I'm not sure some of you understood what I was saying in my last post. To be quite honest, I'm not sure some of you even read it before you decided to throw your two cents in. When I said that college is a waste of time and money and I'm sick of it, that didn't mean "please suggest your own private college now, because I would really love to spend even more time and four times as much money taking the same stupid gen ed classes, but having to put more effort into them."
People don't go to private universities to just take a few classes. They go to get degrees. And, though the idea of paying over $120,000 to get a worthless degree is just oh, so appealing, I'm going to have to stick with my original plan. Thanks, though.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
What a Waste of Time.
I am sitting here, at my computer, trying to figure out my schedule for next term, and it is causing me some major stress. I had three of my classes figured out, all of which of nearly full, and then the stupid system decided it would stop working for the night. I also cannot seem to find a fourth class, and heaven forbid I not go full-time.
This is a waste of my time. I do not need science or math or speech or any other stupid general ed to be a writer. I don't even need a degree. But, since (insert your idea here) likes to shove his/her nose in my personal business and get on someone's case for allowing his/her daughter to attend a community college, I would hate to see what would happen if (insert your idea here) heard I was only going part-time.
College is a waste of time and money and I'm sick of it. And nosy (insert your idea here) should be put in their places.
This is crap.
This is a waste of my time. I do not need science or math or speech or any other stupid general ed to be a writer. I don't even need a degree. But, since (insert your idea here) likes to shove his/her nose in my personal business and get on someone's case for allowing his/her daughter to attend a community college, I would hate to see what would happen if (insert your idea here) heard I was only going part-time.
College is a waste of time and money and I'm sick of it. And nosy (insert your idea here) should be put in their places.
This is crap.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
The Voice
I saw, while flipping through the latest issue of Relevant, a new translation of the bible called "The Voice". The pitch stated: "Representing a collaboration among scholars, writers, musicians, and other artists, The Voice is a new and dynamic translation of the Bible that brings the biblical narrative to life."
It caught my attention. So, today, I went to the Christian bookstore and was looking for it, wanting to look it over. But they didn't have it, so the woman working there looked it up on her computer and told me she could order it, if I wanted. And, without knowing anything, really, about it, I asked her to order it. And then I paid for it right then and there. It was the most impulsive thing I've done in months.
So, tonight, I Googled it, because I figured I might as well know a little about the book I just bought. And the first thing I read was, "Meet the New Bible for the Postmodern Culture". Now, reading A New Kind of Christian is fantastic, because it's essentially what I've been thinking for the past several months (all the while thinking I was falling away from my faith) and it's good to know that I'm not the only one. And so I buy this Bible, impulsively, and it turns out to be something that could be fantastic.
It's only the New Testament so far, and I don't know if they plan to do the Old Testament. From what I've read about it, I would love to read Psalms. But Brian McLaren translated Acts and Luke, so that should be interesting.
So, I'm excited for this to come in.
I get it on Tuesday.
It caught my attention. So, today, I went to the Christian bookstore and was looking for it, wanting to look it over. But they didn't have it, so the woman working there looked it up on her computer and told me she could order it, if I wanted. And, without knowing anything, really, about it, I asked her to order it. And then I paid for it right then and there. It was the most impulsive thing I've done in months.
So, tonight, I Googled it, because I figured I might as well know a little about the book I just bought. And the first thing I read was, "Meet the New Bible for the Postmodern Culture". Now, reading A New Kind of Christian is fantastic, because it's essentially what I've been thinking for the past several months (all the while thinking I was falling away from my faith) and it's good to know that I'm not the only one. And so I buy this Bible, impulsively, and it turns out to be something that could be fantastic.
It's only the New Testament so far, and I don't know if they plan to do the Old Testament. From what I've read about it, I would love to read Psalms. But Brian McLaren translated Acts and Luke, so that should be interesting.
So, I'm excited for this to come in.
I get it on Tuesday.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
NaNoWriMo
National Novel Writing Month is November, apparently, and this organization is trying to get everyone (all the writers out there, at least) to write a 50,000 word novel from scratch this month. So, thanks to James for pointing that out, because I see this as a challenge, and now have absolutely no excuse to put off my writing. If everyone else can write 50,000 words this month, then I can too.
Technically, I'm cheating, because I'm not starting from scratch. I'm adding another 50,000 to my current story, because starting a new one at this point would be detrimental, I think. So I'm not signing up for anything on the website, because I don't think that would be fair. Although, I think I deserve some credit, because I'm starting five days late. That puts me back at my two-thousand-words-a-day summer schedule, which was significantly easier to follow during the summer.
But this, if it works, will bring my total word count up to around 75,000 words. The editor from Tor told me my book should be about 80,000-100,000 words long. So, that means I should be a few chapters shy of finished. And I think I'm making it known to you all that I'm doing this so that I have some expectations. And if I don't get the 50,000 words, I'm going to kick myself for mentioning any of this. So hopefully my pride will help me out, here.
So much for sleep.
Technically, I'm cheating, because I'm not starting from scratch. I'm adding another 50,000 to my current story, because starting a new one at this point would be detrimental, I think. So I'm not signing up for anything on the website, because I don't think that would be fair. Although, I think I deserve some credit, because I'm starting five days late. That puts me back at my two-thousand-words-a-day summer schedule, which was significantly easier to follow during the summer.
But this, if it works, will bring my total word count up to around 75,000 words. The editor from Tor told me my book should be about 80,000-100,000 words long. So, that means I should be a few chapters shy of finished. And I think I'm making it known to you all that I'm doing this so that I have some expectations. And if I don't get the 50,000 words, I'm going to kick myself for mentioning any of this. So hopefully my pride will help me out, here.
So much for sleep.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Sigh.
First off, I love how as soon as I change my status on Facebook to something that has to do with voting, everyone comments on it. You people are obsessed with voting.
Second, you can stop lecturing me now, because I'm going to vote. Not because I want to, but because I live with my parents and I have to pick my battles. Not coloring a few bubbles is not worth an argument with them.
Third, I'm still writing myself in.
Second, you can stop lecturing me now, because I'm going to vote. Not because I want to, but because I live with my parents and I have to pick my battles. Not coloring a few bubbles is not worth an argument with them.
Third, I'm still writing myself in.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Please, Tell Me You Are Kidding.
Over one billion dollars has been spent on campaigns for this stupid election.
Does anyone have any idea how many people could be fed with one billion dollars?
One billion freaking dollars. On one stupid election.
That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.
I am not voting.
Obama and McCain can joust to determine the presidency, for all I care.
I currently hate both of them for wasting one billion dollars on bashing the other.
Stupid.
Does anyone have any idea how many people could be fed with one billion dollars?
One billion freaking dollars. On one stupid election.
That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.
I am not voting.
Obama and McCain can joust to determine the presidency, for all I care.
I currently hate both of them for wasting one billion dollars on bashing the other.
Stupid.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Really? Take Two.
1. When a guy has a girlfriend, that means you should view him as off-limits. Just because you work with him does not mean you are entitled to any special privileges.
2. When said guy is out to dinner with his girlfriend, you should not come and throw yourself into his lap and completely ignore the fact that his girlfriend is sitting in plain sight.
3. You should not begin talking about your problems, and complaining about the various elements of your life that suck, and set him to work folding stupid table decorations that you get paid to fold.
4. Nobody cares about you or your stupid table decorations.
5. Not only is this ridiculously rude, but it causes his girlfriend to want to punch you in the face, and makes you look desperate and pathetic. Said girlfriend might even pity you, if she wasn't intent on burning holes into your face with her glare.
6. When you finally get up and leave, you should not come back.
7. When you do come back, you should fully expect said guy and his girlfriend to get up and leave.
8. You do not have the right to be offended.
2. When said guy is out to dinner with his girlfriend, you should not come and throw yourself into his lap and completely ignore the fact that his girlfriend is sitting in plain sight.
3. You should not begin talking about your problems, and complaining about the various elements of your life that suck, and set him to work folding stupid table decorations that you get paid to fold.
4. Nobody cares about you or your stupid table decorations.
5. Not only is this ridiculously rude, but it causes his girlfriend to want to punch you in the face, and makes you look desperate and pathetic. Said girlfriend might even pity you, if she wasn't intent on burning holes into your face with her glare.
6. When you finally get up and leave, you should not come back.
7. When you do come back, you should fully expect said guy and his girlfriend to get up and leave.
8. You do not have the right to be offended.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Why I Am Supposed To Be An Assassin
1. I have two insurance cards. My parents switched insurances or something, and we had to get new cards. The company messed my name up on the first one, so sent another. I now have two.
2. I have two birth certificates. I do not know why.
3. My name is spelled incorrectly on, I believe, both certificates.
4. I was not given a social security card at birth like normal people are. I got mine when I was fifteen. However, my name is spelled correctly.
5. I recently lost my driver's license. After literally emptying my purse out and searching through the contents ten times or so, and turning my bedroom upside-down looking for it, and then finally going to get a new license... I discovered my old license sitting neatly on top of a piece of paper, in my purse, the other night after eating at Red Robin with a friend.
6. Therefore, I have two licenses.
7. I believe this is the most important. I have no fingerprints. Over the summer, I signed up to be a classified substitute for the school district. Part of the application process was that I had to be fingerprinted. The computer system would not take my fingerprints, because they are apparently not clear enough to be identified. For simplicity's sake, the woman fingerprinting me manually accepted the prints on the computer, but I am still unidentifiable.
Lucky for her, I was a kind citizen and corrected her when she misspelled my name in the computer. That would have been reason number eight (my unidentifiable fingerprints linked to a different name), but my kind heart and respect for her job leaves me with only seven reasons.
But really, who else has seven reasons why they should be a hitman?
Forget writing. Killing is obviously my destiny.
2. I have two birth certificates. I do not know why.
3. My name is spelled incorrectly on, I believe, both certificates.
4. I was not given a social security card at birth like normal people are. I got mine when I was fifteen. However, my name is spelled correctly.
5. I recently lost my driver's license. After literally emptying my purse out and searching through the contents ten times or so, and turning my bedroom upside-down looking for it, and then finally going to get a new license... I discovered my old license sitting neatly on top of a piece of paper, in my purse, the other night after eating at Red Robin with a friend.
6. Therefore, I have two licenses.
7. I believe this is the most important. I have no fingerprints. Over the summer, I signed up to be a classified substitute for the school district. Part of the application process was that I had to be fingerprinted. The computer system would not take my fingerprints, because they are apparently not clear enough to be identified. For simplicity's sake, the woman fingerprinting me manually accepted the prints on the computer, but I am still unidentifiable.
Lucky for her, I was a kind citizen and corrected her when she misspelled my name in the computer. That would have been reason number eight (my unidentifiable fingerprints linked to a different name), but my kind heart and respect for her job leaves me with only seven reasons.
But really, who else has seven reasons why they should be a hitman?
Forget writing. Killing is obviously my destiny.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
The Story I Almost Wrote For The Class I Almost Took
The last sweet, shy tendrils of sleep began to loosen their grasp on the city as its drowsy inhabitants stirred slightly in their beds. Chests rose and fell as the fresh morning air filled lungs. Arms straightened and bent. Legs curled and uncurled beneath blankets that were tossed aside and pulled back.
The sun, just waking, as well, began her elegant arc over the sky, slowly easing her light over the town, mingling with the still fog to create an orange, velvet glow that caressed the faces of the reluctant wakers, lingering on eyelids with the hope of coaxing them into submission—into relaxation—all the while stirring to life the things of the city.
