a cup of hot coffee and cookies,
The premise for your story still evades you.
But now, more determined than ever to crank out a few paragraphs,
You begin to type nonsense, assured that the innovation will flow out of you,
Like a rusty, hardly-used watering pump.
Only, it doesn’t.
The words still look like nonsense.
It’s probably time to resort to underhand tricks.
You go online, searching up writing prompts.
And though you come across a wonderful collection on a Tumblr page,
You can’t help but feel guilty.
These ideas,
They aren’t really yours.
Isn’t it borderline plagiarism?
Whatever, you’re desperate.
You begin to type with newfound energy,
The keys making satisfying clicks as your fingers press down.
You may have looked up too many synonyms,
And you may have rushed the character development,
But it’s done.
A strangely-worded, five page short story.
The only thing is,
You’re not happy.
You don’t feel pleased with your work.
It seems fake,
To say in the least.
There is no sense of fulfillment or excitement as you type.
The humor is non-existent,
The emotions are weak,
And now, you’re just tired.
Exhausted of creative potential,
And with no eagerness to re-write the story,
It is all deleted.
Your dismayed thoughts quickly become curious-
If this story were to become published,
And you had committed copyright infringement,
Just what would be the penalty?
Wikipedia is your next resource.
From Copyright Infringement,
You tumble down to Teutonic Order
From there, it’s how to access the Deep Web.
By the time you’ve escaped the depths of the Internet,
It’s dark outside.
Solemnly, still wallowing in guilt,
You resign to your habitual activities in the evening.
And finally, when you go to bed
(Still mourning for your lost time, all the while)
A sudden thought enters your mind.
You still haven’t looked for authors besides Fitzgerald and Twain, you useless, procrastinating
Writer.