Just So You Know

I'm not advocating drug use. You all don't need to get your panties in a bunch. I just think there's a possibility that it can enhance artistic ability in some situations, and get those creative juices flowing easier. I'm also not trying to say that easier is better, or that brilliant art can't be created while sober, although using God against my theory is an unfair example. If God needed drugs to create the marvelous beauty that is this earth, I'm pretty sure I'd have to stop being a Christian right now. He's God.
I'm interested in what kind of information is out there. I'm not doing drugs, and I don't plan to, so there's no need to present me with the loads of information against drug use. I already know. I just want to research the other side of the story, which I don't even have time to do right now, and have no idea when I will.

On that note, I'm officially a real writer now, as I received my first rejection letter today (which I am going to frame). Thank you Glimmer Train Press.
I also have an appointment with a seamstress on the thirtieth of next month, to see what alterations can be made on my mom's wedding dress.
Those two facts are completely unrelated, but I wanted this to be more than a "Chill out." post. So, there you have it.

P.S. James, I'm doing my big research paper for writing class this term on art and societal growth. I'll post it when I'm done.

Why I Love My Parents: Take Three

Dad: Hey, Chelsea, how are you doing in math?

Me: Good, why?

Dad: Well, I'm just wondering because you don't take your calculator to school and your math book has been sitting here for weeks.

Me: That's because I'm not in an actual classroom for math, that's not my calculator, and that's a speech book.

Dad: Oh.

It Would Appear That...

There really is not a whole lot to write about yet, as far as my current reading project goes. It does, without a doubt, live up to its reputation, as it is an absolutely exquisite reflection on human consciousness, but there is really nothing that is concrete enough to analyze in writing yet. I will say, though, that I understood the book much better while I was loaded up on oxycodone (which I'll mention more of later) over the weekend, which, in my opinion, adds to my theory that drugs can stimulate a certain creative element in the mind that might be otherwise untouched.

Little updates:
First Grove newsletter goes to press in a week.
Classes started yesterday, and my biology teacher looks like an older version of Aaron Eckhart.
I realized in Pilates just how embarrassingly weak I am in comparison with Evan.
My wisdom teeth removal went well, and I am, apparently, healing very quickly.
I learned that my pain medication had heroine in it, which I couldn't help but laugh at.
I've had a killer Whopper craving since Ash Wednesday, and am so eager for Easter.
I have a job at a new store in the mall, but am afraid that I won't make any money, due to the staggering amount of awesome clothing and shoes.
South Park has become one of my new favorite shows, and I actually think the writers are very observant of societal truths that don't generally see much light.
Castle has also taken a spot as a favorite, because it continually proves that there is more truth in fiction than in reality, which is exactly my belief.
I've learned, over the past few days, that having to chew with only your front teeth takes all of the joy out of eating, and that having any kind of dental surgery is a very effective form of dieting.

Today's Thoughts

In line with my last post, I'm simply going to jot down some of the day's thoughts. At the moment, this is all I can do, what with finishing up last minute projects for school that were due yesterday and sending things out to publishers.
But first, on a side note, I ordered Proust's "In Search of Lost Time" today, and it should be here around Friday. I'm absolutely thrilled at the prospect of reading it, as it will be a challenge, since it is over one million words in length. For those of you who aren't writers and don't think in terms of how many words, let me put that in perspective for you. "In Search of Lost Time" is over 4,000 pages.
I've heard, on several occasions, this book called the most beautiful work on human consciousness and one of the greatest books ever written. Every writer I've talked to that has read this book, has been greatly changed (and for the better) by it. So, once I begin reading it, I'm going to be posting probably solely on what I read, so that I can process it all. If anyone has any objection to learning what happens in this book (although I have heard there is very little plot, and so very little to spoil), I would suggest not reading my blog for the next few months, and I just thought I would warn you beforehand.
Needless to say, I am very anxious to begin, and I look forward to seeing how my ways of thinking and analyzing and my writing ability develops.
But, on that note:

1. I think I have a job. I'm not entirely sure, as the situation is somewhat unusual. But I received a W-4 and an I9, which, generally, are reserved for after the hiring, and I was told "Welcome to the team." So, I think that means I'm hired, which means school will be significantly easier to pay for.
2. I could never be a teacher in the public school system. I have so many frustrations with the current standards and procedures that I'm sure I would be fired immediately.
3. It can be easily said that social change has always walked hand-in-hand with the arts. Examples: the Renaissance, Classicism, the Romantic movement, Realism, or the Civil Rights and Women's Rights movements. Due to this observation, I find it absolutely tragic and infuriating that the very first thing to be cut in schools is the arts. Until people recognize that we need art to grow culturally, we are going to go nowhere.
4. I am fairly certain I would be willing to break the nose of anyone who says that art isn't important. I think I get really passionate about it, because it's such a huge part of my life that I honestly can't even imagine living without it. It's just like when I mentioned that every culture has some form of music. There has to be a reason for that. Is there even anyone who honestly doesn't enjoy music?
5. My writing teacher told us that music and math also go hand-in-hand. I was unhappy with this theory at first, and was right on the same page with one of the girls in my class who said, "Then I must be in the wrong math class, because math and I do not get along." But then my teacher replied, "It's just a different language." So now, if you ask me, I'll tell you that math and music are two different expressions of the same thing.
6. I am intrigued by the effect of drugs on creativity, and will do my thesis on it if I ever get a doctorate. While I'm not going to go light up after writing this post, I'm beginning to notice a direct correlation between people who do drugs and brilliant writing/music/art. For this reason alone, I'm looking forward to getting my wisdom teeth out. I will be on who knows what, and I'm going to see how it affects my writing ability.

This Week's Observations.

Whether they are due to my somewhat hectic writing schedule, or the excitement of spring break, or the absurdness of my life at the moment, or a combination of all, my thoughts have become slightly fragmented lately. In order to clear my head, I am going to list the present ideas, thoughts, and observations that are plaguing my mind at the moment, in no particular order.



1. I detest not having socks on. I think this might have begun last summer, when my sister stepped on a hobo spider with bare feet.
2. Revising my short story was not as painful as I had anticipated, and I feel that the story is much stronger for it. I sent it out today to Glimmer Train Press, who is based in Portland and actively seeking new writers. I'll be sending out a poetry packet on Monday.
3. It is entertaining to read the comments on Amazon.com about a book like Twilight, compared to Proust's "In Search of Lost Time," which has become my latest obsession.
4. I am falling more in love with writing each and every day, and am apparently incapable of shutting off the narrator in my head.
5. The movie "Watchmen" made me uncomfortable. It was more glowing blue naked man parts, sex, and graphic violence than I ever needed to see. I was horrified when my sister told me that my mom read the review on Plugged In Online. The plot itself was good, though.
6. Evan asked me the other day why my heart beat was sporadically speeding up and then going back to its regular pace. The times when it sped up were the times when I was thinking about my next short story for my advanced fiction class next term. Apparently, writing incites a physical reaction from me.
7. I love the way my hair feels after it's just been washed and dried.
8. I've been getting an average of three hours of sleep per night over the past week or so, and I feel fantastic.
9. There is more truth in literary fiction than in research essays.
10. There is not a single human culture on record that does not have some form of music. That is astounding and beautiful in its implications.
11. Hitler was a vegetarian and loved animals. That fact makes me uncomfortable, because it makes him human.
12. I have fallen in love with Post Secret, not because I simply enjoy knowing people's secrets, but because I think it shows a cultural shift toward community.
13. The gorgeous weather today made me giddy.
14. I am going to the beach tomorrow, and I honestly cannot describe how excited I am. The ocean stirs feelings in me that no other place I have been to has done. The pure, raw power of the ocean is an awe-inspiring and renewing sight.
15. This term has been the greatest school term in the entirety of my school career, and I am sad to see it come to an end. Being constantly surrounded by other writers, and being challenged by and challenging them has been incredible and amazingly beneficial to my own writing and way of thinking.