All of this Joel watched with a quiet intensity, a reverent silence. He had no bed of his own, no blanket to shelter him, no window to mediate the glowing sun’s rays, illuminating dust particles that did not exist, floating in the air of a room he did not own. Sleep had abandoned Joel long before, shrinking back from the touch of the warm sun’s icy predecessor. The sharp bite of the wind had taken it upon itself to wake Joel before ascending to rouse the sun, rushing unceremoniously through Joel’s unkempt hair, finding ways into Joel’s worn coat. For Joel had no door to turn the wind away, no walls to serve as the lamb’s blood, commanding the wind to continue his search for a victim.
Neither smiling nor frowning, Joel watched the sun make her entrance. He alone was her audience. In that immobile moment, when the raucous parties of the night had dispersed and the stiff businessmen of the day had yet to make the journeys to their offices, he alone was awake. Joel sat in deferential acknowledgment of a warmth that had never acknowledged him, much like a child who might love the image of a father who was incapable of showing love in return.
News: Deborah Reber, the author I mentioned in the previous post, emailed me back. She found my blog, though I didn't give her the address. So I'm curious as to how she managed it. And she asked for a writing sample. I sent her the tidbit above, along with the first two pages of my book. She hasn't written back yet, and I'm nearly ripping my hair out with impatience while trying to tell myself not to get my hopes up.
The sun, just waking, as well, began her elegant arc over the sky, slowly easing her light over the town, mingling with the still fog to create an orange, velvet glow that caressed the faces of the reluctant wakers, lingering on eyelids with the hope of coaxing them into submission—into relaxation—all the while stirring to life the things of the city.
All of this Joel watched with a quiet intensity, a reverent silence. He had no bed of his own, no blanket to shelter him, no window to mediate the glowing sun’s rays, illuminating dust particles that did not exist, floating in the air of a room he did not own. Sleep had abandoned Joel long before, shrinking back from the touch of the warm sun’s icy predecessor. The sharp bite of the wind had taken it upon itself to wake Joel before ascending to rouse the sun, rushing unceremoniously through Joel’s unkempt hair, finding ways into Joel’s worn coat. For Joel had no door to turn the wind away, no walls to serve as the lamb’s blood, commanding the wind to continue his search for a victim.
Neither smiling nor frowning, Joel watched the sun make her entrance. He alone was her audience. In that immobile moment, when the raucous parties of the night had dispersed and the stiff businessmen of the day had yet to make the journeys to their offices, he alone was awake. Joel sat in deferential acknowledgment of a warmth that had never acknowledged him, much like a child who might love the image of a father who was incapable of showing love in return.
***
News: Deborah Reber, the author I mentioned in the previous post, emailed me back. She found my blog, though I didn't give her the address. So I'm curious as to how she managed it. And she asked for a writing sample. I sent her the tidbit above, along with the first two pages of my book. She hasn't written back yet, and I'm nearly ripping my hair out with impatience while trying to tell myself not to get my hopes up.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
My Mind Is Truly Too Occupied To Come Up With A Witty Title
So, a lot of things have been going on lately. I would tell you that that is the reason for my lack of blogging, but that would be a lie. I just haven't had anything worthwhile to say. But school has started now. And suddenly everything is happening all at once.
I'm facing a myriad of writing opportunities. On top of the book that I have now promised Evan's sister that I will finish, and so cannot back out of, I may be undertaking the writing project that will probably be the death of me.
Door number one. The president of the Shakespeare club at LBCC wants me to help write a condensed version of all of Shakespeare's plays. Although I am not in any way a screenplay writer, I agreed to help. That was stupid of me. But part of me is looking forward to that. It should be entertaining, as the goal is to compile all of the 'dirty' parts of Shakespeare's plays, and I'm not completely sure what the includes. I'm pretty sure it's going to be something like an Elizabethan dirty joke book that nobody in the audience will actually understand. But Shakespeare wrote it, first. Don't shoot the messenger.
Door number two. I asked the only creative writing instructor at school to be my advisor, and made an idiot of myself by forgetting to tell him my name and major until the end of the conversation. It was quite pathetic. And then he told me I have to take his class, which starts tomorrow, if I want to be a Creative Writing major, and gave me the syllabus. In his class, I will be required to write a short story. Now, not only is he a brilliant writer who probably already thinks I'm mentally disabled because I can't carry on a normal conversation with another human being, but I absolutely detest short stories and am fairly certain that I cannot write one. So I started one the other night, and it wasn't awful. But it has absolutely no plot, so it hasn't progressed much. Long story short (oh, the irony...), his class intimidates me and makes me feel like I might be a worthless writer after all, and it hasn't even started yet. His class will bring my credit total this term up to sixteen. I hear that's suicide. But Brianna is killing herself quicker with seventeen, so I suppose I'm alright.
Door number three. I received an email from Evan's mom, that she got through a homeschool program, that was written by the author of Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul, and she (the author, not Evan's mom) is looking for a girl who loves to write, is 13-19 years old, and has a unique story to tell, to write a memoir. I have never written a memoir, and am not sure how well I'd do. But I have a good subject, and I fit the other criteria. So I shot off an email to her tonight, not pausing to wonder why I'm sabotaging my book by taking on three other potential writing projects.
Meanwhile, I almost feel like I've developed a fan base, because I'm fairly certain that every other conversation I have with people is them asking me when they get to read more of my book. I'm sorry, folks, but I don't have anything new yet. Please do not beat me up. That would make it even more difficult to write. And if you were actually devoted enough to my story to beat me for not writing quickly enough, that would give me a big head and everything would just go down the drain from there. So just pretend that you don't care. If you'd like, I can recommend several authors who are a thousand times more brilliant than I am.
Moral of the story?
Don't ask God to open doors.
He opens them all at once.
I'm facing a myriad of writing opportunities. On top of the book that I have now promised Evan's sister that I will finish, and so cannot back out of, I may be undertaking the writing project that will probably be the death of me.
Door number one. The president of the Shakespeare club at LBCC wants me to help write a condensed version of all of Shakespeare's plays. Although I am not in any way a screenplay writer, I agreed to help. That was stupid of me. But part of me is looking forward to that. It should be entertaining, as the goal is to compile all of the 'dirty' parts of Shakespeare's plays, and I'm not completely sure what the includes. I'm pretty sure it's going to be something like an Elizabethan dirty joke book that nobody in the audience will actually understand. But Shakespeare wrote it, first. Don't shoot the messenger.
Door number two. I asked the only creative writing instructor at school to be my advisor, and made an idiot of myself by forgetting to tell him my name and major until the end of the conversation. It was quite pathetic. And then he told me I have to take his class, which starts tomorrow, if I want to be a Creative Writing major, and gave me the syllabus. In his class, I will be required to write a short story. Now, not only is he a brilliant writer who probably already thinks I'm mentally disabled because I can't carry on a normal conversation with another human being, but I absolutely detest short stories and am fairly certain that I cannot write one. So I started one the other night, and it wasn't awful. But it has absolutely no plot, so it hasn't progressed much. Long story short (oh, the irony...), his class intimidates me and makes me feel like I might be a worthless writer after all, and it hasn't even started yet. His class will bring my credit total this term up to sixteen. I hear that's suicide. But Brianna is killing herself quicker with seventeen, so I suppose I'm alright.
Door number three. I received an email from Evan's mom, that she got through a homeschool program, that was written by the author of Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul, and she (the author, not Evan's mom) is looking for a girl who loves to write, is 13-19 years old, and has a unique story to tell, to write a memoir. I have never written a memoir, and am not sure how well I'd do. But I have a good subject, and I fit the other criteria. So I shot off an email to her tonight, not pausing to wonder why I'm sabotaging my book by taking on three other potential writing projects.
Meanwhile, I almost feel like I've developed a fan base, because I'm fairly certain that every other conversation I have with people is them asking me when they get to read more of my book. I'm sorry, folks, but I don't have anything new yet. Please do not beat me up. That would make it even more difficult to write. And if you were actually devoted enough to my story to beat me for not writing quickly enough, that would give me a big head and everything would just go down the drain from there. So just pretend that you don't care. If you'd like, I can recommend several authors who are a thousand times more brilliant than I am.
Moral of the story?
Don't ask God to open doors.
He opens them all at once.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Blocked Writing.
I have been aflicted by the accursed writer's block. And I was looking at different things to do to get my brain working, and one caught my eye - not because it would help at all, but just because it was intriguing.
The instructions were to take a poem in English, go to babelfish.com, and translate it into another language. And then from that language to another, and from that to another, and finally from that back to English. I used one of my poems that I've posted on here because it was easy to get at, and I thought the results were interesting. I went from English, to Italian, to French, to Greek, back to English. And I figured I'd post the results here, because it's not like I'm doing anything better with my time anyway.
It is the region selvaggia –
Old, elementary and brioso,
Shaped nell' imagination, [antegmenos] dall' uterus.
Secrets and silent nights.
Lions, magics, guardaroba.
Féroces battles and precise loves.
All of did lighting tremble d' a candle.
It is the dust [karion] –
Exceptionally, GRASSETTO and exotique,
Past under the generation in the generation,
Been appreciated, agreeable and coveted.
Fertile meetings of family and feast.
Red, yellow, green
Old histories and traditions of old datum,
All of lighting constant d' a lamp.
It is the porcelain –
Fragile, fragile and anaesthetising,
Small king of ball,
Aspect, but no perceptible never.
Scoop dell' that are woven ivory and hair.
Tulle you engrave Wispy and peak soft pistons.
Open, in windowsill,
All of lighting his that [chaei] [deyo] only.
He is these of things,
In the form and shaped the memories.
I just found it interesting that every "I am of" changed to "It is the", until the end, where it became "He is these". Intriguing. And I thought it was funny that "womb" was replaced with "uterus", because uterus is on my list of words I don't like, and womb is on my like list.
Yes, I have lists of words I do and do not like. Pretend like you don't.
Anyone know how to cure writer's block?
The instructions were to take a poem in English, go to babelfish.com, and translate it into another language. And then from that language to another, and from that to another, and finally from that back to English. I used one of my poems that I've posted on here because it was easy to get at, and I thought the results were interesting. I went from English, to Italian, to French, to Greek, back to English. And I figured I'd post the results here, because it's not like I'm doing anything better with my time anyway.
It is the region selvaggia –
Old, elementary and brioso,
Shaped nell' imagination, [antegmenos] dall' uterus.
Secrets and silent nights.
Lions, magics, guardaroba.
Féroces battles and precise loves.
All of did lighting tremble d' a candle.
It is the dust [karion] –
Exceptionally, GRASSETTO and exotique,
Past under the generation in the generation,
Been appreciated, agreeable and coveted.
Fertile meetings of family and feast.
Red, yellow, green
Old histories and traditions of old datum,
All of lighting constant d' a lamp.
It is the porcelain –
Fragile, fragile and anaesthetising,
Small king of ball,
Aspect, but no perceptible never.
Scoop dell' that are woven ivory and hair.
Tulle you engrave Wispy and peak soft pistons.
Open, in windowsill,
All of lighting his that [chaei] [deyo] only.
He is these of things,
In the form and shaped the memories.
I just found it interesting that every "I am of" changed to "It is the", until the end, where it became "He is these". Intriguing. And I thought it was funny that "womb" was replaced with "uterus", because uterus is on my list of words I don't like, and womb is on my like list.
Yes, I have lists of words I do and do not like. Pretend like you don't.
Anyone know how to cure writer's block?
Friday, August 22, 2008
Really?
1. If a girl has a boyfriend, she does not want to know that you are romantically interested in her.
2. Do not ask a girl who has a boyfriend if she would like you to ask her out when her boyfriend breaks up with her.
3. In fact, do not tell her that you think her boyfriend will break up with her. (This makes her want to punch you.)
4. You cannot blame her when the conversation becomes unbelievably uncomfortable, or when she begins to give one-word answers. You were the one who decided to ask her out and tell her that her boyfriend is going to break up with her.
