The Redhead

Insanity! Dreams! Existentialist Metaphors! Oh my!

2011-11-14T14:25:00.001-08:00

NaNoWriMo excerpt no one's interested in, because you know who's a lazy blogger?

Taylor is!

Here. It is from this book. Context? First off, Mortimer is dreaming. Secondly, he is a member of a polytheistic society that worships a god named Lopt. Thirdly, he is trapped in a five minute long hallway that has a door that will not open on one end and a portrait of his lord at the other.

The time passed slowly.

Mortimer sang to himself. He babbled, lightly and easily, to his god, how he was sure he would find a way home, positive, he would find his star, he would go back to Richard and his parents and his job. He ran verses from the Law Books through his head like they were songs. He hummed hymns.

He muted the ravenous silence as best he could.

“My stomach hurts.

“From what?

“I don’t know. It’s. I don’t know. I feel sick. Lord, I feel sick.

“There has to be a bathroom around here.

“But I don’t want to throw up.

“It sounds like you need to.

“No, no, I just need to get out of here. I just need to go back to that door.”

Mortimer hesitated. “I’m fine here. We’re fine. It’s okay. Someone will come. Someone always comes. They’ll know what to do.

“I have to go back to the door.

“I have to stay here. It’s safe here. He’s here.” Mortimer nodded to the painting.

“I don’t know.” Mortimer wrapped his arms around his middle. “I don’t know.”

“There’s nothing back there for you.

“There’s a way out.

“There’s no way out.

“There has to be.

“You were there. You saw. The door wouldn’t open.

“We can make it open. We can break the hinges. We can break it down.

“We’re staying here, where it’s safe.

Mortimer looked anxiously over his shoulder.

“You’re right. It’s safe here. We’ll stay here.” Mortimer sank to the floor, leaned against the wall. “We’ll stay right here until someone comes to get us.”

Mortimer supposed he was there for years. Decades. Lifetimes and eons slicked past him.

Alone with his fear and trembling, Mortimer remained, his back to the door at the other end of the hall and the starlit room.

Another Jaunt Into Philosophy

2011-11-06T09:59:00.000-08:00

Quickly and off topic: It's NaNoWriMo! This is my account! You are totally free to creepily, randomly buddy me.

Now, philosophy.

I'm going to let you in on a big, cosmic secret that the rest of the universe has woefully deprived humanity of, like we're the tremendously awkward kid in second grade whom they giggled at when our back was turned. Prepare yourself for this one.

Materialism is oblivion.

I'm not talking the end of the world fireworks show, which can be anything between Earth collapsing in on itself or masochistic, exceedingly grumpy horsemen romping through the burning ruin of civilization, depending upon what belief and degree of logic you subscribe to. This is so much worse, and significantly less dramatic.

This is an oblivion that comes upon you quietly, and it festers, and it decays. We call this rot rot the American dream, and it feeds and thrives upon the mind. The little bastard will drill through your creativity, will devour ingenuity like a serpent will a mouse.

Trust me, you won't feel a thing.

This is how it works.

You spend the formative years of your unfortunate life learning the mechanics of the world. You're not born with materialism; no one is. It's not even a smudge on your tiny baby brain. It is here, in the years of the purest form of discovery you will ever know--and gradually forget--that it begins to creep upon you. Next to "no," this is the earliest concept your loving parents or siblings will force down your throat: "mine."

You will come to love this word like you will never love another human being.

Mine is rational self-interest, desires, greed. Mine will become gluttonous as the mind atrophies.

You will spend your adult life accumulating things and debt, until at last, somewhere in the future, an older you with more wrinkles and a metastasis-inclined pancreas will own a house, a car, retirement money. Everything you've ever wanted will be yours.

You will become acutely, uncomfortably aware that now, you don't know what to do with yourself. The mind stutters and goes still.

You'll die, eventually, leaving behind a proud legacy of stuff that will not matter some three or three hundred years from now, that your kids will shovel out to the nearest Goodwill, on the double. It's no coincidence that "stuff" is synonymous with "shit."

If you're lucky, there might be a heaven, and St. Peter won't fancy you too unscrupulous to turn you away. Kurt Vonnegut, in his God Bless You Mr. Rosewater, calls it rightly: This heaven we've imagined of eternal peace will be soul-crushingly boring. After all, you were perfectly content to waste life. Why wouldn't you waste the afterlife?

Don't feel bad. It happens to the best of us.

Mine causes this. Materialism, capitalism, the entire logical fallacy of a system climaxes in an incredible disappointment: the death of creativity.

But why?

The first thing rational self-interest, an inevitable byproduct of materialism, accomplishes is the destruction of your empathy for others. This is a crucial component of humanity, the conscience, our instinctual and initial driving force. Rational self-interest corners it in a dark alley, shoves it in an unmarked car, and speeds away.

When you lose your conscience, you absolutely lose the ability to see the world beyond yourself. This is how fantastic lawyers are made. This is where business happens. When your goal is your own comfort, interaction with the people around you, particularly at an intellectual level, ceases. The singular goal of more, more, more stifles the conflict necessary for innovation. Mine lords over the individual, until they can't notice that they've stopped thinking, imagining, dreaming.

This is the oblivion we are swiftly, happily approaching. The end of ideas. If the writers of the 1920s, old Ernie and the rest, were the Last Generation, then we are surely the Lost. Mired in greed, killing ourselves as slowly and accidentally as carbon monoxide poisoning.

If nothing changes soon, then are are as good as dead.

I Am A Big Wuss

2011-10-30T12:45:00.000-07:00

I'm awesome at acting tough. I have a curt, witty remark for everything. I have mastered the dispassionate smirk. I am emotionally removed from most people and situations*.

But, fuck me if I don't invest everything I've got into scary movies.

I love those raging dumbass main characters who go lurching around in the dark, who think it's a great idea to start some good old fashioned procreating in that abandoned shack with the serial killer, who scream at inopportune moments, who seemed to be off drooling and scratching themselves when The Big Guy was handing out common sense.

Most of those movies, regardless of how fundamentally ridiculous they may seem, I love the characters like I'll never love another human being.

But that's a bit of a silly thing to do, so I try to hide it. Which I'm also embarrassingly bad at.

The Boys have taken notice. The Boys are Boyfriend and Tanner, Boyfriend's broski and my verygood friend.

Boyfriend and I are on an unending quest to find a horror movie that scares us both quite shitless. We have been thus far unsuccessful, which I maintain is because I let Boyfriend pick the movies so far, and he mistakes violent for scary. But, to be on topic: We have had multiple scary movie nights because of this.

One of these was with The Boys, and, because Boyfriend demanded it, we rented The Hills Have Eyes (the remake, for you connoisseurs out there; yes, yes, declaim me as an infidel, we wanted the remake). We formed a cuddle pile at Boyfriend's house, me snuggled next to Boyfriend, Tanner with his head on my chest. I was properly laughing along with them, making fun of the movie, pretending that I wasn't Freaked the Hell Out because there were dogs and babies being hurt and it was anxious-making.

Boyfriend: Oh, come on.

Me: That was ridiculous.

Tanner: Do not even. You're so into it.

Me: What, no.

Tanner: Your heart is racing. I can HEAR it.

Boyfriend: I want to hear!

Me: No stop I'm fine watch the movie.

Tanner: You're scaaaared.

Me: WATCH THE MOVIE.

Thus commenced another hour of Tanner going "Taylor's scared :)" at every mildly extremely tense part, and Boyfriend mockery, and.

I don't even want to talk about when we watched The Last Exorcism this week, which is corny and I know it, and I kept clinging to Boyfriend. And he smirked and asked if I was scared. And I shushed him appropriately.

There, now you know.

*Unless there are puppies or people crying. Then I'm a mess.

Look My Face

2011-10-26T23:30:00.000-07:00

I'm doing a vlog with two of my friends. It's not particularly good.

Here, my face. Twice. Because I've been doing this like two weeks and forgot to tell you.

and

You tube gives me just the prettiest screencaps.

Anyway, channel's name is vaguelyinappropriate. I post on Mondays. Watch. Appreciate.

Unreasonably Disturbed

2011-10-26T02:59:00.000-07:00

I had a nightmare.

I've been awake from it for the past half hour, maybe forty-five minutes, and I am saying farewell to any hope of a decent night's sleep tonight.

You know the kind of nightmare, where you're afraid to listen too hard to the dark, or to go back to sleep, or even to turn on the lights and see what's here?

It's that kind.

I've got a startlingly good awareness of dream time. I know when I've been asleep for a while, how long it's taken for a dream to truly go underway, when exactly my conscious mind was stilled and my subconscious took over.

This dream, my subconscious never showed itself.

This nightmare came upon me like a storm. It plodded, gathered, and came upon me climaxed violently, without warning.

I heard howling in the house. A death howl, a winter wind curse, these terrible and inhuman screams, jerking sobs of a woman who is not my mother hunting my sister. Where is she, where is she, give her back to me.

I am terrified of her.

I'm afraid of what she did to my family to convince them that she is my mother.

I'm afraid of what she'll do to me.

I'm afraid of the telltale footsteps in the hall beyond my door.

A Sign of Life and Some Vonnegut

2011-10-16T13:59:00.000-07:00

Hi! I'm alive and well!

No real time to make a decent post today, but I come bearing a lovely Kurt Vonnegut quote that is all at once a compliment, a call to arms, an insult, and undeniably Vonnegut.

The excerpt comes from God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater. At this point, one of the main characters, Mr. Eliot Rosewater, is speaking (drunkenly) to a convention of science fiction writers.

