LORENA MACA GARCIA
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Sophomore
HIGH SCHOOL: University Heights High School
BORN: Bronx, NY
LIVES: Bronx, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I remember moments when Candace and I just talked about life in this little secret café by my school. We have a lot of similar interests, so we can just chat all day, yet still get our work done by the end. She has been such an inspirational person in these last few months, always encouraging me to reach the final destination, caring about my well-being both mentally and physically. Girls Write Now has given me a space to indulge myself in a place full of wonderful and supporting young women and girls who enjoy writing like I do.
CANDACE CUNARD
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: High School English Teacher, Little Red School House and Elisabeth Irwin High School
BORN: Laguna Beach, CA
LIVES: New York, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Whether it’s in the vivid imagery and detailed narratives of her poetry, or in the way her eyes light up as she explains a particularly complicated and suspenseful plot in one of her favorite stories, Lorena’s enthusiasm reminds me what it feels like to write for the sheer joy of it. The writing we do together isn’t always easy—sometimes, finding the right word is a challenge, and revision feels like an endless struggle with deadlines looming—but in these moments I cherish the knowledge that our frustration can end in the shared delight of expressing ourselves just right.
A girl or woman is strongest when she feels that she can trust her feelings, especially if they’re about love.
As I walked with no aim within this darkness,
I felt a slight breeze at my side.
As I turned, I remembered the place where I could escape from my troubles.
When my sight was clear yet,
the dullness of the space inside my heart overbearing.
As I walked on further the wind flowed and caressed my slumped cheeks,
The aroma of the sweet, pleasant lavender surrounded me
The bright melodies of the piano filled my head with tunes of the blossoming symphony.
My ever-so-light touch onto the keys, glide across into an arrangement,
Ready to give a finale.
As I think back toward my past lives,
To the little girl at the age of six
who danced with the wind,
Twirling along with the petals of the egg-shelled daisies.
To the girl at the age of ten
who discovered her love for the intricate pieces of Chopin.
To that rebellious fourteen-year-old teen
Who chose to see the vibrant Peonies before her
Instead of the slight blush of embarrassment of hands beneath.
To the eighteen-year-old me,
What fun it was to see the world, ranging from the Rosemallows in the tropics to the Primroses
In the cool climate playing with the sounds of a long-misused sonata.
I play this tune especially for my twenty-six-year-old self
who lost the splashful paint of her garden, the predawn indigo sky, and the glossy onyx fingers
placed gently between their rightful pair.
I play the joyous tunes by the memories of my wedding night
That began to weave the threads of fate into fruition and unfold an everlasting fragrance
Of fifty-three years.
I play the tune of the wilting Lobelia which returned to the earth too soon. I should have watered
the roots more. Gave you more sunshine, which you deserved.
This interlude of passing lines my eyes with tears
As the final stroke is played
In silence.