5. When, three days later, you suddenly bring up your new girlfriend, whom you seem to be deeply in love with, just know that the first girl would rather not hear about it.
6. Do not bring her up in every single conversation, talk about how amazing she is, how beautiful she is, and how you have loved her from the moment you first laid eyes on her.
7. Unless you met her two days ago, you have not loved her from the moment you first laid eyes on her, or you would not have been asking the other girl out. And if you did meet her two days ago, you do not love her yet, because you have only known her for two days. Give it a rest. The first girl does not care.
8. At all.
9. She is still frustrated with you for asking her out and telling her that you have been watching her at school for the past four years.
That is all.
2. Do not ask a girl who has a boyfriend if she would like you to ask her out when her boyfriend breaks up with her.
3. In fact, do not tell her that you think her boyfriend will break up with her. (This makes her want to punch you.)
4. You cannot blame her when the conversation becomes unbelievably uncomfortable, or when she begins to give one-word answers. You were the one who decided to ask her out and tell her that her boyfriend is going to break up with her.
5. When, three days later, you suddenly bring up your new girlfriend, whom you seem to be deeply in love with, just know that the first girl would rather not hear about it.
6. Do not bring her up in every single conversation, talk about how amazing she is, how beautiful she is, and how you have loved her from the moment you first laid eyes on her.
7. Unless you met her two days ago, you have not loved her from the moment you first laid eyes on her, or you would not have been asking the other girl out. And if you did meet her two days ago, you do not love her yet, because you have only known her for two days. Give it a rest. The first girl does not care.
8. At all.
9. She is still frustrated with you for asking her out and telling her that you have been watching her at school for the past four years.
That is all.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
My Late-Night-Novel-Writing Survival Kit.
It leaves me with a slightly nauseated feeling sometimes, but it also leaves my thoughts crazy and open and creative. The positive outweighs the negative.
It balances the Rockstar out and keeps me from feeling like throwing up while I write.
And, finally...
Because being creative makes me hungry.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
It Would Appear That,
Due to my lack of technological prowess, I somehow managed to delete my last long post that I think only Mandy actually had a chance to read. Now, since it was long and half the problem is essentially resolved, I'm just going to give you a short overview and apologize for my incompatability with technology.
Long story short, I was having these terrible nightmares that were leaving me drained and exhausted by the time I woke up. They were making it significantly more difficult to write. They began when I started writing my book. That was problem numero uno.
Problem deux. Everything in our house is breaking. Air conditioning, mircowave, dishwasher, kitchen faucet, bathroom fan, all of the garden hoses.
My mom thinks the fact that our house is falling apart is a spiritual attack because we're both writing, which is what we feel we've been called to do. I thought she might be right. That, in its own way, made me feel slightly better because it meant we were doing something right. Then I sort of, in my typical Indonesian ask-but-don't-ask way, asked you to pray for us because, well, our house is falling apart and I wasn't sleeping.
Now, last night I tried something I used to do as a little kid when I had bad dreams. I slept with my Bible next to me. It sounds silly for an eighteen year old to do but, lo and behold, I slept soundly last night and wrote half of my fourth chapter today. So, problem number one is fixed. Problem number two, however, is still raging. So, if you would pray that would be spectacular.
Long story short, I was having these terrible nightmares that were leaving me drained and exhausted by the time I woke up. They were making it significantly more difficult to write. They began when I started writing my book. That was problem numero uno.
Problem deux. Everything in our house is breaking. Air conditioning, mircowave, dishwasher, kitchen faucet, bathroom fan, all of the garden hoses.
My mom thinks the fact that our house is falling apart is a spiritual attack because we're both writing, which is what we feel we've been called to do. I thought she might be right. That, in its own way, made me feel slightly better because it meant we were doing something right. Then I sort of, in my typical Indonesian ask-but-don't-ask way, asked you to pray for us because, well, our house is falling apart and I wasn't sleeping.
Now, last night I tried something I used to do as a little kid when I had bad dreams. I slept with my Bible next to me. It sounds silly for an eighteen year old to do but, lo and behold, I slept soundly last night and wrote half of my fourth chapter today. So, problem number one is fixed. Problem number two, however, is still raging. So, if you would pray that would be spectacular.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Why I Love My Parents: Part Two
Me: ...and I learned that you're not supposed to put adverbs after dialogue tags.
Mom: What?
Me: Like, 'he said'. You're not supposed to put adverbs after something like that.
Dad: So... Like, 'he said run'?
Mom: What?
Me: Like, 'he said'. You're not supposed to put adverbs after something like that.
Dad: So... Like, 'he said run'?
Monday, July 21, 2008
The World Will Write For You, If You Pay Attention.
- Craig English
I arrived home from the aforementioned writers conference at 8:28 this evening. I know some of you wanted me to let you know how it went, so I figured I'd give you all a bit of a debriefing.
The conference was spectacular. Living here, with all my friends who have at least semi-stable plans for their lives, it was so nice to be with four hundred other people who have the same crazy aspirations as you do. It was encouraging to listen to Robert Liparulo talk about his success and have Dia Calhoun teaching about how to make your writing better.
I really learned so much. The second day into the conference, I already had a ton of things to fix in my story, and I only have the first chapter done. (And I suppose 'done' is a bad word, since I have to fix it...) I have page after page after page of notes. But, I suppose, the highlight of the trip were the meetings with the agent and editor.
Now, don't get too excited. I haven't signed any million dollar book deals, and I'm still unrepresented. But, I'm fine with that.
My first meeting was with Minju Chang. She was the agent. I introduced myself and launched into my pitch. Halfway through, she stopped me to say she could tell that I've done this before. I hadn't done this before. She asked me a few questions about the basic storyline, my hero, my heroine, etc. She then asked me if I had the first page with me. This is the point where I thank God for my sister who, that morning, had emailed what I have of a manuscript to me so I could print it out at the hotel. So, yes, I did have the first page. I gave it to her and she read it carefully (while I sat in agonizing silence). She then told me that she loved the story idea and that she was very interested in it. She told me that I have a lot of promise and talent, and that her only suggestion was to put a little more backstory in the first few paragraphs to make the main character deeper. She then suggested that I join a writing group to keep my writing tight. Essentially, she's interested and I should definitely send in a query, but I'm not quite there yet. But that's okay, because the story's nowhere near done. So, overall, very good first meeting. And she said hi to me the next day, so I know she remembered me. That's good.
The next day, I had my meeting with Heather Osborn, who is one of the acquiring editors for Tor Fantasy (Brianna, think Herbie Brennan, T.A. Barron, Tanith Lee). The meeting was half and hour long and was supposed to be a group session, but I was the only one who showed up for the first fifteen minutes. So, while that nearly made me throw up with nervousness, it was ultimately better for me to be alone with her. After the introductions were done with, I gave her my pitch as well, and then proceeded to tell her about the story and the main characters. She loved it. She told me that she was very interested and that it would fit right in with what Tor already publishes and that she wanted me to send it in when I'm done. After she wrote my name down, so she would remember me when I sent the manuscript in, she told me not to bother with a query letter and to just send in the first three chapters (or fifty pages) once I'm ready. I was thrilled. (And then one other woman showed up to the meeting, and the conversation turned to our favorite books and such. Not important.)
So, I left the conference with both an agent and an editor who are interested in my writing. One said I have talent, and the other specifically asked for my manuscript. Overall, I'd say that's not bad. In fact, I'm slightly ecstatic. This looks like it's really going to happen. And that's a fantastic feeling.
I'm aware that it'll be a long and hard process, and that there's a good chance that they might even forget me by the time I'm finished with the first book. I was told to expect at least 100 rejections for every 1 acceptance, when I'm starting out. It's going to be tough. As Robert Dugoni put it, "You've got to be a bulldog in this business, kid. You've got to be a bulldog." And he's right, because that's exactly what this is. It's a business. There will come a point where my creativity and talent and artistic ability will have to step aside and make room for the cold, hard business of publishing to cut in. Last year, I would have been disgusted by that. But I've realized that pushing your way to the top doesn't mean sacrificing the art. I just have to be able to compartmentalize it. Writing the story is only half the battle. After that, it's all business. And that's okay with me. I can be a bulldog.
I arrived home from the aforementioned writers conference at 8:28 this evening. I know some of you wanted me to let you know how it went, so I figured I'd give you all a bit of a debriefing.
The conference was spectacular. Living here, with all my friends who have at least semi-stable plans for their lives, it was so nice to be with four hundred other people who have the same crazy aspirations as you do. It was encouraging to listen to Robert Liparulo talk about his success and have Dia Calhoun teaching about how to make your writing better.
I really learned so much. The second day into the conference, I already had a ton of things to fix in my story, and I only have the first chapter done. (And I suppose 'done' is a bad word, since I have to fix it...) I have page after page after page of notes. But, I suppose, the highlight of the trip were the meetings with the agent and editor.
Now, don't get too excited. I haven't signed any million dollar book deals, and I'm still unrepresented. But, I'm fine with that.
My first meeting was with Minju Chang. She was the agent. I introduced myself and launched into my pitch. Halfway through, she stopped me to say she could tell that I've done this before. I hadn't done this before. She asked me a few questions about the basic storyline, my hero, my heroine, etc. She then asked me if I had the first page with me. This is the point where I thank God for my sister who, that morning, had emailed what I have of a manuscript to me so I could print it out at the hotel. So, yes, I did have the first page. I gave it to her and she read it carefully (while I sat in agonizing silence). She then told me that she loved the story idea and that she was very interested in it. She told me that I have a lot of promise and talent, and that her only suggestion was to put a little more backstory in the first few paragraphs to make the main character deeper. She then suggested that I join a writing group to keep my writing tight. Essentially, she's interested and I should definitely send in a query, but I'm not quite there yet. But that's okay, because the story's nowhere near done. So, overall, very good first meeting. And she said hi to me the next day, so I know she remembered me. That's good.
The next day, I had my meeting with Heather Osborn, who is one of the acquiring editors for Tor Fantasy (Brianna, think Herbie Brennan, T.A. Barron, Tanith Lee). The meeting was half and hour long and was supposed to be a group session, but I was the only one who showed up for the first fifteen minutes. So, while that nearly made me throw up with nervousness, it was ultimately better for me to be alone with her. After the introductions were done with, I gave her my pitch as well, and then proceeded to tell her about the story and the main characters. She loved it. She told me that she was very interested and that it would fit right in with what Tor already publishes and that she wanted me to send it in when I'm done. After she wrote my name down, so she would remember me when I sent the manuscript in, she told me not to bother with a query letter and to just send in the first three chapters (or fifty pages) once I'm ready. I was thrilled. (And then one other woman showed up to the meeting, and the conversation turned to our favorite books and such. Not important.)
So, I left the conference with both an agent and an editor who are interested in my writing. One said I have talent, and the other specifically asked for my manuscript. Overall, I'd say that's not bad. In fact, I'm slightly ecstatic. This looks like it's really going to happen. And that's a fantastic feeling.
I'm aware that it'll be a long and hard process, and that there's a good chance that they might even forget me by the time I'm finished with the first book. I was told to expect at least 100 rejections for every 1 acceptance, when I'm starting out. It's going to be tough. As Robert Dugoni put it, "You've got to be a bulldog in this business, kid. You've got to be a bulldog." And he's right, because that's exactly what this is. It's a business. There will come a point where my creativity and talent and artistic ability will have to step aside and make room for the cold, hard business of publishing to cut in. Last year, I would have been disgusted by that. But I've realized that pushing your way to the top doesn't mean sacrificing the art. I just have to be able to compartmentalize it. Writing the story is only half the battle. After that, it's all business. And that's okay with me. I can be a bulldog.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
The Pacific Northwest Writer's Conference.