"'I love you sons of bitches,' Eliot said in Milford. 'You're all I read any more. You're the only ones who'll talk about the really terrific changes going on, the only ones crazy enough to know that life is a space voyage, and not a short one, either, but one that'll last for billions of years. You're the only ones with guts enough to really care about the future, who really notice what machines do to us, what wars do to us, what cities do to us, what big, simple ideas do to us, what tremendous misunderstandings, mistakes, and catastrophes do to us. You're the only ones zany enough to agonize over time and distances without limit, over mysteries that will never die, over the fact that we are right now determining whether the space voyage for the next billions years or so is going to be Heaven or Hell.'

***

Eliot admitted later that science-fiction writers couldn't write for sour apples, but he declared that it didn't matter. He said they were poets just the same, since they were more sensitive to important changes than anybody who was writing well. 'The hell with the talented sparrowfarts who write delicately of one small piece of one mere lifetime, when the issues are galaxies, eons, and trillions of souls yet to be born.'"

I'll leave you to contemplate the implications here.

Me and My Near-Death Experience

2011-09-25T22:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, after my boyfriend, Max, and I went swimming, I almost died, and Max didn't care.

We live on a lake. It's this pocket of water beside a downtown with overpriced shops, an underwhelming resort, a park that is good to play in after dark, and tourist things like a boardwalk and large walking hill.

Our story begins on that hill.

Nuzzled safely between downtown and lakeside, this is the saddest little hill you ever did see. Carved with trails official and improvised, punctuated by trees and, toward the top of the hill, the occasional house, the only good this hill has ever served, for me, is a place to swim in the summer that is far removed from The Tourists. The Tourists never venture away from the main trail, down to the fringes of this hill, where rocks and sand give way to water, and you can find perfect little beaches and diving rocks.

One of our usual swimming places is a west-facing rock just large for two people to lie down on it beside each other. Nestled against a sheer rock face, the only way to get down to this slab is by following a spiral staircase of smaller boulders from the crest of the hill.

Max calls it the skinny dipping rock for reasons I trust you can infer; I call it the Beatles rock, because someone's gone and carved ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE on the wall behind it.

We were returning to the main trail from this rock, which involved Max giving me a lift up because I'm a little weak lady writer person, who is short and ginger and awkward. With his help, I scrambled up to higher ground, brushing a large spider web in the process.

You need to understand something, here: I am deathly afraid of spiders.

You can imagine my reaction when, with spider web clinging to my fingers and palm, I felt something crawling on my arm.

I swiped at the kamikaze insect, desperately, managed not to scream. and felt a sharp, staccato stab, like a fountain pen nib boring into the flesh of my ring finger.

I stared at my hand. An island of small, needly white floated in the angry pink sea of the rest of my finger.

"Max. Oh my god. Max."

"What? What's wrong?"

"A SPIDER BIT ME."

"Where? Let me see."

"Look, see, my finger, spider, bit, hurts."

Max studied my finger. "I think you're okay."

"It is TINGLING."

"Shh. You're going to be just fine. I don't think you got a spider bite."

"Yes I did." I tried to suck the spider venom out of my flesh. "I'm going to die. Or get rabies."

"If you got rabies, by the time you know it, it'll be at the point of being fatal. So, realistically, you're going to die either way."

"THERE IS TINGLING IN MY INDEX FINGER NOW."

Max held my injured hand in his to get me to stop worrying at it. "I was gushing blood earlier this week and didn't even complain this much." Max brightly and neatly changed the subject. "Hey, you know how they test for rabies?"

"No."

"They drill into your head and scrape away part of your brain."

I didn't say anything.

"Bzzzzzzzzzz," Max said, in his approximation of what a drill bit must sound like when burrowing into the human skull.

"I hope you know that, if I die, I'm going to be really upset at you."

"Bzzzzzzzzzzzz."

"I'm serious."

"Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

"There are puncture wounds, see?"

"I don't see any."

I held my hand closer to his face. "Right there."

"There's only one, Taylor."

"Then it was clearly a spider with one tooth. That's not the point."

Max reclaimed my hand, told me once again that I was fine, and we continued back to my car with a minimal amount of bitching and bzzzzzzing.

It was not until later that someone pointed out to me, intelligently, that I had probably been stung by a bee.

(Philosophy) Circle Time, Kiddies

2011-09-07T22:06:00.000-07:00

"And then the madman said, 'God is dead.'"

Good news!

I've uncovered the source of mankind's trials!

No need to trouble yourself further.

The reason there is the Absurd, the reason abjection exists, the reason there is this dichotomy in Western thought, the reason we are swallowed up in cynicism, the reason that humans are human and philosophy is even a thing that happens is simple.

Humans are organizers.

We are shape-sorters and absolutists above all else. We group and correlate and connect dots we've invented to try to make sense f the world around us, and we reach points of conflict. There are discrepancies, opinions or people or events that don't fit into our neatly categorized world, and this is where the problems happen. Suddenly, there is dark matter in our happy little world.

You deal with it different ways.

You declare it Absurd.

You declare it a mystery that will never be solved.

You declare it irrelevant.

You declare it relative.

You declare it right.

You declare it wrong.

You shove this square peg into the circular hole it fits into the best and try to ignore the difference gaping at you, the hollow core of your belief system.

There are no moral or social problems in the world. There are no morals. There is no right and wrong. There are no truths. The world simply is, and we simply are, and we will continue to be within a reality that will carry on, as it always has, despite what we believe about it.

It is this basic, human need to create rules and borders and groupings that prevents you from grasping that, in reality, there is no stagnation and there is no order to the universe, that you have impressed every fact you have ever believed upon yourself.

And that's okay. That's perfect. That's human.

If there was no clash between reality and the mind, no difference of opinion (or, really, any opinion), there would be no creation or innovation. There would be no stories or science or ideas. We would simply exist.

I, for one, would rather thrive on the dissonance and indifference of the universe and, liberated, do more than just exist. I want to invent. I want to imagine. I want to dream big, wild dreams that no one else has dreamed before. I want to alchemize that raw conflict between myself and reality into words, characters, ideas.

Kindly Direct Your Attention to the Right

2011-08-18T21:35:00.000-07:00

I'll have you note the list of my followers on this good and dear blog. Here's the view from here:

Is it just me, or is that last row of Facebook style silhouette people just fucking CREEPY? It feels like I'm this apparently normal writerlady up on some stage somewhere, giving a speech, and you guys are really receptive and liking it (I like to think that you like my blog, at least) and you're all smiling and enjoying it -- except the dude on the right killed himself for inexplicable reasons; we'll ignore him -- and I look a bit past the third row, and BAM. Row of big dudes in suits and dark sunglasses, waiting for an inconspicuous time to take me in to have a little chat with The Boss.

Outside, there's probably a black SUV, unmarked plates, windows too dark to see through, waiting to swallow me up and take me away.

I'm probably going to devise some clever escape and barely make it out with my life.

In fact, I'll wrap up my speech early, scurry off the stage, and dart to my dressing room in the back to shove all my lecture pages in my locked briefcase.

One of you is a massive fan of mine and snuck backstage after that abrupt and curious end to my Brilliant Speech. You wanted to talk to me, get to know the writerlady herself. You get to my dressing room, I nearly mow you down on my run out the door, and you're talking to me, trying to hold up a conversation, when the Guys in Suits show up.

The plot thickens.

I grab your wrist and I tell you to run, just run don't ask questions, and you, the unsuspecting victim, are scooped up in some tale of espionage. We dislike each other and bicker frequently. Shortly before the climax, if you're a guy (well, maybe if you're a hot enough lady. or man-lady. I'm not sure. If I'm into guys pretty distinctly, would I prefer a girl who looks like a girl or a girl who looks like a man? This is a legitimate question), we'll have hot, hot sex. Then, I'll sacrifice myself to save your life and miraculously live after The Boss and his Men in Suits are dead or off elsewhere.

I'll wake up in a hospital room and find I've been in a coma for the past three days. You've been there the whole time and tell me how we got out. And then we hold hands and agree that everything's going to be okay.

I just wanted to share that with you.

Fluffy Seme (dot cooooooom)

2011-08-18T11:09:00.000-07:00

I found this cool, fledgling writing website the other day. It has a concept that I'm infatuated with, but not quite enough buzz about it to really get it off the ground.

This website is a product of F.S. Publishing, and it is called, as my title would suggest, Fluffy Seme. It combines statistics with readers to give you a good, solid idea of who's reading your stories, which passages were skimmed or skipped, all this concentrated good stuff. There's the option to give comments, either on the entire story or on a certain paragraph or line or section, whatever you want.

The point is, you get a better idea of who is and how many people are reading your story, even if they don't leave a comment.

It's neat. It could turn into this whole, interactive thing where writers can actually see the readership and who their novel is most appealing to and what bits need work, rather than having twenty comments spurting about how much they LOVE your BOOK please WRITE MORE right AWAY why aren't you WRITTING.

(I've always wondered how these people think writing has two Ts. It never has, and I genuinely doubt it ever will sprout an extra, T-shaped limb.)

I just feel like we need to get the ball rolling on this one. It's a fantastic idea with very little hype, and I don't understand why that is.

Check it out for yourself.

And, if you're into this kind of thing, you could go look at the story I have up there and use it as a guinea pig (she says totally altruistically), to get an idea of how the whole rating system works.

In fact, because that last sentence didn't do the proper amount of indecent whoring I was aiming for, here's a brief excerpt of the book I have up there, All the Gods, and if it tickles your fancy, you could go read. If you want to. (Please.)

(I love you.)

(Don't tell anyone else, but you're my favorite person. I don't even care if anyone else reads this blog, just that you are.)

...right, All the Gods, here:

The dreams were back again.

They were knotted in Mortimer's hair, smeared on his ceiling, on the dawn-grey walls, between his sheets. They hummed behind his eyes, snapping and popping briefly as Mortimer blinked away sleep.

Wincing at the aftertaste of another bad night's sleep, Mortimer rolled upright. The clock read 6:57. Mortimer stared at the winking red letters, rubbing absently at the ache in his shoulder. His stomach twisted up.

In the kitchen, Richard and the tea pot whistled tunelessly.