Scandalous

I heard awhile back about Coldplay's "Viva La Vida" plagiarism scandal, and thought I would do some reading up on it, just because I happen to adore Coldplay and am not fond of the idea of them plagiarising a song.
So I did a little research, and it turns out that Joe Santriani has accused Coldplay of stealing parts of his song, "If I Could Fly". I listened to the song a few times, just to be sure, and I can't deny that the choruses of both songs are very similar, and other parts sound close if you're really listening for it. That's about a good as it gets, though.
There is also another band, Creaky Boards, who has decided to accuse Coldplay of stealing their song, as well. Apparently, Chris Martin was at a Creaky Boards gig in Brooklyn, where they performed their supposedly stolen song. Funny thing is, Coldplay was not only in recording in England at the time of the gig, but they had demoed "Viva La Vida" months before. Odd.
And then I stumbled upon this song and, if you listen to the instrumentals, it is also similar. Now, this song happens to come from some little French pop band, Alizee, and their song was released before Santriani's.
My point? There are only so many notes you can play and only so many ways you can arrange them. Similarities are bound to happen, and I'm not going to say who's innocent or guilty. But this is just what I found.

I Feel A New Season Beginning.

This morning, I woke up in fantastic spirits. I had spent last night working on editing my short story and writing a synopsis for my novel-in-progress, because I'm entering them both in the PNWA literary contest this year. That idea is both daunting and exciting.

I debated for a long time, though, on whether it would be wise to enter them. When all is said and done, I'll be competing against authors twice my age with twice my experience, and after entry fees, I'll be dropping close to one hundred dollars on this contest that might get me nowhere. For someone who is paying her way through college, that's a big deterrent.

But, the more I thought about it, the more I felt that I really should enter the contest. It feels right, and since I've never been one for sensibility, "it feels right" eventually won out over "that's your tuition money".

And so this afternoon, I was driving to class and admiring the positively gorgeous day it has been, and I was thinking about the fact that I'll have enough money for next term. I'll have barely enough, but I'll have enough. And, looking back, that's how it seems to always work out for me. I somehow manage to get by. Somehow, everything always works out, no matter how close it ends up being.

Now, if I were a more anxious person, I don't think that would be okay with me. I think that would cause me some major stress. And I do worry. But it seems like when I let go, and just leave it to God, that's when things work themselves out. So, I figured I'd enter this contest, and just let what happens, happen.

That's essentially the gist of my story, but the following bit is somewhat of a newsflash that I just felt like sharing, because some of you might want to know.



Deborah Reber, who has become a bit of common name in my posts recently, emailed me again today. This time, she asked for a 1-3 page outline of my memoir, and a 1-2 page excerpt. If I understand correctly, she asked me for a book proposal and sample. And I think that might be kind of a big deal.

So, I'm trying to not get too excited, because nothing is in any way final, and right now I don't want to have any expectations at all. But she's shown an interest, and that alone is a major morale booster.

So tonight, after I get home, I'll be working on a book proposal. It kind of goes without saying, but if you could be praying for me, that would be tremendous. I need God to keep me level-headed and focused, because I'm not great at either on my own.

That's all for now.

Anything is better than feeling numb. I used to think otherwise, but I’ve changed my mind.
The most mind shattering, stomach twisting pain is, without a doubt, preferable to feeling nothing. I hate that that is true. I wish with all my might that it would be better—easier—to feel numb. Numb seems as if it would be comfortable.
But it isn’t. Numb is that feeling that you should be feeling something—anything—but the knowledge that you aren’t. Numb feels empty—devoid of life. Dead.
Pain, at least, is an indicator of life. And life is something I crave, right now. I can’t get enough of life, of things that are alive, of things that make me feel alive. I’m awake, at 5:05 in the morning, because sleeping is not alive enough for me, right now. I can’t sleep, because I can’t let myself stop doing.
Doing what, doesn’t matter. I just have to be doing something—other than sleeping. So I’ve been listening to Coldplay and writing, for the past three hours, because that is what, without fail, makes me feel alive and real and solid and okay.
Words don’t remedy pain. I don’t think time does either, though it may soften it. But, for now, words are my comfort. I’m going to take solace in my words. But I’m going to fight numbness with everything I have, even if it hurts like hell.

Trusting God Is Easier When It's Easy

Sometimes, things happen that I don't particularly appreciate. These things make trusting God that much harder, because they feel a bit like he's just pulled an awful prank on me. I'm not laughing.