In a couple weeks, I am going to Seattle, where I will be attending the Pacific Northwest Writer's Conference, which is put on by the Pacific Northwest Writer's Association every year.
Now, some of you have heard about this already, but just bear with me.
When my mom signed us up for the conference, she called to confirm some details. She was told that somebody would call her back.
So, a few days later, she got a call from the PNWA. She began talking to this lady about the conference, but the conversation soon turned to my family. My mom told her about our family's history, and her plans to write my grandparents' story (an incredible story that you should definitely ask me about if you don't already know) and that I wanted to be a writer.
The woman on the other end of the conversation said that she was getting goosebumps and was really excited that we were coming, and that she definitely wanted to meet us.
So my mom asked who she was, so that we could find her when we got there. And the woman, as nonchalant as ever, said, "Oh, I'm the president. I'll just be walking around."
The lady who is so excited to meet my family is the freaking president of the Pacific Northwest Writer's Association.
And she's setting up appointments for me with an editor and agent.
I think I nearly threw up when my mom called me and told me the news.
And so now, I'm writing away, furiously trying to put something together worth presenting to somebody who probably eats lunch with Dan Brown and Nora Roberts on a weekly basis.
It's a little unreal, and I'm not entirely sure yet that I'm not actually dreaming. But there you go.
Now, some of you have heard about this already, but just bear with me.
When my mom signed us up for the conference, she called to confirm some details. She was told that somebody would call her back.
So, a few days later, she got a call from the PNWA. She began talking to this lady about the conference, but the conversation soon turned to my family. My mom told her about our family's history, and her plans to write my grandparents' story (an incredible story that you should definitely ask me about if you don't already know) and that I wanted to be a writer.
The woman on the other end of the conversation said that she was getting goosebumps and was really excited that we were coming, and that she definitely wanted to meet us.
So my mom asked who she was, so that we could find her when we got there. And the woman, as nonchalant as ever, said, "Oh, I'm the president. I'll just be walking around."
The lady who is so excited to meet my family is the freaking president of the Pacific Northwest Writer's Association.
And she's setting up appointments for me with an editor and agent.
I think I nearly threw up when my mom called me and told me the news.
And so now, I'm writing away, furiously trying to put something together worth presenting to somebody who probably eats lunch with Dan Brown and Nora Roberts on a weekly basis.
It's a little unreal, and I'm not entirely sure yet that I'm not actually dreaming. But there you go.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
San Francisco
On Saturday, at around 5:30 p.m., I returned home from a week-long missions trip to San Francisco. Most of you who read my blog are my friends, and you already know that, so I don't know why I bothered saying it. But here's the real news:
San Francisco was, easily, the most difficult, exhuasting, draining, and emotional missions trip I have ever been on. Because, after my faith's dry spell of a few months, after completely pulling myself away from any shred of spiritual discipline I had managed before that, I made the stupid mistake of thinking that throwing myself into the trip unprepared would be a good idea.
I thought, again, stupidly, that this trip was what I needed to snap me back into my routine with God. I was wrong.
What I discovered was that I had really taken for granted all of the preparation that James has us do every year before a trip. I discovered that going from nearly no communication with God to a daily devotion, and then singing, and praying, and singing, and praying, and bible lesson time, and singing, and praying, and so on, was a big jump. And, not only was my mind whirling from the sudden activity, but I felt like an imposter. I felt like I didn't belong in that group of people, devotedly connecting with God. Like I didn't belong in San Francisco, showing people the love of a God that I wasn't sure I believed in just weeks before.
It was hard. It was really hard. And, on top of that confusion was the frustration with the organization of my time. I felt, after working all day, every day, in New Orleans and Compton the two years before, that I was doing absolutely nothing. I was unbelievably frustrated with the large amounts of free time, when I felt like I should still be packing food, or listening to a homeless man tell his stories.
Those two things alone made the trip almost unbearably difficult for me. But that was hardly all.
I knew going into the trip that it was going to be an emotional one. Working at a homeless shelter in Vancouver, B.C., was my first missions trip, and it created a soft spot, to say the least, for impoverished people. San Francisco, I knew, would confront me with the same urban city poverty that I dealt with in Vancouver. And I was absolutely right. The people and their situations were absolutely heartbreaking, and my frustration with my own lack of work left me all the more torn between the need I saw and the ability I had to do anything about it.
My first breakdown was Tuesday night. I remember talking to Cassie after group time, and we were both complaining that we thought that we would last, at least, halfway through the week before we had to deal with our emotions. But we didn't. We came to the conclusion that God is inconvenient. We did, however, end up talking to Heather until about one in the morning. And, for me at least, that really helped. I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed and ready to jump back into work.
Wednesday, I shed a few tears. But, overall, it was a fairly calm, if cold, evening. I spent a somewhat numb day at work.
But Thursday. Thursday was hard. At the church where I worked in the afternoon and talked with homeless people, I felt that leaving might be simpler than I had anticipated, because I hadn't really deeply connected with anyone. But then I found myself talking one-on-one with Kevin, a man there who was eager to tell anyone his stories. And what struck me was his genuine interest in my life. So many homeless people that you meet are so eager to just have someone listening to them. But Kevin, right off the bat, asked me things about myself.
He asked what grade I was in, and where I was going to college, and what my major was going to be. And then, when I told him I was going to be a Creative Writing major, he launched into a discussion about literature with me. And, any of you who know me know that if you want me to talk, get me started on books. And that's just what he did. Rather than allowing me to simply listen to his stories, he challenged me to engage in conversation with him.
We talked about our favorite authors, American first, and then moved on to other things. I almost envied him when he told me that he used to have a collection of over fifty thousand books, because he was a college professor, he said. What awed me, though, was his content with his current situation. He went from an army man who traveled the world, to a college professor with an enviable collection of books, to a man living on the streets of San Francisco. And he was happy.
He made me promise to send him the first copy of my book once I'm published.
But the expression on his face when Joel came over and told me it was time to leave... He was crestfallen. The night before, Evan and I had had a conversation about how the constant coming and going of people was probably harder on the kids than the adults, because the adults were used to it. The look on Kevin's face when he discovered that I wouldn't be coming back completely threw that theory out the window. And right then, at that moment, it took all the strength I had to not start crying.
As I finally pried myself away, a man, who later introduced himself as "My name is Duane, but if you ever forget that, what's man's best friend? Dog," came over to me, shook my hand, and said "You don't really want to leave, do you? Why don't you just tell them you're staying for awhile." He laughed as he spoke, but his expression was the same as Kevin's.
I nearly lost it. But, for five more minutes, I had to keep it in while Duane insisted that we take a picture with him, and that we come back soon. Even as we were half a block away, walking toward our bus, he yelled out, "Y'all come back now, you hear?"
Thursday night was the worst. During our group time, I completely broke down. I think I cried until I was physically unable to cry any more. And then this sort of hysteric happiness set in, as if my mind was trying so hard to ignore the fact that I was abandoning those people that I suddenly found everything funny. Or maybe that final cry had simply lifted some of the weight, and I was able to laugh for awhile.
What I find unbearably ironic, though, is that Friday, our calm-down day, our tourist day, our happy day, was, aside from Thurday night, the hardest day for me. On top of the fact that I was tired and sore, I knew that, even though I was still in San Francisco, my work was done. It was that awkward, awful feeling, where you feel like you should be doing something, doing more, but that you just can't. And not only did I know that I was simply useless that day, but I missed my story.
That was definitely an odd realization. I might seem like a lunatic from this point on, but I honestly just wanted to go home so that I could write. I don't mean I wanted to come home and blog. I wasn't ready to talk about San Francisco yet, and I was honestly dreading all the questions that I knew would be thrown at me as soon as I stepped out of the van in the church parking lot. I still needed time to process everything that had happened.
But I wanted to come home and write. I'm working on a story. A novel - a trilogy - really. And I really missed writing it. I missed the characters in my silly little book like you miss a real person. I missed being able to sit down, put on my Coldplay, and just let the problems of someone else, in some other world, take me away and absorb my attention.
And with the up and coming Writer's Conference, that some of you know about that that I'll blog about later, less than a month away, I really feel like writing is a very, very important part of my day. And I'm trying to prepare and figure things out, and it's crazy. But on Friday, all I wanted to do was go home and write.
And, as I said earlier, I didn't want to talk, or blog. So much had happened during this trip that I hadn't had time to think it all over yet. I needed time to just let it sink in and register. I missed Kainos the night after we got home. We were supposed to go and tell the people about our trip. And I missed it, partly because I fell asleep, but I think partly because I really didn't want to go and talk to people about my trip yet. I wasn't ready. Even now, it's hard to say everything. I've been writing this post for three days now, and I'm just finishing.
But San Francisco was amazing. And, once I'm hydrated enough to be able to cry again, I probably will. And if you want to ask me about it, I want to tell you. Just give me another day or so. I'm almost there.
San Francisco was, easily, the most difficult, exhuasting, draining, and emotional missions trip I have ever been on. Because, after my faith's dry spell of a few months, after completely pulling myself away from any shred of spiritual discipline I had managed before that, I made the stupid mistake of thinking that throwing myself into the trip unprepared would be a good idea.
I thought, again, stupidly, that this trip was what I needed to snap me back into my routine with God. I was wrong.
What I discovered was that I had really taken for granted all of the preparation that James has us do every year before a trip. I discovered that going from nearly no communication with God to a daily devotion, and then singing, and praying, and singing, and praying, and bible lesson time, and singing, and praying, and so on, was a big jump. And, not only was my mind whirling from the sudden activity, but I felt like an imposter. I felt like I didn't belong in that group of people, devotedly connecting with God. Like I didn't belong in San Francisco, showing people the love of a God that I wasn't sure I believed in just weeks before.
It was hard. It was really hard. And, on top of that confusion was the frustration with the organization of my time. I felt, after working all day, every day, in New Orleans and Compton the two years before, that I was doing absolutely nothing. I was unbelievably frustrated with the large amounts of free time, when I felt like I should still be packing food, or listening to a homeless man tell his stories.
Those two things alone made the trip almost unbearably difficult for me. But that was hardly all.
I knew going into the trip that it was going to be an emotional one. Working at a homeless shelter in Vancouver, B.C., was my first missions trip, and it created a soft spot, to say the least, for impoverished people. San Francisco, I knew, would confront me with the same urban city poverty that I dealt with in Vancouver. And I was absolutely right. The people and their situations were absolutely heartbreaking, and my frustration with my own lack of work left me all the more torn between the need I saw and the ability I had to do anything about it.
My first breakdown was Tuesday night. I remember talking to Cassie after group time, and we were both complaining that we thought that we would last, at least, halfway through the week before we had to deal with our emotions. But we didn't. We came to the conclusion that God is inconvenient. We did, however, end up talking to Heather until about one in the morning. And, for me at least, that really helped. I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed and ready to jump back into work.
Wednesday, I shed a few tears. But, overall, it was a fairly calm, if cold, evening. I spent a somewhat numb day at work.
But Thursday. Thursday was hard. At the church where I worked in the afternoon and talked with homeless people, I felt that leaving might be simpler than I had anticipated, because I hadn't really deeply connected with anyone. But then I found myself talking one-on-one with Kevin, a man there who was eager to tell anyone his stories. And what struck me was his genuine interest in my life. So many homeless people that you meet are so eager to just have someone listening to them. But Kevin, right off the bat, asked me things about myself.
He asked what grade I was in, and where I was going to college, and what my major was going to be. And then, when I told him I was going to be a Creative Writing major, he launched into a discussion about literature with me. And, any of you who know me know that if you want me to talk, get me started on books. And that's just what he did. Rather than allowing me to simply listen to his stories, he challenged me to engage in conversation with him.