Mortimer padded out of his bedroom, down the narrow neck of the apartment's hallway. He arrived in the main room, which was an awkward conglomerate of kitchen, sitting room, and altar space resting on a patchwork of tile and rug.

Richard, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a robe, shut off the burner.

"I did that thing again," Mortimer said.

Richard glanced at him. "I think you're just trying to pull a practical joke, and this was the best you could come up with. I also think it's the crappiest, least practical practical joke I've ever seen. You want some tea?"

Read more? :D

I think I'll do a real, beneficial post tomorrow. Or sometime in the future.

Recent Happenings

2011-08-15T08:14:00.000-07:00

It's been a while, as always.

Things that have happened that I feel you should know about:

1. I won JulNoWriMo at 50,123 words. I can brag if I want to. I won't even pause to clarify what JulNoWriMo is, just that I won, and you should praise me.

2. I start college next week, then junior year the week after. And, damn, I'm not looking forward to it.

3. I'm dating someone.

4. It's a boy.

5. (the person I'm dating, not the baby. the baby's a girl.)

6. I lie to you, frequently.

7. I named her Barb.

How to Write a Novel: Planning vs. Pantsing

2011-07-17T11:02:00.000-07:00

Hi, okay. This is the first of a series of posts that will appear sporadically and when I feel like writing them. This is my How to Write a Novel series.

We'll begin, logically, at planning vs. pantsing.

Actually, I'll take a step back for a moment, and explain why I'm not talking how to come up with a novel plot idea.

The short answer: I have no idea how the hell it's done.

The longer, more explained answer: I cannot teach you how to come up with ideas. Not only do I not know how to do it, but it's something that just happens, like a mental hiccup, or shivering. You can't exactly help it. There is a change in the external or internal environment of You And Your Life, and something in your belly stirs.

You go, "Oh. Oh."

That's idea-making. That's how you get a plot.

I can't coach that kind of thing.

Now, back to the topic at hand: Plotting vs. Pantsing

Let's say you've got your basic idea. You've got your laptop, or your notebook, or your typewriter, if that's how you roll, and you want to get going. You write "Chapter One." And pause. And start playing around with font styles and sizes for your title. You can do this for hours.

Don't do that.

There are two really basic methods everyone splits the writing process into: Plotting and Pantsing. I don't believe they can really be separated, but more on that later.

Plotting

"Plotting" is where you outline before you write. This is pretty straightforward, and varies according to individual. You can be the type of writer, like my friend Heidi and her 10,000 word novel outline, who outlines extensively, where you know every ebb and nook and cranny in that damned plot. You can be the kind of writer who knows you're starting at A and getting to B, eventually, but you're still figuring out how, but the hell with it, write A and figure it out as you go. There's the in-between, too, the people who know their beginning, their middle, and their end, and that's all they need.

Pantsing

This is the anti-outline. There are some pretty hardcore writers over here, crazy folks, people I look at in awe. These are the people who grab Character A and Character B, throw them into a scene together, lock the door, and scramble around the front to watch and write what happens. And their story metastasizes from that. They write by the seat of their pants (hence, pantsing) and they adore it.

Those are the two most basic camps. People ally themselves accordingly.

I'm telling you this dichotomy is silly.

Let's pull a Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance thing here, and I'll show you why they cannot be separated.

These absolutes cannot exist. No matter how you choose to plan to outline your book, it will never be purely pantsing or purely plotting. It's impossible. They cannot exist without one another.

You can have an incredibly detailed outline, but there is still going to be room for making things up as you go. Maybe an extraordinarily small amount, but a scene here or there will change, or a character will act differently than you expected, and that's okay. The outline is breathing. The story is growing. That is totally okay.

You can have no idea what your novel is about, just that you have these two really dynamic characters you enjoy writing about, but it is not purely a pantser. Even if you don't write it down, your subconscious does plot and plan and shape out the story. The severity of that varies person to person and story to story.

The big point of this post is: Figure out what planning method works best for you and run with it.

Find the balance between plotting and pantsing that floats your boat and use it. This is not something that's easy to figure out for most people. It's taken me five novels to get it right, but I've got it. I bet some people can get it on their first go around (we don't like those people here).

Spend enough time planning out your novel, either mentally or physically jotting down notes, that you feel like you're somewhat ready to go. Find your happy medium.

For me, I get a concept. I spend a long time thinking on it and thinking on it until I've turned the concept into an actual plot, a real, malleable thing with a main character and a conflict. Then, once I've got that, I tear into the first draft. I plot as I go along, dreaming up scene after scene until I've got a backlog of them. I write them down, make up the ones that follow, and then write those down, too, until I get to the end.

That's how I plot. How about you?

Loss

2011-06-26T20:50:00.000-07:00

This is nowhere near a happy post today. It's not constructive or cheery or insightful or relevant or declarative or whatever the hell I'm supposed to be doing.

This is about my best friend in the world, introversion, and Albert Camus.

I don't talk a lot about personal things here, I don't think. Not superbly personal things. I like talking funny anecdotes, or serious events, or things that I found interesting, about me or my life. This is passing into the world of personal things.

My best friend's name is Kira. She's a horrible best friend. She's inconsiderate, impulsive, self-centered, crazed, immature, and unintentionally rude. I adore her anyway, because friendship isn't a kind of thing you choose to have. Friends are people who can make you laugh when all you want to do is scream and swear and sob. Friends are people who you cannot stand to see upset. You don't pick those people. That happens of its own volition. You can tell that's true, because I'm a miserable best friend too. What a match.

We've been good friends since we were eleven, right before middle school. That's not a long time to some standards, but she's the closest, longest-lasting friendship I have. She's who came along when I made that dangerous leap from elementary school to middle school, and, by virtue of all my good elementary school friends going to different schools, was utterly alone.

In fifty-one hours, she's getting in her truck, with the U-Haul trundling along behind her, and putting 1300 miles between her and me.

The reality of it is flooding my lungs, and I'm drowning on dry land.

My head is flashing antifreeze green warning signs, alert, alert, alert, she's going, going, gone.

And I'm here, here, here all alone, lone, lone.

I have a point here. A couple of points.

Point one: Introversion has screwed me over once again.

This doesn't make me shy. Hardly, actually. I just have a difficult time really connecting with people. I don't make casual acquaintances. There are people I am neutral towards, and then there is a very small cluster of Friends, and an even smaller congregation of Close Friends. That secondary tier, my Close Friends, is down to two people who actually live near me. The Friends group is only slightly bigger.

Outwardly, I'm telling Kira we'll always be friends. Inwardly, I'm watching her seep into the outskirts of the Friends category, smiling a California smile and telling me she'll be back soon.

I don't make connections, and I'm watching this projected line between me and Kira draw this one to breaking point. It is terrifying.

And, point two: I'm facing the Absurd.

The Absurd? What? Drag us into an overly emotional post after an obnoxious absence, and you start blabbing about the Absurd?

Haha. Yes.

The Absurd is this philosophical idea that there is a conflict between the human tendency to hunt out value and meaning in life, answer those big questions like "Who am I?" and Aristotle's infamous six, and the human inability to find an answer. That is the Absurd.

Absurdism is the philosophy that embodies that concept. More importantly, it's the philosophy that discusses how people react when faced with the Absurd.

Albert Camus was one of the main architects of this. His The Stranger is, according to the man himself, "the nakedness of man faced with the Absurd."

Read The Stranger. I like the Ward translation. You'll see what I mean.

But, if you don't want to read that little volume (which I don't understand, because it was amazing), I'll explain what I mean here by "the Absurd."

I don't feel sad about Kira leaving until it's blinding me. I feel a bit morose, but I've accepted it. I can deal with it. But when I'm there, when I'm talking to her dad about their packing progress and I'm swallowing the swells in my throat, it's overwhelming. I can't even think straight. There's just Kira's leaving, Kira's leaving, Kira's leaving, please, don't leave me here, and I'm delirious.

This is, in a small way, "the nakedness of man faced with the Absurd."

Kira's leaving. She's going to come back to visit, but she won't be the same. I have to accept that, heart and soul. I have to stop losing my sanity whenever I see her.

Because it's going to happen. "There's no way out."

There are, according to Camus, three solutions when one is faced with the Absurd: suicide, a leap of faith, or recognition. And the third is the only viable option.

It's all about recognizing that this is the way it is going to be, and I cannot change it. It's not resignation, but, rather, recognition. It's not giving up on a fight, because there was never any fight to win, not when it comes to stopping Kira from going or stopping the world from changing or stopping life from happening.

You can get used to anything.

It's about "[laying] open your soul to the gentle indifference of the universe." It's about stating, yes, I can't change this, but I'm not going to let it ruin me. It's seeing the Absurd and understanding and dealing.

...well, that didn't make sense.

Anyway. I'm doing JulNoWriMo in a couple of days. It's going to be sweet.

(And I'll have you know that I wrote this whole thing wearing my friend Max's hat and a Pink Floyd blanket.

Does that ruin my Depressed, Reflective Philosopher persona?)

Happy May 23rd

2011-05-23T20:31:00.000-07:00

I am absolutely reeling. If I make no sense tonight, that's because I'm dizzy. Over a book. Invincible Summer by Hannah Moskowitz.

Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous.

In general, I lied about posting every day. I don't always have cool stuff to say, or the want to say it. So. Deal.

But I do have things to talk about. Things about me. This comes to you in two parts.

Part One: Saturday, May 14
Yeah, that was last Saturday. Like, Saturday a million years ago. I got caught up.

That was pretty much the best Saturday of my life, for several reasons, but most importantly, because I got first place in the local writing competition.

(That's in bold so you can read it while skimming idly through this boring post. Haha. Egotistical. Fun.)

The prize money is paying for my first month of car insurance. This is so cool.

Also, if you want to read the story that I entered, it's right here, and it is called "Death Is."