I was not going to talk about this, because I didn't want questions, but I need to write this out to make sense of what I'm thinking. So you get to learn it all, anyway.

Deborah Reber, the woman whom I mentioned back in October that I was emailing about a memoir, emailed me back last Friday. After four months of hearing nothing from her, I had taken it as a pretty solid "You're not what I was looking for." But then, last Friday, she emailed me out of the blue and told me that she was very impressed with the writing sample I sent her, and would like me to send her a couple journal entries, so that she could see the style the book would take if I were to write it. I, of course, sent her journal entries. She, of course, has not emailed me back. It was almost exciting news.

Before that, a lady came into work and prophesied over me. That is a story in and of itself, but to sum it up, she told me God was going to open doors for me. I saw the paragraph above as a door that was opened, until it was promptly shut in my face, due to Deborah's lack of response. Sure, I might be impatient. Or she might have found someone else.

Also, I landed a job at Waldenbooks this holiday season. As far as non-writing jobs go, this is about as good as it gets. I love working there. God gave me a great job. Problem is, there are about five people competing for the only open non-seasonal position. And, seeing as how I'm not working at all this week, I'm taking that as a hint to start looking for another job.

The awesome part is the fact that my ability to go to school, which is, apparently, really important, rests solely on me having a job to pay for said school. So, essentially, no job means no money for school, which really makes me wonder why I gave that tithe money last Sunday. God might smite me for saying that, but he already got rid of my means of getting through school, and apparently I'm worthless without a degree. So it all works out.

The funny thing about all this is, I'm not that upset. I sound upset, I'm sure. And I am concerned about finding a job, because it's going to be nearly impossible. But something keeps telling me there must be a reason for this. I want to ignore that something, because that would make it a lot easier to just be mad at God and get on with it already. But I'm having a hard time staying mad, which is actually quite frustrating.

On the up side, I now I have a ton of time to work on my story for the PNWA contest in February. But don't tell me that me entering that contest is part of God's plan, because God and I both know I'm not going to finish my book in time for it. It's worth a go, though.

I'm going to bed. Let me know if you know of any jobs in Albany that aren't fast food. Isn't that what I'm going to college to avoid? It would just be too ironic if fast food ended up funding my schooling. Goodnight, and sorry this post was almost as un-insightful as the last. Blame my writing classes for draining all my creativity.

I apologize for snapping at you. I don't apologize for being angry, but I apologize for snapping.

But that's not what this post is about. Actually, this post really isn't about anything. This isn't going to be one of my insightful posts, because I'm just killing time while my dog is outside, because I'm the only one awake, so I have to let her in.

I should be writing (really writing) right now, because I have a twenty page short story due tomorrow that I'm nearly a page and a half into. But I don't have to do it all tonight because I put it off. I honestly sat down several times in the past week to write it out, but nothing came to me. I would like to blame writer's block, but my writing teacher says there is no such thing.

I say that's easy to say when 'literary fiction' genre short stories are your forte. They're not mine. Literary fiction is the good stuff. It has meaning and emotion and metaphors and underlying messages and allusions and all sorts of things that I have to incorporate into my writing that take time and thought and I have to send this story to everyone in my class so that they can critique it and tell me what's wrong with it, which makes me cringe, just thinking about it. I'm kind of shy when it comes to something like that. So I don't quite understand why I decided to be one of the first people to send out their story. I could have been the last. I would have had two and a half months to come up with a story. But I chose the first spot.

Part of me wonders if my impulsive side - the side that signs up for the first spot - has more faith in my writing ability. Because my logical side isn't feeling too confident right now. So then I wonder which side is right, and why there is a discrepancy between the two and I know I'm rambling and have probably lost most of you by now, but I just drank a Rockstar, which always seems to get my writing going (which is why I drank it - like songwriters who write better songs when they're high), but I'm sitting here at the kitchen counter waiting for my monster of a dog to kick at the door because I can't hear her from my room and I can't write literary fiction in my kitchen.

And that was the most horrid sentence I've ever written. I apologize, again. And the lion wants in, so I'm releasing you all. Goodnight.