We talked about our favorite authors, American first, and then moved on to other things. I almost envied him when he told me that he used to have a collection of over fifty thousand books, because he was a college professor, he said. What awed me, though, was his content with his current situation. He went from an army man who traveled the world, to a college professor with an enviable collection of books, to a man living on the streets of San Francisco. And he was happy.
He made me promise to send him the first copy of my book once I'm published.
But the expression on his face when Joel came over and told me it was time to leave... He was crestfallen. The night before, Evan and I had had a conversation about how the constant coming and going of people was probably harder on the kids than the adults, because the adults were used to it. The look on Kevin's face when he discovered that I wouldn't be coming back completely threw that theory out the window. And right then, at that moment, it took all the strength I had to not start crying.
As I finally pried myself away, a man, who later introduced himself as "My name is Duane, but if you ever forget that, what's man's best friend? Dog," came over to me, shook my hand, and said "You don't really want to leave, do you? Why don't you just tell them you're staying for awhile." He laughed as he spoke, but his expression was the same as Kevin's.
I nearly lost it. But, for five more minutes, I had to keep it in while Duane insisted that we take a picture with him, and that we come back soon. Even as we were half a block away, walking toward our bus, he yelled out, "Y'all come back now, you hear?"
Thursday night was the worst. During our group time, I completely broke down. I think I cried until I was physically unable to cry any more. And then this sort of hysteric happiness set in, as if my mind was trying so hard to ignore the fact that I was abandoning those people that I suddenly found everything funny. Or maybe that final cry had simply lifted some of the weight, and I was able to laugh for awhile.
What I find unbearably ironic, though, is that Friday, our calm-down day, our tourist day, our happy day, was, aside from Thurday night, the hardest day for me. On top of the fact that I was tired and sore, I knew that, even though I was still in San Francisco, my work was done. It was that awkward, awful feeling, where you feel like you should be doing something, doing more, but that you just can't. And not only did I know that I was simply useless that day, but I missed my story.
That was definitely an odd realization. I might seem like a lunatic from this point on, but I honestly just wanted to go home so that I could write. I don't mean I wanted to come home and blog. I wasn't ready to talk about San Francisco yet, and I was honestly dreading all the questions that I knew would be thrown at me as soon as I stepped out of the van in the church parking lot. I still needed time to process everything that had happened.
But I wanted to come home and write. I'm working on a story. A novel - a trilogy - really. And I really missed writing it. I missed the characters in my silly little book like you miss a real person. I missed being able to sit down, put on my Coldplay, and just let the problems of someone else, in some other world, take me away and absorb my attention.
And with the up and coming Writer's Conference, that some of you know about that that I'll blog about later, less than a month away, I really feel like writing is a very, very important part of my day. And I'm trying to prepare and figure things out, and it's crazy. But on Friday, all I wanted to do was go home and write.
And, as I said earlier, I didn't want to talk, or blog. So much had happened during this trip that I hadn't had time to think it all over yet. I needed time to just let it sink in and register. I missed Kainos the night after we got home. We were supposed to go and tell the people about our trip. And I missed it, partly because I fell asleep, but I think partly because I really didn't want to go and talk to people about my trip yet. I wasn't ready. Even now, it's hard to say everything. I've been writing this post for three days now, and I'm just finishing.
But San Francisco was amazing. And, once I'm hydrated enough to be able to cry again, I probably will. And if you want to ask me about it, I want to tell you. Just give me another day or so. I'm almost there.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
The past few months have been really hard for me. What started out as, I thought, a few healthy and helpful questions concerning my faith quickly grew into a hiddeous and crippling monster of doubt. My relationship with God struggled. It struggled a lot.
Sometimes I hated him. Sometimes I didn't even believe that he existed. I wanted to. I wanted to believe so much that it hurt. But, sometimes for weeks on end, I couldn't. My faith in God was, slowly but surely, slipping away.
I remember one day in particular when I was really, really upset about something. Something that I have always found to be the most helpful thing to do when I'm upset is to pray about it. I don't mean I would just sit down and say a few words. I hate talking, and that includes talking to God. So, instead, I would take three hours and write out what I was feeling and thinking and wanting and needing. I would write a letter to God, so to speak. And, in the end, my thoughts would be in order, and I would feel a sense of peace.
But that day, I sat down, and I wrote out my prayer. If you can distinguish yelling from talking on paper, my prayer that day was a scream. It was one long, painful scream. I remember starting out, telling God that I was handing the control over to him, because that was what he wanted, and because I wanted nothing to do with myself and my situation anymore. But, even as I wrote it, I knew that I wasn't even close to giving up my power struggle. I just wanted things to get better, and I knew that writing down a prayer had always helped in the past.
After I finished throwing my problems at (rather than giving my problems to) God, I remember writing an apology. I felt that I had been mocking and manipulative. As if you can manipulate God. It was a long apology.
But what I remember most is the fact that, after I finished writing, nothing at all had changed. I didn't feel better. My thoughts were just as jumbled as ever. And I realized that not a single word of that prayer was meant for God, because I didn't believe he existed.
That was a hard realization. It was a painful realization. But it's wasn't a shocking realization. Because I had felt my faith slipping away over time. Doubt had replaced faith as my companion, and that realization was simply a statement of a fact. Nothing more, nothing less.
And then something happened.
As a graduating senior, people often did (and do) ask me what I'm going to do. What I'm going to be. What I'm going to become.
About a week ago, I met a man my mom works with. He, like everyone else, asked me what I plan on doing.
I hate that question. It's always created this awkward, flustered moment for me. I often reply, embarrassed, "I want to write but..." or "I might be teacher..." or "I'm not really sure..." Many times, all three come out of my mouth.
But, when he asked me, I looked at him and, without a moment's hesitation, told him that I was going to be a novelist. He looked at me in surprise, because I'm pretty sure that's not what he was expecting. But, I promise you, I was one hundred times more shocked with what came out of my mouth than he was.
I told him flat out that I was going to be a novelist. Not that I wanted to, but... Or that I might end up teaching, but... There was no doubt in my answer.
I'll be the first to admit that it was a stupid answer. It was impractical. It was unrealistic. It was improbable. It was illogical. It was unreliable. It was stupid.
It's not smart, and it's not practical, to set my mind to being a novelist. I'm setting myself up for failure and disappointment and hardships and trouble.
Deciding to be a novelist is not safe. And for the past eighteen years of my life, I've been so concerned with finding the safe route that I've lost sight of what I want to do. I've lost sight of what I need to do. I've been so caught up in preparing myself for a safe, practical, steady career that I've completely ignored what really matters.
When I told that man that I was going to be a novelist, I realized that I would rather be living on the street than be a teacher. I have nothing against teachers. I've had some brilliant teachers. But I knew, at that moment, that I would be miserable for the rest of my life as anything but a novelist.
And the thing is, being stupid and unrealistic and impractical and daring and bold and reckless and illogical and certain to fail is something that we've been studying in youth group and that seems to be standing patiently, waiting for me to realize that it's there and that maybe it's not so stupid and unrealistic and impractical and daring and bold and reckless and illogical and certain to fail, after all. Because I've finally realized that God is there to do the stupid, unrealistic, impractical, daring, bold, reckless, illogical, and certain to fail parts for me, because he's God and he can. And he's here. And he's real.
I'm not trying to say that things are perfect, especially with God and me. They're not. They're not at all. My relationship with God is fragile and badly wounded. But it's a relationship again, and I'm willing to grow and heal. And that's what I'm going to do.
Sometimes I hated him. Sometimes I didn't even believe that he existed. I wanted to. I wanted to believe so much that it hurt. But, sometimes for weeks on end, I couldn't. My faith in God was, slowly but surely, slipping away.
I remember one day in particular when I was really, really upset about something. Something that I have always found to be the most helpful thing to do when I'm upset is to pray about it. I don't mean I would just sit down and say a few words. I hate talking, and that includes talking to God. So, instead, I would take three hours and write out what I was feeling and thinking and wanting and needing. I would write a letter to God, so to speak. And, in the end, my thoughts would be in order, and I would feel a sense of peace.
But that day, I sat down, and I wrote out my prayer. If you can distinguish yelling from talking on paper, my prayer that day was a scream. It was one long, painful scream. I remember starting out, telling God that I was handing the control over to him, because that was what he wanted, and because I wanted nothing to do with myself and my situation anymore. But, even as I wrote it, I knew that I wasn't even close to giving up my power struggle. I just wanted things to get better, and I knew that writing down a prayer had always helped in the past.
After I finished throwing my problems at (rather than giving my problems to) God, I remember writing an apology. I felt that I had been mocking and manipulative. As if you can manipulate God. It was a long apology.
But what I remember most is the fact that, after I finished writing, nothing at all had changed. I didn't feel better. My thoughts were just as jumbled as ever. And I realized that not a single word of that prayer was meant for God, because I didn't believe he existed.
That was a hard realization. It was a painful realization. But it's wasn't a shocking realization. Because I had felt my faith slipping away over time. Doubt had replaced faith as my companion, and that realization was simply a statement of a fact. Nothing more, nothing less.
And then something happened.
As a graduating senior, people often did (and do) ask me what I'm going to do. What I'm going to be. What I'm going to become.
About a week ago, I met a man my mom works with. He, like everyone else, asked me what I plan on doing.
I hate that question. It's always created this awkward, flustered moment for me. I often reply, embarrassed, "I want to write but..." or "I might be teacher..." or "I'm not really sure..." Many times, all three come out of my mouth.
But, when he asked me, I looked at him and, without a moment's hesitation, told him that I was going to be a novelist. He looked at me in surprise, because I'm pretty sure that's not what he was expecting. But, I promise you, I was one hundred times more shocked with what came out of my mouth than he was.
I told him flat out that I was going to be a novelist. Not that I wanted to, but... Or that I might end up teaching, but... There was no doubt in my answer.
I'll be the first to admit that it was a stupid answer. It was impractical. It was unrealistic. It was improbable. It was illogical. It was unreliable. It was stupid.
It's not smart, and it's not practical, to set my mind to being a novelist. I'm setting myself up for failure and disappointment and hardships and trouble.
Deciding to be a novelist is not safe. And for the past eighteen years of my life, I've been so concerned with finding the safe route that I've lost sight of what I want to do. I've lost sight of what I need to do. I've been so caught up in preparing myself for a safe, practical, steady career that I've completely ignored what really matters.
When I told that man that I was going to be a novelist, I realized that I would rather be living on the street than be a teacher. I have nothing against teachers. I've had some brilliant teachers. But I knew, at that moment, that I would be miserable for the rest of my life as anything but a novelist.
And the thing is, being stupid and unrealistic and impractical and daring and bold and reckless and illogical and certain to fail is something that we've been studying in youth group and that seems to be standing patiently, waiting for me to realize that it's there and that maybe it's not so stupid and unrealistic and impractical and daring and bold and reckless and illogical and certain to fail, after all. Because I've finally realized that God is there to do the stupid, unrealistic, impractical, daring, bold, reckless, illogical, and certain to fail parts for me, because he's God and he can. And he's here. And he's real.
I'm not trying to say that things are perfect, especially with God and me. They're not. They're not at all. My relationship with God is fragile and badly wounded. But it's a relationship again, and I'm willing to grow and heal. And that's what I'm going to do.
Monday, June 02, 2008
This Is Why I Love My Parents:
Dad: So, I'm going to move this and put that there.
Mom: Okay, can you move the table there so Chelsea can put her ghetto blaster on it?
Me: My what?
Mom: Your ghetto blaster.
Dad: Gini, you're not being PC. It would be called a 'cultural blaster' now. Or maybe a crank box. But I think crank might be a drug, so that wouldn't be appropriate, either.
Me: What are you talking about?