Part Two: Things I Have Planned
Listen up! There are cool things here! Things that have to do with you and not me bragging!

I have posts lined up that I plan on slapping together, and if you want me to add anything to that list, I can do that, but you'll have to, like, talk to me. All twenty of you.

Here's what's coming down the line:
- Invincible Summer book review
- How To Write
- How To Write a Novel, Part One: To Plot or Not To Plot
- Characterization: Genders

So. Right.

Real post coming this evening. Or tomorrow, if the lazy and The Name of the Wind overcome me.

Nobody Tells This To Beginners

2011-05-16T17:48:00.000-07:00

I'm really damn tired and really damn pretty and really damn bad-feeling.

If I get my health homework done early enough, and if I don't get stuck up on God's War by Kameron Hurley, I'll make a Real Post later.

And sorry about last week. That was a nasty, shitty little mess.

But, here. Neat Quote from Ira Glass to lighten your little writerly souls, because you have found this out on your own, or because you're not seeing the top of the mountain from here.

I had to make the picture just a bit smaller to fit my blog layout. If you can't read it, there's this cool thing you can do where you click on the picture and it gets mega-huge all of a sudden.

Schedule, Update, and Links

2011-05-09T21:19:00.000-07:00

This post comes to you in three parts.

Coming Up This Week
- The beginning of a series I like to call How to Write A Novel. From first draft to publishing. (I'm not going to lie to you. I'll spend most of the publishing posts linking you to industry experts who actually know what they're talking about.)
- Another On Age and Writing segment.
- A couple of clever, probably un-writing-related things.

As always, schedule can and will change if I am struck by an epiphany, or if something better comes along.

Update
This week is the beginning of my month-long goal to write 50,000 words on the second draft of my book, All the Gods. I might do a doo-hickey at the bottom of my post with just a word count update because it makes me feel better about myself and such. Don't worry, won't drown you in excerpts or "woe is me"s.

So, if you see a little word counter that looks like:

All the Gods: WC / 50,000

you'll know why.

Writerly Links
And here are some neat things to make it look like, yes, this is a writing blog, yes it is.

Writing Contests, Grants, and Awards
Biiiig list by Poets &Writers of writing contests. And also a picture that I stole from Stumble Upon to make it look groovy.

The Brainstormer by Andrew Bosley
This is a cool little prompt wheel I came across. The dude who made it is cool too. Drop him a line if you make use of this thing, because it's neat.

Five Editors' Secrets to Help You Write Like a Pro
Self-explanatory title.

Article tomorrow.

Love

2011-05-08T18:18:00.000-07:00

Dear internet,

I am infatuated.

This is kind of the first time this is ever happened to me, not going to lie to you. I am not the crushing type. I am very good at saying "That is one attractive young man," and forgetting about him by the end of the night. I am not the sighing, boycrazy type.

Despite it all, I am completely twitterpated. You know. Charmed.

This entire experience has only led to reaffirm my earlier suspicion: There is a simplicity to writing romance.

Uproot your summer fields of flowers, blot out those thousands of stars in the skies, and douse the torches that burn brighter. They're completely beside the point.

See, I've been reading A Farewell to Arms, and one of the things I love most about it is that Hemingway feels no need to be poetic. He tells love how it is. Love is watching this girl you like walk away and saying "I like the way she moves." It's walking to see her and knowing that all you want to do is go with some hotel room with her and order wine and a bucket of ice and send away all visitors and lay there naked with the window open to an Italian summer night and kiss and love today and the next day and the next.

When you're writing about love, don't write about what people feel like they ought to say.

Write about the softness in your chest when his hand brushes yours. Write about the way you smile because he's smiling, and you just can't help it. Find that emotion, that feeling that love instills, and recreate it in as few words as possible. Leave out the figures of speech. Focus on the subtleties of love.

Don't write about what love is like; write about what love is.

(this is a weekend post to make up for Thursday and Friday. Sorry about those unfortunate days.)

That Time a Group of Black Youths in a Soccer Mom Van Accosted Me Outside of the Grocery Store and Other Stories

2011-05-05T22:52:00.000-07:00

This is part one of a collection of stories of the various total strangers who have accosted me in the past year or two. I think I attract them.

Without further ado...

That Time a Group of Black Youths in a Soccer Mom Van Accosted Me Outside of the Grocery Store
I think this one bears some clarification. If you didn't know, I'm from north Idaho. The percentage of black people here is about .03% of the population. There is literally only two black people in my school, and they're sisters. We are so white.

This one happened back in January, at the time of my school's winter formal. It was a Saturday, and I spent the first half of the day at my friend Sierra's sixteenth birthday party, which I attended for the free food and also because I'm her friend. The plan was simple. A bus would take one half of us partygoers to the dance, then loop back for the other half. Loaded up on pizza-related carbs and carbonated sugar, we would then dance ourselves into oblivion and go home, dizzy on adrenaline and swooning at a missed first kiss.

I was on the first bus load of kids to be ferried to the dance, and we arrived about fifteen minutes early. My friend and I, Ellie, had spent the entire ride chatting up the bus driver and befriending her. We found her to be a perfectly nice middle-aged woman in a tie-dye sweater that her granddaughter had made for her, and Madame Tie-Dye was kind enough to offer, as long as there was extra time, to drop us off at the grocery store across the street from my school, to blow some time until the dance started.

Ellie, another friend Maggie, and I agreed that that was a grand idea.

Great place to be at eight o'clock at night.

So we wandered around Fred Meyer briefly in our pretty dresses and heels, looking generally and sparklingly out of place. Ellie bought some chapstick. I don't exactly remember why; I assume she was feeling chapped in her lipular area.

With a few minutes left before the dance started, we made to leave Fred Meyer, which was, at this point, mostly deserted. There was a young man in front of us, who was black, and not to be racially profiling or anything, but when he left the alarm started to go off. He looked over his shoulder, half a second of "oh shit" in his eye, and kept walking.

He walked to a silver van, in which there was already four or five other black people, and the soccer mom car trembled with the force of their base.

Needless to say, we walked away from the van, the music still throbbing through my feet and behind my eyes, and made our way back to the school. We were halfway across the Fred Meyer parking lot, conveniently alone, when in swooped the van beside us.

The driver rolled down his window, and I could see Suspcious Young Man Who Probably Stole Something in the passenger seat. Driver kept pace with us, twisting down the volume to say, "Hey, ladies."

Being unsure of what to say to this sort of event, we simply went with "...hello."

Driver asked, "Where yo' boyfriends at?" Verbatim.

"They're coming," Maggie said, with this classic Maggie tone. It's this sort of ironic, "I don't know what to say to you right now, you are so ridiculous" little sound her voice gets, and I absolutely love it.

Driver asked us where we're going.

We told him a dance.

Another laugh, and the soccer mom van full of black youths sped off into the night.

That was the last I saw of north Idaho's only roving gang of people of any color other than ghostly white.

I cannot make this stuff up.

No Real Post Today And Reasons Why

2011-05-04T23:38:00.000-07:00

1. I am desperately behind in Emma. Which I abhor.

2. AP European history exam in less than forty-eight hours.

I'll post tomorrow. A good post. And I'll replace this one with something less crummy this weekend.

Age and Writing: Are Teenagers Bad Writers?

2011-05-03T21:48:00.000-07:00

This is the first part of a brief series called Age and Writing. Mostly, as the title would suggest, we're talking writing in relation to age. Is older really better, on experience, on timelessness, the whole deal.

Today, teenagers.

If you weren't previously aware, I'll make this clear: I am a teenager. I have been a teenager for the past few years, and I will continue to be a teenager until (if my math serves me correctly) November 2014.

I have also spent my entire teenage career writing, and most of the time before that, and I think I can speak pretty confidently from the youngin' side of this situation of teenage writers.

Are teens bad writers?

To answer the question simply: Well. Yes.

And so's the soccer mom who writes when she gets the boys to sleep, or the little old man in his little old house with his greying, faithful little dog, or Noah in his cubicle, thinking he's got a novel in him somewhere.

Age does not make a writer.

Only practice makes a writer.

So, yes. Most teenagers are bad writers. I'll gladly admit it, and would be even more so to say that I can be a bit on the shitty side myself. Unfortunately, the stigma is thrust upon young writers because, well, they're usually the ones with the least amount of practice. They're the ones who have written the least, read the least, lived the least. Less practice lends to a weaker writer.

The only way to come close to fixing it is reading a lot and writing a lot. Read books outside of the YA genre. Write outside of your comfort zone. Write about adults. Write about young children. Write about a man in his twilight. Read and write poetry. Read classics. Read plays. Read a newspaper. Read about religion, philosophy.

Perhaps even most importantly than the lack of practice, the reason so many teenagers are so God-awful is that most of them don't know who they are.

When you can answer, honestly and truthfully the following two questions, then your writing will have drive. Not a message or a moral, but it will be one fully formed apparatus, maybe from two or three or four different other machines that you plucked basic designs from, and that will propel your writing.

Who are you?
and
Where are you going?

The problem here is not that teenagers are stupid or fundamentally less than adults in any way, but that teenagers have a half-formed understanding of themselves and the world. It is a machine divided against itself. Cogs stick. Springs snap. A jerk, shattering metal, and the entire system falls apart by chapter three, and you're left wondering what is wrong.

Creativity stems from you. There is no Muse. Calliope or the Almighty or the forces of nature are not going to light upon you and fill you with this strain of writerly brilliance and send you scrambling for pen and paper to write and write until that novel is done, and the publishers can clamor for your contract. Every part of writing is all about you, and it's all about your mind, heart, soul, body, beliefs, morals, everything. Until you figure yourself out, the writing will never become a part of you. It will never be as good as you want it to be, because your mind, that machine that crafts every word you think or write or breathe, is not complete. A machine cannot operate without all its parts.