Mom: Your radio.
Mom: Okay, can you move the table there so Chelsea can put her ghetto blaster on it?
Me: My what?
Mom: Your ghetto blaster.
Dad: Gini, you're not being PC. It would be called a 'cultural blaster' now. Or maybe a crank box. But I think crank might be a drug, so that wouldn't be appropriate, either.
Me: What are you talking about?
Mom: Your radio.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
I've Come To Realize That,
As much as I like to say I'm spontaneous, and that I just let my writing take me where it will, I must admit that, when it comes to long-term writing, that is false.
I've come to realize that my writing is significantly better when I have a plan. And, let me tell you, after years and years assuming I'm above outlines and plans and rough drafts because I'm a better writer than that, and fighting them and saying that "I don't need them," because I just "let the the story happen," I'm having a hard time swallowing my words.
But, in the end, I know I'm going to plan what I write. I'm going to start a novel with a pretty good idea of where it will end up. Will I stick to my original plan without wavering? Probably not. But if I at least have an idea of where I'm going, I've realized that things tend to work out better.
So, I suppose that means I have to apologize to all of my teachers that I've ever said, "I don't do rough drafts" to. Because they were right, and I was wrong.
P.S.
J.K. Rowling is worth more than the Queen of England.
(Somewhere between $500 - $600 million.)
Because she wrote a few books.
P.P.S.
That makes her my hero.
As far as contemporary authors go, at any rate.
P.P.P.S.
By $500 - $600 million, I meant £500 - £600 million.
Which is roughly a billion dollars here, I believe?
I've come to realize that my writing is significantly better when I have a plan. And, let me tell you, after years and years assuming I'm above outlines and plans and rough drafts because I'm a better writer than that, and fighting them and saying that "I don't need them," because I just "let the the story happen," I'm having a hard time swallowing my words.
But, in the end, I know I'm going to plan what I write. I'm going to start a novel with a pretty good idea of where it will end up. Will I stick to my original plan without wavering? Probably not. But if I at least have an idea of where I'm going, I've realized that things tend to work out better.
So, I suppose that means I have to apologize to all of my teachers that I've ever said, "I don't do rough drafts" to. Because they were right, and I was wrong.
P.S.
J.K. Rowling is worth more than the Queen of England.
(Somewhere between $500 - $600 million.)
Because she wrote a few books.
P.P.S.
That makes her my hero.
As far as contemporary authors go, at any rate.
P.P.P.S.
By $500 - $600 million, I meant £500 - £600 million.
Which is roughly a billion dollars here, I believe?
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Introverted-iNtuitive-Feeling-Perceiving
INFP.
Introverted, iNtuitive, Feeling, Perceiving.
That's me.
I took a personality test (on Facebook, of all places), that I took a few years ago from a book. My results changed, which is, I suppose, a legitimate event. I used to be an ENFP. So, really, I just went from being more extroverted to introverted. I can see that.
But the awesome thing is, this test, this INFP...
It's me. Seriously, if you want to get a glimpse inside my crazy head, Google INFP and read the description, because the entire description fits me like a snug sweater. Everything is so true. It's hilarious, how accurate it is.
But my favorite thing about it?
My personality type makes up about 1-4% of the population.
That's awesome.
Introverted, iNtuitive, Feeling, Perceiving.
That's me.
I took a personality test (on Facebook, of all places), that I took a few years ago from a book. My results changed, which is, I suppose, a legitimate event. I used to be an ENFP. So, really, I just went from being more extroverted to introverted. I can see that.
But the awesome thing is, this test, this INFP...
It's me. Seriously, if you want to get a glimpse inside my crazy head, Google INFP and read the description, because the entire description fits me like a snug sweater. Everything is so true. It's hilarious, how accurate it is.
But my favorite thing about it?
My personality type makes up about 1-4% of the population.
That's awesome.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
I Am
I am of the wilderness —
Ancient, elemental, and spirited,
Wrought in imagination,
Borne by womb.
Secrets and silent nights.
Lions, witches, wardrobes.
Ferocious battles and forbidden loves.
All by the flickering light of a candle.
I am of curry powder —
Strong, bold, and exotic,
Passed down from generation to generation,
Treasured, cherished, and coveted.
Family gatherings and lush feasts.
Red, yellow, green.
Old stories and long-standing traditions,
All by the steady light of a lamp.
I am of porcelain —
Delicate, fragile, and stunning,
The belle of the ball,
Seen, but never heard.
Ivory skin and plaited hair.
Wispy pink tulle and soft Pointe slippers.
Demure, on the windowsill,
All by the caressing light of a sun.
I am of these things,
Shaped and molded by memories.
Ancient, elemental, and spirited,
Wrought in imagination,
Borne by womb.
Secrets and silent nights.
Lions, witches, wardrobes.
Ferocious battles and forbidden loves.
All by the flickering light of a candle.
I am of curry powder —
Strong, bold, and exotic,
Passed down from generation to generation,
Treasured, cherished, and coveted.
Family gatherings and lush feasts.
Red, yellow, green.
Old stories and long-standing traditions,
All by the steady light of a lamp.
I am of porcelain —
Delicate, fragile, and stunning,
The belle of the ball,
Seen, but never heard.
Ivory skin and plaited hair.
Wispy pink tulle and soft Pointe slippers.
Demure, on the windowsill,
All by the caressing light of a sun.
I am of these things,
Shaped and molded by memories.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Thoughts.
There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamored of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with all that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb shadows crawl into the corners of the room, and crouch there. Outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills, and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers, and yet must needs call forth sleep from her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colors of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had seen. We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colors, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness, and the memories of pleasure having their pain.
Don't wet your pants.
I didn't write that.
Oscar Wilde did, in his brilliant novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray.
He, among others, is what I hope to be.
As far as writing goes, at any rate.
Read the book.
Don't wet your pants.
I didn't write that.
Oscar Wilde did, in his brilliant novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray.
He, among others, is what I hope to be.
As far as writing goes, at any rate.
Read the book.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Creative Writing Assignment
In Creative Writing, we got our first homework assignment today. We're supposed to write a blog. Obviously, not too difficult for me.
In class, I had to write a journal entry - anything that happened to leave the tip of our pens and transfer onto the paper - and I figured it wasn't half bad for something I just randomly thought up. So, since our homework was to write a blog, I figured I'd just blog what I wrote in my journal assignment, with a few changes to it.
(Mrs. Miles, I might as well tell you now: I'm a chronic editor. I'm fairly certain that it's some literary form of a mental health problem, seeing as how I'm slightly obsessive-compulsive about it.)
So, with a few alterations, here is what I wrote in my Creative Writing journal:
The rain beat heavily upon her window. As she lay in bed, trying to sleep, she couldn't help but listen to the steady tap-tap-tapping of the drops against the glass. They were angry, she imagined. All of them -- angry -- pounding furiously against her window. Wanting into her room, where they could splash against her cool skin, the incessant beating of them upon her soaking her to the bone and shattering all human thought.
They were calling to her, these myriad raindrops. An unrelenting army of them, calling. Their cries were desperate. In their fury, they took on an almost understandable language. Their invitation was archaic. But something wild and untamable in herself cried back. Something in herself understood their cry.
She opened the assaulted window and let the rain pour in -- allowing the piercing drops to rip into her. A dark, strong desire welled up inside her and she, like a nymph, surrendered herself to the rain.
It's a little rough, but it'll do for now.
Maybe I'll build on it tomorrow in class.
She needs a name.
In class, I had to write a journal entry - anything that happened to leave the tip of our pens and transfer onto the paper - and I figured it wasn't half bad for something I just randomly thought up. So, since our homework was to write a blog, I figured I'd just blog what I wrote in my journal assignment, with a few changes to it.
(Mrs. Miles, I might as well tell you now: I'm a chronic editor. I'm fairly certain that it's some literary form of a mental health problem, seeing as how I'm slightly obsessive-compulsive about it.)
So, with a few alterations, here is what I wrote in my Creative Writing journal:
The rain beat heavily upon her window. As she lay in bed, trying to sleep, she couldn't help but listen to the steady tap-tap-tapping of the drops against the glass. They were angry, she imagined. All of them -- angry -- pounding furiously against her window. Wanting into her room, where they could splash against her cool skin, the incessant beating of them upon her soaking her to the bone and shattering all human thought.
They were calling to her, these myriad raindrops. An unrelenting army of them, calling. Their cries were desperate. In their fury, they took on an almost understandable language. Their invitation was archaic. But something wild and untamable in herself cried back. Something in herself understood their cry.
She opened the assaulted window and let the rain pour in -- allowing the piercing drops to rip into her. A dark, strong desire welled up inside her and she, like a nymph, surrendered herself to the rain.
It's a little rough, but it'll do for now.
Maybe I'll build on it tomorrow in class.
She needs a name.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
The Epitome of My Nerd-ness.
I've come to the sad realization that I have a new favorite thing.
So, it's like one of those role playing games that I've never understood. Only it's much, much worse than that.
It's not a game. It's a story. So you create a character - using your own words to form him or her or it - and everything that happens, happens because someone wrote it. The entire thing is one big, confusing, disconnected, and utterly addicting story.
I can't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Given, it's a good way for me to hone my writing skills and develop characters. But I just find it a tad absurd.
There it is: my vice.
I don't even know what the proper name for it is.
Ridiculous, I tell you.
So, it's like one of those role playing games that I've never understood. Only it's much, much worse than that.
It's not a game. It's a story. So you create a character - using your own words to form him or her or it - and everything that happens, happens because someone wrote it. The entire thing is one big, confusing, disconnected, and utterly addicting story.
I can't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Given, it's a good way for me to hone my writing skills and develop characters. But I just find it a tad absurd.
There it is: my vice.
I don't even know what the proper name for it is.
Ridiculous, I tell you.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
The Gothic vs. The Romantic
After reading Tess of the d'Urbervilles, by Thomas Hardy, I've come to the realization that I favor Gothic literature far more than Romantic. Tess can hardly be considered Gothic in style, but it is, undeniably, much more Realistic than the past novels we've read in class.
While I like to consider myself Romantic in thought, I can't truthfully say that I really enjoy Romantic literature. And, if I have to read a piece of Romantic literature, I'd much rather pick up a book by an Anti-transcendentalist than a Transcendentalist.
Transcendentalism, to be quite blunt, puts me to sleep. Too much focus on the good and the beautiful makes an uninteresting story, and that's the truth. I can stomach a good Anti-transcendentalist, though. Edgar Allen Poe, of course, was brilliant. There is no lack of excitement in his writing. Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter was fantastic, as well.
The only exception to my general dislike of Romantic writers are the few poets who managed to win my favor. Not to sound clichè, but Emily Dickinson is easily my favorite poet. I'd even go so far as to say that I enjoy most Romantic poets, when I'm in the right mood.
But, I'm sorry to say, William Blake's work made me wish I was illiterate.
Now, I have nothing against all of these writers who, I'm sure, I have just caused to turn in their graves. In the words of James, I'm sure they're great people. And they, no doubt, had great talent. Their writing is exceptional. It's just that it's exceptional in a way that is horribly, horribly boring and makes me want to, quite literally, fall asleep.