Keep reading. Keep writing. Strive to answer those two questions, and I promise you, the machine will right itself. This is not to say that once your get your little foo-fah, fancy-pants philosophical questions answered, you will be the next Walt Whitman overnight. It takes time, and it takes work to be good. No one said it would be easy.

This is just the beginning.

On Osama bin Laden

2011-05-02T23:12:00.000-07:00

This might come across as a bit of a lazy post, and that's because it is. I was out late tonight at an induction ceremony for my school's chapter of the National Honor Society and don't quite have the energy or brain power to write the post I want to write as well as I want to write it.

Also, I'm reading Emma by Jane Austen, and I am being distinctly reminded of all the reasons I dislike Victorian literature. Another post for another day.

I'm here to talk Osama bin Laden.

This looker right here.

Some Changes 'Round Here

2011-05-01T18:16:00.000-07:00

You've probably noticed a couple of changes on this blog lately, more for accessibility and pretty-ness. Here's a nice bulleted list of what's going down for you skimmers out there:

1. An About Section

This is something that has a picture of my face and an explanation of who I am, as well as what I intend for this blog to be. So if you want to see my face and read the explanation, go there.

2. A Contact Section

Essentially, I want you to be able to talk to me as easily as possible. There's always blog comments, but this way is a little more private, if you so wish it. I've provided an email, Twitter, and even NaNoWriMo account at which you can reach me. There's also some fancy-pants little form that you can fill out so you can email me without ever leaving the comfort of my little blog.

3. Blogs of Note

Thingy on the side over there of blogs I like. They used to be on the bar at the top of the site. They're not anymore. It'll be ever-expanding, especially the blogs for writers list, so keep an eye out.

4. A Resources for Writers Section

...actually, this isn't up yet because it's time-consuming, but I'll get that page finished soon! And then you'll have a beautiful list of beautiful things for you beautiful writers. I'll be sure to let you know when that's all done, or when I update it.

If you have anything else you'd like to see added or changed, let me know. I have a contact section now! Huzzah!

Another change that will be going down, less of a visual thing, is that there will be a new post every single day.

...except for weekends. My weekends are not for desperately coming up with some writerly-advice post.

So, uh, I imagine my cache of Brilliant Writer Ideas will run out eventually, so if you have a topic you'd like to hear me talk about, feel free to use my contact page.

I freaking love that page.

See you tomorrow

Catullus, Poetry, and You

2011-04-30T14:40:00.000-07:00

I'm not a poet. I've never been a poet. I have written poetry, good poetry for a novelist, but it's still not my deal. I don't enjoy it.

I do, however, love to read poetry, and I think that non-poets have so much they can learn from poets and poetry alike.

I remember reading someplace, I think it was actually a Bible dictionary (those things have the most pretty, artsy definitions for things), that poetry is "the measured language of emotion." I want to stress the "measured" part here today, because I think it's something that a lot of novelists, short storyists, whatever floats your literary boat, forget about. We've got it good. We're lucky enough that we can come up with a first line, have no idea where it's going, and just follow it for about fifty words until the story hits us, and then we're off.

Poets don't have that luxury. Not good poets, anyway.

I'm sure you've heard this advice time and time again, but my main point here is that every word you use should be exactly where it belongs. You have to edit and edit and edit until the words are as close to perfection as you can make them, and then you have to work to make it even better the next time. Don't ever settle. Don't write around a scene. Use the words to your absolute best advantage, or you're doing yourself an incredible disservice.

Write your novels like you're writing poetry.

Does this mean flowery language and pretty little empty phrases on each line? Exposition about metaphors and feelings and flowers and bullshit? No. It means simplicity. Not dumbing down your writing, but making it as simple as you possibly can.

There are implications in the word "simple" that I just don't like. You descriptive writers are giving me the stink eye, the "are you asking me to be Ernest goddamn Hemingway here?" look. You Ernest goddamn Hemingways are like "Preach it, Taylor, preach it!"

What I mean by "simple" is "measured."

Us "normal" writers (correct, poets, that means you're not normal, you little rhyming, artistic, tea-drinking freaks) can learn that from poetry.

I'm learning it from a Latin poet, Catullus.

Yes. Latin. That dead language you don't speak.

Keep reading. I'll make everything clear.

Latin poetry doesn't rhyme. Hell, if Virgil, Martial, Catullus, Horace, if any of those dudes saw our finest poetry, our Walt Whitman and our Shakespeare, they would laugh. Rhyming. Really.

How juvenile.

Latin poetry is one of the best examples I can give for this idea of measured language. Latin poetry is the perfect blend of math, geometry, and pure art.

To give you an idea of how massively incompetent we are compared to Catullus, I'm just going to show you the first two lines of Catullus 7. You can read the whole English translation, line-by-line with the Latin, here, but the English is really pitiful compared to the Latin.

A brief explanation of this poem, before I show you just how amazing it is. Catullus was in love with a woman named Lesbia (she was not a lesbian, for the record, though "Lesbia" and "lesbian" both have their etymological roots in the island of Lesbos, another story for another time). She was significantly older than him, already married, and she and Catullus were having an affair at the time of this poem. A lot of Catullus' poems are about Lesbia, damning her when she leaves him or begging her to choose him over her husband when they're still fucking behind closed doors. This is one of the "choose me, Lesbia" ones.

Straight Latin Catullus 7, first two lines:

Quaeris, quot mihi basiationes
tuae, Lesbia, sint satis superque.

Literal translation, by yours truly:

You ask how many kisses of yours,
Lesbia, might be enough and beyond enough for me.

Pretty enough in the rough English, you supposed, but you're not seeing my point here. Where on earth could I be going with this?

I'm going to show you some magic.

Quaeris, quot mihi basiationes

tuae, Lesbia, sint satis superque.

I've highlighted all the Ss in red, and all the harder sounds, the Qs, Bs, and Ts, in yellow, just to bring them to your attention. A big proponent in Latin poetry is sound. In the opening lines of The Aeneid by Virgil, you can hear the army marching, hear the waves on the shore, everything, all from the words and nothing more.

Here, you can hear Catullus kissing Lesbia as he's answering her question of how many kisses are enough for him.

The S-sounds are the moment when your lips leave. The Q-, B-, and T-sounds are when lips press to lips and skin, that sound that English grossly refers to as the "smacking" of lips.

He is literally kissing her, kissing her all over, her face and hands and arms and chest and legs and feet, in this poem.

Ready for some more?

"Quaeris" and "Lesbia" are purposefully set off from the poem. Even in the original Latin, which has no punctuation, it is implied that they are places to pause. Those are the only two places in these two lines where Catullus would stop to take a breath. Those are the only times he stops kissing her long enough to gasp for air, and then he is kissing her again, literally worshiping her, her body, her lips.

He is saying, purely in the way that he has written this poem, that he needs Lesbia's kisses more than he needs air. It doesn't translate into English, sadly.

And another thing to note, Catullus invented the word "basiationes." The best English translation sounds silly: "kissifications." It would have been very easy for Catullus to simply use "basium," which means "kiss." The point is that Lesbia's kisses aren't simply kisses for Catullus. They are so special and so utterly important to him that "kiss" isn't a good enough word, isn't even the right word, to him. "Basiationes." Lesbia's kisses, and no one else's.

That's what I mean, by measured language. Every word where it is supposed to be, and every word the right word.

Read poetry. Write poetry. It will make you a better writer. I promise.

How I Almost Died Today

2011-04-27T22:54:00.000-07:00

I don't think this post will be particularly funny. I'm not going to try to make it funny. If it's funny, that is purely unintentional and side effect of me being me. I'm sorry for the moment of Seriousness, but I just have to bury this.

This morning, I was almost T-boned. I have no doubt that my father and I would have died instantly.

It was entirely my fault.

I was driving the car on the way to school and came to the end of the road. I slowed to a stop at the stop sign, glanced to the left. It was clear. Looked to the right, cracked a joke to my dad. There's a couple cars from the right, moving just slowly enough that I have to wait for them to pass to pull out. The last car on the right passes by me, and I pull out onto the road.

I take in a breath.

That's when I look left again. In the middle of the left lane, going for the right, I glance to the left, and I see the semi-truck. It's less than a hundred feet from me, close enough that I see the driver. I see that he's got dark hair, and he looks as startled as I probably did.

There's no moment of panic, when you realize you're about to die. I thought your stomach would tighten up. I thought there would be some moment where I realize I am three seconds away from being a red smear on the ground.

I heard my dad say, "What the hell are you doing?" I see him press himself against his door, as if he can save himself.

I hear myself say, "Not looking left."

My foot's gunning the gas pedal.

By the time I get to the right lane, I'm already at fifty miles, easy, and the semi-truck runs parallel to me.

I let the breath out.

That's when the shock settles over me.

And then I cry. I cry because that was the fucking scariest moment of my life, and I cry because I almost killed my father, and I cry because I'm panicked, and I cry because I'm happy to have made it.

I think there are several things I learned from this, and several things I hope you learn.

For current or new drivers, never panic. Don't second guess yourself. If you're in the middle of a cock-up, follow it all the way through. If I had just stopped driving, just frozen up, let that truck drill into me when I stood there stock still, mouth open, I would not be here to write this today. If you started, finish.

To writers writing about characters in life-or-death situations: The panic doesn't come until after the danger has passed. That's when it surges in. For me, it manifests in my stomach. Even now, when I recount what happened, my stomach's twisting up. It just coils up tight. My innards draw up against each other, travel up my throat, and sit there behind my lungs. It feels like I've swallowed too much food at once, like I'm choking. It feels like I'm going to cry.

To everyone anywhere: Life is tenuous at best. Don't devalue it, because it won't last forever.

Bragging Time

2011-03-31T12:16:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I entered a local writing contest in the newspaper. The challenge was to write a 101 word (or less) story. So, I did that. And then I sat tight until today.

You see that link cleverly disguised as a picture? That leads to the winning stories.

You see that story (which can be clicked on to be made larger and more readable)? That's mine.

Excuse me while I dance enthusiastically.

Updates (Or Things I Like About Life Right Now)

2011-03-31T07:13:00.000-07:00

I'm in the middle of something quirky and funny that is at least mildly interesting, I promise.

It's not even that I'm busy, not really. I'm just falling into a sort of summer-soft relaxation. It's really nice.

Here's a brief list of reasons why life is really great right now.
- Spring. Freaking. Break.
- Last night, I read my used copy of A Farewell to Arms until 1:30 in the morning, and I was once more reminded of why I love Hemingway and his simplicity. This is the deepest love story you will ever read. Forget Romeo and Juliet, forget torches burning brighter when some chick's there, and forget the poetry of it. A Farewell to Arms, watching this girl you're falling in love with an thinking "I liked how she moved," that is love.
- Paycheck today! Money! Yeah!
- 3000 words of second draft that came like that. Greatest feeling in the world.
- Spending time with friends today
- I have spent the past week surrounded by music.
- Yesterday, I saw my estranged brother's daughter for the first time.

That was sappy. I read somewhere that listing everything that's good about life will make you happier. I don't think it did that for me, exactly. I think I listed that because I already was happy, even though Sarah's not here due to chicken pox, my best friend is moving to California this summer, I only have four days left to this break, I'm sixteen and can't do shit without law enforcement or parents freaking out on me (which I found out this Tuesday when friends wanted to hang out and my mother went... motherly).

Because despite everything that's generally shitty about here and now, I'm happy.

Working on Draft Two

2011-03-19T18:56:00.000-07:00

...yeah.

Influenza

2011-03-15T12:01:00.000-07:00

I know I said I'd post part two of that thing, but I am not in any mood to do it, and I was probably lying when I said I would in the first place. I might do it later. Probably not.

I'm writing this post with a 103.5 degree fever! I don't know how much of it will make sense! Maybe my delirium and misery will be funny! Yeah, let's try it!

Let me tell you about my influenzic day thus far. After getting home last night, my madre took my temperature, and I was at about 102, and then I slept for a while, then I did other stuff, and the point is, I fell asleep on the couch.

Now for today.

1:00 AM: Wake up coughing up a lung. Moan a little bit. Feel bad for myself. Hug my bunny tighter (he's from Build-a-Bear, his name is Fregory, I should tell that story some time). Fall asleep.

2:30 AM: Wake up to chills. Like, chills so bad that I'm in fuzzy pajama pants, a Columbia fleecy (took me like five tries to spell that word), two blankets, some slippers, and I'm still all out shuddering. Get up. Steal my daddy's robe. Take my temp. Love being at 102 degrees again, consistency is good.

3:00 AM: I'm supposed to write a lit essay about someone who has taught me a lesson, and it's a pretty lame prompt for my otherwise bitchin' lit teacher. It's supposed to be an exercise in writing and characterization, but I'm kind of like, "Fuck that, I know what I'm doing, I write fucking novels*." Decide to write it about my grandma. Who is dead. And trying to describe her crinkled up old people hands, and I distinctly remember thinking, "Knobby things with veiny bits." I am a good writer.

3:30 AM: Watch RENT on my computer until I fall asleep (the 2008 Broadway recording of course, go watch it, God.)

5:30 AM: Wake up again because insomnia is fun. 103.5 this time. Take some ibuprofen. Eat a bowl of Crunch Berries. Watch some more RENT.

6:30 AM: Sleep.

Right now: Wake up.

WHAT A FUCKING GREAT DAY I'VE HAD SO FAR.

aren't you glad I shared I am.

*Which might be slightly less effective than the normal kind, but, eh.

Self-Imposed Childhood Trauma, Part One

2011-02-23T20:45:00.000-08:00

I wasn't an anxious kid. I didn't worry about dirt or bugs or injury. That tree needed to be climbed. That hole in the ground needed to be prodded at. That sand needed to go in my mouth (I realized this wasn't so true somewhere around age four).

One thing I was very good at was using my overactive imagination.

I was the kind of kid, that, once I learned about what slavery was, had a whole new set of pretend games where I would be the whitest African American slave ever escaping from a Southern plantation. When I was on a Lord of the Rings binge around fourth grade, I spent that time being an elf or a ranger, darting from tree to tree, diving into the underbrush, training some imaginary arrow on an orc only I could see. I used to steal my sister's bow, which was strung, while mine was pitifully string-free, and draw the string back as far as I could and let it go. My forearm would be stinging and red by the time I came inside, but it was a hell of a lot of fun.

From an early age, I became very good at traumatizing myself.

Like I said, I wasn't anxious. I didn't rock in a corner and stare wide-eyed at the world in terror. There were just thoughts that would occur to me, or that someone would mention in passing, and then when it was quiet and the world was soft and far away, those thoughts would fester, and I would completely mindfuck myself without even realizing it.

For example.

The House Burning Down

Also, firemen just standing in the foreground looking thoughtful and not doing anything about it.

When I was younger, and even sometimes today, if I've nothing else to think about, I could not go to sleep at night until I had contemplated how I would get out of the house if it caught on fire in the night. I had to plan how I would get out, how I would get my cat Jenny out. I had a stack of books by my bed that I would have to take with me if the worst came to worst. Somehow, my family never figured into my escape route, which was a little rude of me, I suppose.

To this day, I am still completely, unutterably terrified of fire.

We have a fireplace. I can't put wood in if it's burning most of the time, not without mildly freaking out beforehand. I can't light a match. I don't like having candles burning.

I think it had a lot to do with my house being surrounded by trees. It's like being in a popcorn cooker and feeling the temperature rising.

Hey, look, flammable substances!

Spiders KILLING ME

There will be no real pictures of real spiders in this post because they creep me the hell out. I can't even google it. Instead there will be kittens.

It started with me being four years old and seeing a black spider with a little red splotchy thing on its back and going to poke at it.

Like this, with about two hundred parts more hellspawn.

That was about when the daycare teacher Anna wrenched me back and told me awful things about what that spider could have done to me.

I staggered away, owl-eyed, stunned.

Spiders could hurt you.

Needless to say, the next time I saw a daddy long leg, I did not try to pick it up, even though I knew it could not bite me. I just drew my knees to my chest and watched it creep away.

And then I saw Return of the King.

Now, anything vaguely buglike or with spindly legs, I scream, then doubletake to make sure it's actually a spider. And then I call for my daddy to get it.

And that would be the end of part one, because I definitely put off studying for history to do this. Part two will be up tomorrow. :)

Christian Fiction Needs To Get Some Balls

2011-02-20T21:50:00.000-08:00

My childhood was one big PG-rated episode of failed indoctrination.

I remember, distantly, some white church with half-constructed skate ramps in some big room that I liked to run up and stand there, owl-eyed and halfway between here and dreams. I remember a Sunday school class I hated with some corny movie with a goat and a mountain and maybe Jesus. I remember a few bad Scripture-oriented skits.

There were the dark ages in my music tastes, when my mom shoveled a steady supply of spiritual music into my system. A deluge of peppy songs about God and fire and shit that have already been whitewashed out of my memory.

Mostly, I remember being confused I could read a book from my school library that left me absolutely floored, dizzy with wonder, and then one of the books that my mom got me on a monthly trip to the Christian Supply, and comparing the two and feeling... underwhelmed. I couldn't understand why. And. Now I do.

I have come to the conclusion that, above all else, Christian fiction needs to get some balls.

There was some time in my middle school years when I tried really, really hard to like the Left Behind series by Jenkins and La Haye (I don't remember first names, and I only remember last names because they were on the spine of every single book). Honestly, I did.

The trouble was, well, they were cheesy. As hell.

There are also about thirty. Goddamn. Books.

I can't give specifics, and I'm sorry. I hate being vague. But the thing is, I'm not going to go reread those damn things for this article, so you'll have to deal with my fuzzy recollections.

The basic plot in this series was that the end times come, the Rapture takes place, and we follow the story of those who get left behind. The Antichrist (who looked remarkably like Brad Pitt in my head, which made it incredibly difficult to dislike him) makes an appearance, there are some Jews and stuff in the Middle East and some people go scuba diving in some lake where there's this plane and I don't know if I'm still talking about the same books.

What I distinctly remember is that the characters in this series were weak. The bad guys were obviously bad (like, I think that Antichrist goes all "YEEEEH SATAN YEEEH BOYYYY" at one point in an incredibly corny scene), the good guys were obviously good, and anyone on the spiritual fence who does not die is obviously going to go either one way or the other, toward or against God. There is no self-doubt here, or if there is, it lasts about five pages.

Now, maybe this is just me, but if I missed the Rapture and all of God's people were saved, I would not be scared into Christianity. That would be the most intense upheaval of my spiritual self I could imagine. There would be no immediate choices. Absolutism would be dead. Nietzsche would look annoyed with it all.

That's something I've noticed very commonly in my experience with Christian fiction. Not only are the religious overtones obnoxious*, but there just seems to be this swell of astonishingly bad writing. I would argue that it's a capitalism ideology in the works. If the market is small, then your product has less competition. Less competition means poorer products, because you don't have to be better than twenty hundred other guys to get recognition. You can revel in mediocrity.

What I want to see in Christian fiction is some realism. Good people smoke. Good people swear. Good people take God's name in vain. Good people make bad decisions. I'm sick and fucking tired of every other protagonist being that kid you hated in high school for being a religious asshole. The "holier than thou," now Jesus wouldn't do that would he?, asshole.

I'm just saying, no one thinks about what Jesus would do when they drop a box on their toe or their loved one is killed. Maybe in the aftermath, yeah, but some of that gut instinct takes over, and you curse, or you damn God, and you screw up.

That's it, okay? I want people to screw up. Not as a plot point, not as a statement, but because they're people, and that's what people do.