On the other hand, I seem to be drawn to the Gothic, the Realistic, the Victorian. The darker the story, the more likely I am to enjoy it. My two favorite novels, without a doubt, are The Phantom of the Opera, by Gaston Leroux, and Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë. Wuthering Heights, I remember, had a particular tone to it. One of the most powerful passages in the book, I believe, is as follows:
"This time, I remembered I was lying in the oak closet, and I heard distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I heard, also, the fir bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it to the right cause: but it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to silence it, if possible; and, I thought, I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the casement. The hook was soldered into the staple: a circumstance observed by me when awake, but forgotten. 'I must stop it, nevertheless!' I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch; instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, 'Let me in - let me in!' 'Who are you?' I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself. 'Catherine Linton,' it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of LINTON? I had read EARNSHAW twenty times for Linton) - 'I'm come home: I'd lost my way on the moor!' As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child's face looking through the window. Terror made me cruel; and, finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes: still it wailed, 'Let me in!' and maintained its tenacious gripe, almost maddening me with fear. 'How can I!' I said at length. 'Let ME go, if you want me to let you in!' The fingers relaxed, I snatched mine through the hole, hurriedly piled the books up in a pyramid against it, and stopped my ears to exclude the lamentable prayer. I seemed to keep them closed above a quarter of an hour; yet, the instant I listened again, there was the doleful cry moaning on! 'Begone!' I shouted. 'I'll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty years.' 'It is twenty years,' mourned the voice: 'twenty years. I've been a waif for twenty years!' Thereat began a feeble scratching outside, and the pile of books moved as if thrust forward. I tried to jump up; but could not stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, in a frenzy of fright." (Brontë 25)
Twenty-five pages into the book, and I was appalled. Now, dear reader, don't get the wrong idea. I didn't enjoy the book simply because a man slit a child's wrist in his dream. It was the ability to read that horrifying, exquisite passage and savor the symbolism, the irony, the ramifications and to appreciate the electric emotion in the way the words were woven together. It was pure brilliance. That. Piognant, rich, superb. That is my lifeblood.
While I like to consider myself Romantic in thought, I can't truthfully say that I really enjoy Romantic literature. And, if I have to read a piece of Romantic literature, I'd much rather pick up a book by an Anti-transcendentalist than a Transcendentalist.
Transcendentalism, to be quite blunt, puts me to sleep. Too much focus on the good and the beautiful makes an uninteresting story, and that's the truth. I can stomach a good Anti-transcendentalist, though. Edgar Allen Poe, of course, was brilliant. There is no lack of excitement in his writing. Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter was fantastic, as well.
The only exception to my general dislike of Romantic writers are the few poets who managed to win my favor. Not to sound clichè, but Emily Dickinson is easily my favorite poet. I'd even go so far as to say that I enjoy most Romantic poets, when I'm in the right mood.
But, I'm sorry to say, William Blake's work made me wish I was illiterate.
Now, I have nothing against all of these writers who, I'm sure, I have just caused to turn in their graves. In the words of James, I'm sure they're great people. And they, no doubt, had great talent. Their writing is exceptional. It's just that it's exceptional in a way that is horribly, horribly boring and makes me want to, quite literally, fall asleep.
On the other hand, I seem to be drawn to the Gothic, the Realistic, the Victorian. The darker the story, the more likely I am to enjoy it. My two favorite novels, without a doubt, are The Phantom of the Opera, by Gaston Leroux, and Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë. Wuthering Heights, I remember, had a particular tone to it. One of the most powerful passages in the book, I believe, is as follows:
"This time, I remembered I was lying in the oak closet, and I heard distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I heard, also, the fir bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it to the right cause: but it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to silence it, if possible; and, I thought, I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the casement. The hook was soldered into the staple: a circumstance observed by me when awake, but forgotten. 'I must stop it, nevertheless!' I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch; instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, 'Let me in - let me in!' 'Who are you?' I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself. 'Catherine Linton,' it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of LINTON? I had read EARNSHAW twenty times for Linton) - 'I'm come home: I'd lost my way on the moor!' As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child's face looking through the window. Terror made me cruel; and, finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes: still it wailed, 'Let me in!' and maintained its tenacious gripe, almost maddening me with fear. 'How can I!' I said at length. 'Let ME go, if you want me to let you in!' The fingers relaxed, I snatched mine through the hole, hurriedly piled the books up in a pyramid against it, and stopped my ears to exclude the lamentable prayer. I seemed to keep them closed above a quarter of an hour; yet, the instant I listened again, there was the doleful cry moaning on! 'Begone!' I shouted. 'I'll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty years.' 'It is twenty years,' mourned the voice: 'twenty years. I've been a waif for twenty years!' Thereat began a feeble scratching outside, and the pile of books moved as if thrust forward. I tried to jump up; but could not stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, in a frenzy of fright." (Brontë 25)
Twenty-five pages into the book, and I was appalled. Now, dear reader, don't get the wrong idea. I didn't enjoy the book simply because a man slit a child's wrist in his dream. It was the ability to read that horrifying, exquisite passage and savor the symbolism, the irony, the ramifications and to appreciate the electric emotion in the way the words were woven together. It was pure brilliance. That. Piognant, rich, superb. That is my lifeblood.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Change Is In The Air
Something has changed in my life. Over the past several days, something has happened. What it is, I can't tell you. I have no idea. But something's changed. It's as if I've been living the past year in a haze and, suddenly, things are clear again.
Especially after coming back from New Orleans, I've really felt like I was purposeless. Or, not that I was purposeless, exactly, but that my purpose was in New Orleans. I wasn't ready to leave, not even close. And it's been really hard for me to let go and move on. Really, really hard. But something happened, and I finally have peace about coming back to little ol' Albany. That's not to say I wouldn't jump at a chance to go back to New Orleans. I still don't feel like I'm done there. I probably won't feel that way until the entire city is rebuilt. But I'm okay, for now, with letting someone else help out.
And, on top of the fact that I'm finally writing again, I've decided to stop trying to be rational and just go with what feels right.
I'm going to be a Creative Writing major. I've stopped telling myself that it could end up being a wasted effort if I don't make it big. I've stopped worrying about whether or not I'm 'good enough' to make it.
Or, at least, I've tried. That's a little longer in coming. Inadequacy has always been, and most likely always will be, one of my biggest fears in life. But I'm working on it.
James talked tonight about a man who loved to run. I thought it was kind of a funny story, at first. The man said that he understood God best when he was running. I didn't get it for awhile.
But then it hit me. That's me, when I'm writing.
It doesn't matter what I'm writing. I could be writing about my totally sucky day, and I still know that when I'm writing is when I feel the closest to God, because when I'm writing, I feel right. I understand myself, I understand my life, when I write. When I write, I feel like I have a purpose. Writing is just...who I am. In written words is where I am the most expressive, and creative, and real. It's where I am the most alive.
And it probably sounds ridiculous to anyone who doesn't feel the same way about writing as I do. But that's the best way I know how to explain it.
Especially after coming back from New Orleans, I've really felt like I was purposeless. Or, not that I was purposeless, exactly, but that my purpose was in New Orleans. I wasn't ready to leave, not even close. And it's been really hard for me to let go and move on. Really, really hard. But something happened, and I finally have peace about coming back to little ol' Albany. That's not to say I wouldn't jump at a chance to go back to New Orleans. I still don't feel like I'm done there. I probably won't feel that way until the entire city is rebuilt. But I'm okay, for now, with letting someone else help out.
And, on top of the fact that I'm finally writing again, I've decided to stop trying to be rational and just go with what feels right.
I'm going to be a Creative Writing major. I've stopped telling myself that it could end up being a wasted effort if I don't make it big. I've stopped worrying about whether or not I'm 'good enough' to make it.
Or, at least, I've tried. That's a little longer in coming. Inadequacy has always been, and most likely always will be, one of my biggest fears in life. But I'm working on it.
James talked tonight about a man who loved to run. I thought it was kind of a funny story, at first. The man said that he understood God best when he was running. I didn't get it for awhile.
But then it hit me. That's me, when I'm writing.
It doesn't matter what I'm writing. I could be writing about my totally sucky day, and I still know that when I'm writing is when I feel the closest to God, because when I'm writing, I feel right. I understand myself, I understand my life, when I write. When I write, I feel like I have a purpose. Writing is just...who I am. In written words is where I am the most expressive, and creative, and real. It's where I am the most alive.
And it probably sounds ridiculous to anyone who doesn't feel the same way about writing as I do. But that's the best way I know how to explain it.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Courting Your Characters
When writing, I've come to realize that it's incredibly important to get to know your characters - your main character especially. I'd even go so far as to say that it's probably the single most important aspect of writing any story. The rest is what editors are for, really.
It's almost funny, really, because your characters are people you've created - assuming you're writing fiction. And so it just seems like you would automatically know all the little intimate details about each one. But it's really not like that at all. You have to take the time to get to know them. Once you've thought them up, it's your job to let them grow and develop. If you don't, you end up with empty, lifeless characters. And nobody wants to read that.
It's a strange feeling, really. You decide who lives and who dies. I've heard interviews with writers who've said that they were sobbing as they killed off a certain character in a book. I think that's how close you need to be with your characters in order to create a great story.
Courting your characters.
Yeah, it's that important.
It's almost funny, really, because your characters are people you've created - assuming you're writing fiction. And so it just seems like you would automatically know all the little intimate details about each one. But it's really not like that at all. You have to take the time to get to know them. Once you've thought them up, it's your job to let them grow and develop. If you don't, you end up with empty, lifeless characters. And nobody wants to read that.
It's a strange feeling, really. You decide who lives and who dies. I've heard interviews with writers who've said that they were sobbing as they killed off a certain character in a book. I think that's how close you need to be with your characters in order to create a great story.
Courting your characters.
Yeah, it's that important.
Monday, February 25, 2008
I'm Writing Again.
Not just blog writing, or journal writing...
I'm really writing. Novel writing. And after a dry spell of a couple years, it's fantastic to be back at it. I love the spontaneity of it. I don't know how it is for other people, but writing for me isn't just sitting down and forcing something out. It has to come to me. So, lately, I've been in the middle of class or driving down the road, and I have to stop everything I'm doing or pull over so I can find a pen and a piece of scratch paper or tissue or something to write on.
Sometimes it makes me feel crazy. It's like an obsession. The smallest little things - leaves being scattered by the wind, or a look in someone's eye - will trigger a string of words that fit together so perfectly that I have to write them that very moment, just so I don't lose them. And then people ask me what I'm doing, probably because I look a little off my rocker. Not that I really take notice of the fact that they're talking to me until I've scrawled out whatever was swirling around in my head...
I live for this.
I'm really writing. Novel writing. And after a dry spell of a couple years, it's fantastic to be back at it. I love the spontaneity of it. I don't know how it is for other people, but writing for me isn't just sitting down and forcing something out. It has to come to me. So, lately, I've been in the middle of class or driving down the road, and I have to stop everything I'm doing or pull over so I can find a pen and a piece of scratch paper or tissue or something to write on.
Sometimes it makes me feel crazy. It's like an obsession. The smallest little things - leaves being scattered by the wind, or a look in someone's eye - will trigger a string of words that fit together so perfectly that I have to write them that very moment, just so I don't lose them. And then people ask me what I'm doing, probably because I look a little off my rocker. Not that I really take notice of the fact that they're talking to me until I've scrawled out whatever was swirling around in my head...
I live for this.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Then Again,
Maybe not.
I didn't write last night. But, then again, last night just sucked. So I wasn't in a blogging mood.
Sorry.
So, I'm feeling a little...oh, I don't know...uncomfortable, I suppose. I think my faith is becoming something more...hmmm...more real to me. And it sort of sounds ridiculous to hear myself say it, because I've been through some crap and I know there have been times when I've really, truly turned to God to give something to him because I just couldn't handle it anymore. So to say that my faith wasn't real before is difficult. So I'm not sure if that's entirely true.
It's hard to explain. I suppose I just believed in God the way a little kid believes in God. I simply believed. And I never, never questioned it. I never even thought of questioning it, of questioning what I believed.