Even more than that, but still on the realism front, where is the spiritual turmoil in Christian fiction? Realistic, honest religious uncertainty? Where's the frustration with religion, the temptations of the world, the, I don't know, the grace of God making things clearer or something? The fact of the matter is, the Word of God is rarely what changes someone's religion, not really. It's the rest of the world and deciding if you want to be a part of it or not. And, as authors, Christian writers still need to portray the rest of that world without the Disney film.

It's never as easy as quoting John 3:16 at someone.

People don't change that easily.

I have never been able to relate to a character in any of the Christian fiction I have read (with the exception of Frank Peretti. That's a guy, from what I remember, who knows what he's doing), because I have never found a character who is truly human. It's that feeling I've always had when I go to church, and it's a pretty nihilistic opinion, admittedly. I feel like I'm coming into this room full of people I don't know with a pastor who's talking about things I've never felt before, and I know that leaving this room, thirty minutes from now, everyone is going to forget this sermon and stop pretending like they actively think about God and go about their lives. It feels like a joke.

There's this guy, John Green.

This guy, right here.

And he's written these books. One of them is Looking for Alaska.

Go here. Buy it.

And this guy, John Green, posted this on April 3, 2007:

A few weeks ago, I was at some kind of event at which liquor was served (the details escape me), and a writer came up to me and said she was teaching Looking for Alaska in a young-adult literature class.
She asked, “Is there anything you’d like to tell the class about the book? Some new way of approaching it?”
“I always thought of it as Christian fiction,” I answered. “Tell them that.”
The woman laughed so hard that I felt too embarrassed to tell her that I was serious. But I am serious. Well, to claim a book with drinking and smoking and oral sex and disapproval of authority as Christian fiction is part provocation. But what is Alaska about, ultimately? It’s about whether we are greater than the sum of our parts. It’s about the kind of forgiveness that happens even though it is not possible.

Looking back at Looking for Alaska, and I can see exactly what John is talking about, and that's exactly what I'm talking about.

I'm not looking to be preached at. I don't want to be told what's wrong with me.

I'm looking for a presentation of spirituality, coming to it and living in it, as it really is. Not what we think it should be, not what the pre-approved sticker says it is, but the reality of the thing.

And, to do that, we have got to step off the high horse of the Bible, tuck away the sermons masquerading as dialogue, let characters be human, and be honest with ourselves and the world.

*I know, I know, how can I complain about something like that? It's a fucking religious genre. I just remember realistic dialogue being sacrificed for people to allude to Jesus and characterization botched in the name of Bible-banging.

Tips For Writing Fantasy

2010-10-11T22:22:00.000-07:00

(originally written for the Collab Columnists group on Storywrite.)

I am a child of books. The shelves of the local library raised me, and the books fed me. When I was a kid, I read anything, everything. One of my favorite genres has always been fantasy, and it’s been the genre I prefer to write in. It’s fun, boundless, this completely infinite world of possibilities.

Even from a young age, it was pretty easy for me to distinguish the good fantasy from the bad. The good fantasy was the sort that kept my attention, wrapped me up tight in a cocoon of reality as close or far removed from my own as it could be. It didn’t matter. If the characters were good and the world made me want to hang about for the next four hundred pages, I stayed, and I usually enjoyed my visit.

Then there was the bad fantasy. As just a kid, it was harder to tell the difference. There was just something… off about it. A world that felt half-formed, like the ground was shifting under my feet, threatening to give way. Characters that were inconsistent, whom I did not trust to lead me through this crumbling world. Creatures that didn’t make sense. Barbaric tribes that were barbaric for the sake of being barbaric. Fairies, for no explicable reason, living beneath the asphalt of some city.

My plan here is to give you some general tips on how to stay within the shadows of good fantasy.

This guide applies to all genres of fantasy, if you’re writing urban fantasy, steampunk, or some good old fashioned high fantasy. If you’re writing something with a hint of the extraordinary, stick around. Read a bit. As much as some of these might not appear to apply to your genre, they all, in even the smallest way, do.

When writing fantasy, for the love of all things good, make your characters realistic. This is true across the literary board, but I would stress the point even further in fantasy. When you’ve got dragons that wheel through the skies or voodoo priestesses dealing in the back alleys of the city, your characters need to be human. There is such a fine line between believability and the ridiculous in fantasy that, if you don’t watch yourself, you will push your readers too far, and they’ll find your entire story completely silly. If you want people to believe that the last of the human race is floating in a longboat off the coast of Spain and the zombies are coming, well, flat characters would completely ruin your zombie apocalyptic epic.

Oftentimes, I feel that characters in this genre in particular are forgotten in favor of the plot or the world. Many fantasy authors have a tendency to get so wrapped up in the story or the setting that they forget about their characters, forget that they’re supposed to be people too. Don’t forget that the characters should be driving the plot; plot never drives characters.

This more often applies to high fantasy, but, please bear in mind that your novel is not a video game. Watching your heroes run about getting into zany adventures to collect the Twelve Stones of Adklgfnsdi to defeat the Dark Lord Omsdnsoiw isn’t actually that interesting. (Unless it’s satirical. Then it’s hugely interesting.) It’s repetitive, it’s old, boring plot structure, and, in my opinion, juvenile. If your main plotline starts with “Dashing Young Hero must collect an ancient item to defeat his mortal enemy,” you have something of a problem.

Now, on the making of worlds.

World-building is fun. It’s sort of like being a child again. Take your crayon and your piece of paper, and let your imagination go. Granted, you might have graduated on from stick figures to words to tell your stories, but let’s admit it. There’s nothing quite like creating a really great, vivid world to match this new idea or for a fresh character to inhabit.

There are a few points to keep in mind when creating your world’s individual civilizations. This is probably less prominent in other forms of fantasy, but it still matters. You don’t have to have a fledging Middle Earth on your hands. The following key items to bear in mind when world-building apply to even worlds that are mostly comprised of modern day Earth.

When civilization is formed, there are seven key things it has to have, or at least address:

1. Religion/beliefs (beyond religious beliefs: moral, ethical, “logical,” etc.)
2. Culture
3. Education
4. Language
5. Arts/Culture
6. Government and Law
7. Women’s rights*

The backbone of a civilization is comprised of those seven parts. When taking them into consideration, you need to also figure out how were they formed? What outside influences have helped shape or twisted their views? How has their environment and living conditions conditioned your civilization’s processes? What about food, water, shelter? Are they constantly fighting for it? Are they farmers with an easy access to water and have a staple food in grains? Hunter-gatherers? Warring nomads who take what they like and rape who they choose?

A point I’d like to specifically touch on, finally, is language. You should not be creating a language by choosing a few vowels and consonants that look… sort of okay together. Even if you don’t decide to construct an entirely new language just for a race that is mentioned briefly, take into account accents, what their language sounds like (which is key when making up words that are meant to be your tribal tongue), what it feels like (what sort of people are they? Would they make a fluid language that is like song? Are they more stern and uptight and have a stiff, staccato language as a result?). Make it realistic enough that I can believe, looking at the made up bits of words you put down, that I’m looking at the tip of an iceberg of a whole wealth of language.

In other words, don’t bang your head on the keyboard and call it Dwarfish.

And, my final and perhaps most important tip, is to read a lot and write a lot. Read and write outside of fantasy. Read and write within fantasy. Experience is the only way you’ll truly become better at the genre.

*Or, if you’ve got a nation of Jezebels stomping the men of your civilization into the ground, men’s rights

I'm Back (Also, I Went to Home Depot)

2010-10-11T22:11:00.000-07:00

It's about time I stopped having that damn monkey picture on the front page of my blog.

So. Hello. It's been a long time.

General updates? I'm in school, I dislike it, AP European history eats souls, barely enough time to read and write, my lit teacher is badass, and I'm still doing that writing nonsense.

I'll go over the highlights of this week with you.

Monday, I stayed home with the flu. I stopped having that.

Finished Brave New World barely in time for lit on Wednesday. Good book.

Thursday, I went on a heroic endeavor after school with my padre to Home Depot. I have pictures of the expedition, from which I narrowly returned with my life. Some day, I shall compile a Home Depot travel section to show to you all.

Friday, I had absolutely no school, so I slept.

Saturday, shopped at places and bought things.

Sunday, did the research paper I've had since late September to do (why, yes. Yes I did wait until 9:30 in the evening the night before it was due to start.)

Monday, school, play practice, work, and now this.

There. I had such a good week. I bet you're glad you read that.

Also, NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo!

Do I know what I'm writing? Nope.

Did I ever do the Steampunk thing I said I would? Nope.

Are any past promises I've made applicable to the current situation? Nope. Not at all.

Maybe tomorrow I'll post a real entry, something that you actually want to read. For now, you've just simply got this.

Three-Fanged Monkeys

2010-08-02T22:57:00.000-07:00

In regards to my last post, this is what the monkey that attacked my hand looked like:

Legit police sketch.

I'm not explaining what each bit of him is. That's part of the fun. "Guess what the hell The Redhead drew."

I Decided That I Should Post

2010-08-02T21:08:00.000-07:00

When was the last time I made a post? Oh, I don't know, but I've got lots to say. Let's pretend that I'm just lumping together blog posts from... a lot of different days.

This post comes to you in multiple parts. I don't know how many yet, or else I'd tell you.

Part one, injury.

The day was July 22, 2010. (Yeah, I know, that was like two weeks ago shut up). I was at work, and it was the end of the day. I work, if you don't know, at a daycare center.

So on this July 22, I was outside, watching the, oh, five kids that were still there, making sure they went chewing on sand or each other. There was this one girl who insisted that we play chase. I always place chase with them, because I'm fast and it keeps me from becoming a fattie*. The children also have fun, so that's cool.

Right, I was chasing this kid.