But, gradually, it's like something's been changing in my mind. I find myself thinking more about the concept of God. I mean, really thinking. And it makes me really uncomfortable. Because, on one hand, I know that I do believe it. I really do. The very thought of life without God is just unreal to me. It's hardly life at all. But, on the other, the whole thing just seems so ludicrous. So it makes me feel kind of crazy. I mean, really. I believe in some invisible guy who spoke the world into being and whose son rose himself from the dead.
Logically, it just doesn't make sense. And, while I've never prided myself on being especially logical (far from it, actually), I do like for things to make at least a little sense.
When I think of God and when I think of things like heaven and hell and angels and demons, I feel uneasy. It's just so big. It's a lot to wrap my head around. It's a lot to believe. It's staggering, almost.
I try not to think about it, sometimes.
My biggest problem, I think, is that I have serious issues with relinquishing control. And it took me a long time to realize that, because most other people don't realize it either, so nobody's ever called me a control freak or anything like that. Since I'm such a passive person, I always just assumed that that meant that I had no problem with letting someone else be in control.
But I've learned that having no problem following someone else's directions and giving someone else complete control are two radically different things. And I really, really do not enjoy giving someone else control. I don't even like talking about problems I have, just daily things, because I feel like, by admitting that something is wrong, I'm allowing someone else to step in and fix it - and to take control of the situation. (Poor Evan could tell you all about that. He always has to pry everything out of me.)
And so, if I'm willing to admit to myself - I mean, fully accept and acknowledge - that God really is God and it all is really real, then I have to surrender control to him. Complete control of my life. And that terrifies me.
So, to wrap it all up, I'll just say this:
I am, intentionally or not, almost always in a power struggle with God. It's infuriating at some times, and humbling at others. I am also in a constant power struggle with myself - the contolling part of me against the part that wants to let it go. And thinking about God too seriously is uncomfortable for me.
But maybe the reality of God is that he's supposed to be uncomfortable sometimes.
I didn't write last night. But, then again, last night just sucked. So I wasn't in a blogging mood.
Sorry.
So, I'm feeling a little...oh, I don't know...uncomfortable, I suppose. I think my faith is becoming something more...hmmm...more real to me. And it sort of sounds ridiculous to hear myself say it, because I've been through some crap and I know there have been times when I've really, truly turned to God to give something to him because I just couldn't handle it anymore. So to say that my faith wasn't real before is difficult. So I'm not sure if that's entirely true.
It's hard to explain. I suppose I just believed in God the way a little kid believes in God. I simply believed. And I never, never questioned it. I never even thought of questioning it, of questioning what I believed.
But, gradually, it's like something's been changing in my mind. I find myself thinking more about the concept of God. I mean, really thinking. And it makes me really uncomfortable. Because, on one hand, I know that I do believe it. I really do. The very thought of life without God is just unreal to me. It's hardly life at all. But, on the other, the whole thing just seems so ludicrous. So it makes me feel kind of crazy. I mean, really. I believe in some invisible guy who spoke the world into being and whose son rose himself from the dead.
Logically, it just doesn't make sense. And, while I've never prided myself on being especially logical (far from it, actually), I do like for things to make at least a little sense.
When I think of God and when I think of things like heaven and hell and angels and demons, I feel uneasy. It's just so big. It's a lot to wrap my head around. It's a lot to believe. It's staggering, almost.
I try not to think about it, sometimes.
My biggest problem, I think, is that I have serious issues with relinquishing control. And it took me a long time to realize that, because most other people don't realize it either, so nobody's ever called me a control freak or anything like that. Since I'm such a passive person, I always just assumed that that meant that I had no problem with letting someone else be in control.
But I've learned that having no problem following someone else's directions and giving someone else complete control are two radically different things. And I really, really do not enjoy giving someone else control. I don't even like talking about problems I have, just daily things, because I feel like, by admitting that something is wrong, I'm allowing someone else to step in and fix it - and to take control of the situation. (Poor Evan could tell you all about that. He always has to pry everything out of me.)
And so, if I'm willing to admit to myself - I mean, fully accept and acknowledge - that God really is God and it all is really real, then I have to surrender control to him. Complete control of my life. And that terrifies me.
So, to wrap it all up, I'll just say this:
I am, intentionally or not, almost always in a power struggle with God. It's infuriating at some times, and humbling at others. I am also in a constant power struggle with myself - the contolling part of me against the part that wants to let it go. And thinking about God too seriously is uncomfortable for me.
But maybe the reality of God is that he's supposed to be uncomfortable sometimes.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Maybe I'm Starting A New Routine:
Late-night blogging.
I'm not going to bother with starting every post off with "I don't really have anything to say", because it would appear that I usually think of something as I go. So I do have something to say. I just don't know what.
I actually wasn't sure if I wanted to write tonight (maybe because I don't know what to say...), but Evan told me I should, because the more I write, the better I get. I suppose I can't argue with that...
Late-night blogging.
It makes me think of some love-struck, hopeless romantic with a cup of hot coffee, sitting in bed with their notebook on their lap, typing away.
I don't know if I fit into any of those categories.
...Maybe the first two. And maybe the last. So half, then.
Late-night blogging.
The beginning of a story, perhaps?
...No. Never mind. Too cliché. The opening of a cheesy romance movie, maybe.
And I'm fairly certain I just spent ten minutes trying to find the key code for that stupid e at the end of cliché. I think the accent might be backward, but I'm not looking anymore.
Okay, I really don't have anything tonight. Anything that I happen to mention is going to seem totally random and out of nowhere.
I hate writing like that.
So I'm going to bed.
Actually, I'm going to go read Tess.
Maybe I'll talk about that tomorrow night.
Sorry, to all of you who actually thought there would be something interesting tonight.
That was false advertising on my part.
Sue.
I'm not going to bother with starting every post off with "I don't really have anything to say", because it would appear that I usually think of something as I go. So I do have something to say. I just don't know what.
I actually wasn't sure if I wanted to write tonight (maybe because I don't know what to say...), but Evan told me I should, because the more I write, the better I get. I suppose I can't argue with that...
Late-night blogging.
It makes me think of some love-struck, hopeless romantic with a cup of hot coffee, sitting in bed with their notebook on their lap, typing away.
I don't know if I fit into any of those categories.
...Maybe the first two. And maybe the last. So half, then.
Late-night blogging.
The beginning of a story, perhaps?
...No. Never mind. Too cliché. The opening of a cheesy romance movie, maybe.
And I'm fairly certain I just spent ten minutes trying to find the key code for that stupid e at the end of cliché. I think the accent might be backward, but I'm not looking anymore.
Okay, I really don't have anything tonight. Anything that I happen to mention is going to seem totally random and out of nowhere.
I hate writing like that.
So I'm going to bed.
Actually, I'm going to go read Tess.
Maybe I'll talk about that tomorrow night.
Sorry, to all of you who actually thought there would be something interesting tonight.
That was false advertising on my part.
Sue.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Welcome Back.
Funny, it's been almost a year since my last post.
And I don't really have anything important to say, just to save you the time searching, but it's almost midnight on Sunday night and I'm sitting here, listening to "Last Christmas", by Wham!, and have nothing better to do. So I'm writing.
I was a little disappointed in myself, I have to admit, when I read the little caption below my blog title that I'm sure I once thought was witty and realized that I used the word "smally". I keep telling myself it must have been a typo. I just can't figure out what I really meant.
...Probably smally.
I'm eager to be done with high school. I feel like I need a new start. Although, I suppose, if I really wanted a new start, I shouldn't have taken classes at LBCC this year. Because now I'm just used to it. And I've realized that it sucks just about as much as high school. The only upside is that you don't have to do your homework to get a good grade. I'm a fan of that. I'm a little disappointed that the classes aren't any harder, though. Actually, I'd argue that they're easier. After four years of advanced, college-prep classes at South, my classes at LB are a little anticlimatic. For example: I took my first mid-term last week. History of Western Civilization. Fifty questions. I finished in ten minutes. It was probably the easiest thing I've ever done in my life.
I bet the whole college thing would be more enjoyable, though, if I actually knew what I wanted to do with my life. "Oh, Chelsea," they say, "most people your age don't know what they want to do with their lives." Most people have an idea, though. If I even had an idea, that would be convenient.
I have no idea. Not one.
Actually, that's not entirely true. I know what I wanted to be, until last year. I wanted to be a teacher. Since probably third grade, I've wanted to be a teacher. But I changed my mind last year. I'm too much of a pushover. And, by the time I'd be old enough to be a teacher, class sizes will be about fifty, and I just don't want to deal with that every day.
And I've wanted to write since I could form words, basically. But the only semi-steady writing out there is journalism. And I really am just not feeling that. I want to write a novel. Several novels. But that's kind of a hit-or-miss career choice. It's the artsy, nerdy version of those boys who say they want to play for the NFL. I either get lucky and write a winner like Miss Rowling did, or I end up a "struggling artist" forever. No, thanks.
I saw a quote once that said "There is no greater agony than bearing an unwritten story inside you."
It's pretty much the most truthful thing I've ever seen. Too bad getting the story out is a lot easier said than done, hmm?
What I think I'd really love, though, would make me no money at all. And by "no money at all", I don't mean that I simply wouldn't get to live a life of luxury. I mean that I would put way more money into it than I would ever, ever get out of it, because I would not get any money out of it. So, unless God decides it's a super idea and hands me a winning lottery ticket, that's out of the question.
Bummer.
And I don't really have anything important to say, just to save you the time searching, but it's almost midnight on Sunday night and I'm sitting here, listening to "Last Christmas", by Wham!, and have nothing better to do. So I'm writing.
I was a little disappointed in myself, I have to admit, when I read the little caption below my blog title that I'm sure I once thought was witty and realized that I used the word "smally". I keep telling myself it must have been a typo. I just can't figure out what I really meant.
...Probably smally.
I'm eager to be done with high school. I feel like I need a new start. Although, I suppose, if I really wanted a new start, I shouldn't have taken classes at LBCC this year. Because now I'm just used to it. And I've realized that it sucks just about as much as high school. The only upside is that you don't have to do your homework to get a good grade. I'm a fan of that. I'm a little disappointed that the classes aren't any harder, though. Actually, I'd argue that they're easier. After four years of advanced, college-prep classes at South, my classes at LB are a little anticlimatic. For example: I took my first mid-term last week. History of Western Civilization. Fifty questions. I finished in ten minutes. It was probably the easiest thing I've ever done in my life.
I bet the whole college thing would be more enjoyable, though, if I actually knew what I wanted to do with my life. "Oh, Chelsea," they say, "most people your age don't know what they want to do with their lives." Most people have an idea, though. If I even had an idea, that would be convenient.
I have no idea. Not one.
Actually, that's not entirely true. I know what I wanted to be, until last year. I wanted to be a teacher. Since probably third grade, I've wanted to be a teacher. But I changed my mind last year. I'm too much of a pushover. And, by the time I'd be old enough to be a teacher, class sizes will be about fifty, and I just don't want to deal with that every day.
And I've wanted to write since I could form words, basically. But the only semi-steady writing out there is journalism. And I really am just not feeling that. I want to write a novel. Several novels. But that's kind of a hit-or-miss career choice. It's the artsy, nerdy version of those boys who say they want to play for the NFL. I either get lucky and write a winner like Miss Rowling did, or I end up a "struggling artist" forever. No, thanks.
I saw a quote once that said "There is no greater agony than bearing an unwritten story inside you."
It's pretty much the most truthful thing I've ever seen. Too bad getting the story out is a lot easier said than done, hmm?
What I think I'd really love, though, would make me no money at all. And by "no money at all", I don't mean that I simply wouldn't get to live a life of luxury. I mean that I would put way more money into it than I would ever, ever get out of it, because I would not get any money out of it. So, unless God decides it's a super idea and hands me a winning lottery ticket, that's out of the question.
Bummer.
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