I'm what you call a Dork. I once banged my knuckles on the low-hanging light in the kitchen because I was dancing around, listening to my iPod, and air guitaring. Thank God I was home alone, because I was yelping and shouting and it was a generally embarrassing occasion. I trip over myself and others. I make corny jokes about obscure facts.

I'm. A. Dork.

So, being my dorkish self, what do I do when all that soft, plush grass and dirt is behind me, when I'm on the concrete bike area now, chasing this little punk.

I catch my toe on something, I still don't know, and, very slowly, become aware that I'm launching toward the ground and I pretty much can't stop myself.

Yeah. You laugh.

The damages involved scrapes all up the right side of my body, up my arm and leg, along with smaller ones on my left arm and leg.

And because I am a Dork and also a Pussy, I went to the bathroom and wiped away the blood oozing from my skin and cried a bit. Because it hurt. And it's been scientifically proven that redheads have a lower pain threshold**, so. Don't mock me.

The hand that I landed on (thank God I didn't hurt it worse) came out looking like this:

It looks like a small, three-fanged monkey came up, banged its iron skull against my palm, then BIT ME.

It also looks like I have shitty photography skills.

That isn't the point here.

The point here is that that is an OWIE on my hand and that it stayed there for a VERY LONG TIME.

The same hand thirty seconds ago:

That little speck of dark is clotted blood. The worst of the scabs are already gone, for the most part, except for this wicked cut on my ankle that I really should have photographed. It's still all scabby. Vaguely wondering if it'll scar. Probably not. The only scar I'm cool enough for is my belly button. I can't even have an ankle-scar.

What else did I want to say?

Oh, part two. Books. I'm posting a Pretties review soon, I think.

Wow, you're thinking. For someone who doesn't like YA, you're sure posting a lot of YA reviews.

Well, cram it. I've been on a brief and mild spree. Which is over with. Reading Boneshaker now.

Part three, steampunk. I've gotten really interested in steampunk lately. I don't know much about machinery or the Victorian age or, well, steampunk, but what I have found, when looking for books of the genre to read to get a "feel" for it, is that most of them are pretty average. There isn't a Truly Astounding steampunk novel out there that I've come across.

What I'm hoping might change that is a book that I just ordered, Jigsaw Men by Gary Greenwood. You can bet your ass I'll be and reviewing that once I finish it. For now, I'm reading up on the background for it: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley and The War of the Worlds by HG Wells. I haven't read Frankenstein since eighth grade, and The War of the Worlds has been sitting on my shelf, waiting for a long time to leave my "to-read list." They're both short books. Gonna read those, then Jigsaw Men. Excited.

But back to what I was saying. Steampunk. I haven't really found The Steampunk Book. And. Well. Since I'm a self-obsessed little ginger, I have this new plot in mind:

I'm going to write The Steampunk Book.

I want to take this genre, which, as you probably know, isn't very extensive, and I want to figure out how it works, learn how to maneuver it for myself, and then I'm going to write it. Try not to fail where other books have. Even with Boneshaker, I'm unimpressed with the Conveniently Helpful Characters showing up at Conveniently Helpful Times to help the main characters do their thing. It's obnoxious, lazy plotting.

I doubt I'll actually write The Steampunk Book, but I'm going to try. I'm studying up, and I think that will be my NaNoWriMo project. A steampunk novel.

Part four, JulNoWriMo. I got like. 76k words. I supremely gave up after the first couple of weeks. Really too far into All the Gods right now to think about other projects seriously. Everything I was writing, for the most part, felt dry to me, a bit soulless. I'll definitely write these projects, but later, when my mind isn't still swirling with All the Gods.

Speaking of, part five, All the Gods. Anything I say about "this being the one, honest," just. Discount it entirely. I don't know anything***.

I believe that that's that. Thank you so much for enduring this. Bye.

*I'm a writer. Physical exertion is minimal.
**It's got "scientist" in the name of the site. It is so legit.
***If you didn't immediately think of Alex Day when I said that, go listen to this song, then go to Alex's website to listen to the rest of the CD, because you know you love him as much as I do.

I Do Not Appreciate Your Cries Of Joy

2010-07-21T17:49:00.000-07:00

I don't live in town. I live in the middle of flippin' nowhere in north Idaho. My closest neighbor is my cousin Patrick, and there's a stand of trees as well as a stretch of field between us.

My house is nestle back away from the road, on a stretch of rare flat, surrounded by an incline and a decline on either side. It's mountain country. The land is clay, the water is cold and sweet, and the deer run rampant.

In the winter, there's silence here.

I love my mountain silence. It's not dead quiet. There is the chortling of birds, the buzz of bugs during the warmer months, the near-inaudible whisper of wind in the trees, the occasional and distant sound of a car on the main road.

This is my land. My place. No sounds of other people. Nothing but the background noise of the world.

Then comes summer.

Summer is a good time to live up here. Where it's eighty or ninety in town, it's seventy here. The sky is clear and blue with summer. I love my clear mountain skies.

The mountain-quiet settling in.

Then Family Visits.

Across the road from me, maybe a quarter of a mile away, lives my aunt and uncle. Every summer, their daughter comes up to visit and she brings along The Children.

Here I am, holed up in my writerly retreat, sipping surprisingly not too shitty tea, settling in to work on my book*

Then, in the distance, I hear a squeal.

It's a sign, like all the animals fleeing from a burning wood, like birds starting all at once, like tourists wearing pants that are far too short for them and fake Oakley's.

Something is terribly wrong with my accepted reality.

The Children have come.

Now, I don't really... dislike my young cousins. They're sweet enough kids. What I do vehemently stand against are when I'm working at four in the afternoon with the windows open, and what do I hear?

Fucking cries of joy.

No. Stop being happy.

Or go inside and be happy.

Or scream that you're happy into... into... an airtight container because then there would be no air to carry the sound waves so no one would have to HEAR YOU.

(Dorks aren't very good at insults.)

*I'm lying to make myself sound cool. I was so completely avoiding working on my book it's not even funny.

Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite

2010-07-21T07:27:00.000-07:00

Right, general updates.

First of all, driver's ed.

Yesterday, I drove. On a freeway. A real one, with twisty bends and other cars. And I'm alive! And so're other people! It was really fantastic.

I have another reason why I love my driver's ed teacher, and I find it to be a very liable reason.

You see, we were making our way through this quiet, slow road that runs along the edge of a local beach. Edging past cars and fat tourists, when I look up (note that, at this time, I'm not actually driving) and spot ahead of us AN ICE CREAM TRUCK A REAL ONE.

My driver's ed teacher says, "Now don't freak out about the--"

I cry, "LOOK THE ICE CREAM MAN."

"--ice cream truck."

He sort of grins wryly at me and he asks if I want to stop to get some ice cream.

I look at my friend Megan sitting next to me, and she nods.

"Yeah we do," I say.

Got me a fudgsicle from the nicest ice cream man I've ever met. He was teasing us for being in driver's ed and saying that we must REALLY like our teacher today (which we did). Very cool individual.

So, as you can imagine, that pretty much MADE my day.

Second of all, JulNoWriMo.

I really don't think that I'm going to get 200k. I'm at about 66k, maybe 67k, but I'm thinking that I might have to settle for 125k, maybe 150k. This isn't because I'd have to write about 15k a day to win.

This is because I am busy.

I'll give you an idea of what my "to-do" list in July would entail, if I got 200k:
1. Write 135k in the next 11 days.
2. Finish editing the beta I promised to do.
3. Get at least a respectable way into editing All the Gods.

I really don't know. Editing this beta is really time-consuming, because I'm purposefully taking my time and being as thorough as possible.

Beyond that, it's flippin hard to make some 15k in a day when you're stuck in editing mode. Trust me. It took me about half an hour to write 500 words of the All the Gods second draft, just because I kept fixing it and making it Good.

So, in lieu of having anything constructive or funny to say, here's an excerpt of the new start to my book, All the Gods:

Mortimer Scott loved his job.

Other people he talked to, they always went on and on about how much they hated their jobs, whining about their hours or their wage or their coworkers or their boss.

Mortimer, though, he loved everything about being a police officer. He loved putting on his uniform every morning, cinching the belt with all its neatly organized pockets for his gun, his first aid kit, his baton, handcuffs, keys, everything around his thin waist. He loved the bright gold of his star badge. He loved his sleek patrol car. He even loved his little ticket book.

What Mortimer did not love about being a police officer was his partner, Richard.

Richard simply was not Mortimer’s first choice for a friend. Richard was loud; Mortimer was not. Richard constantly smoked off-duty, and sometimes on-duty, when he could get away with it. Mortimer breathed in just the nicotine smell from Richard’s jacket and gagged. Richard was three years older than him and had been on the force longer than he had, experienced, suave, cool. Mortimer was considerably smaller and shorter and younger and far, far more awkward.

And, worst yet, Richard had an awful habit of ruining Mortimer’s day.

Mortimer’s first day of work, for example, when Mortimer was only just eighteen and more than unusually shy for his age. Richard had greeted him by snapping one of his brand new suspenders, asking him what in gods’ name they were for. Only a few minutes later did Richard decide to explain, leaning an elbow lazily on Mortimer’s shoulder and flicking through a file with Mortimer’s picture and school record, that he was, in fact, Mortimer’s partner for the next few years.

There, see? A perfectly good day, shattered in less than ten words.

The day Mortimer turned twenty-one was no different. That was the day Richard made him go into that stupid bar. That was the day he met Talbot.

Mortimer hadn’t even wanted to wake up that morning, not really. He just sat up in bed for a few minutes, his alarm clock beeping. He squinted at his bare toes and considered calling in sick.

Yeah. Sick.

Really, really sick.

The kind of sick where you have to stay home all day. All of it.

Mortimer ran a hand through his messy hair, glanced at the clock, and groaned.

It would be fine, he told himself as he showered. Nothing would happen. People would go on not noticing him as though today were like any other day, and he could slip by without an embarrassment to speak of.

He didn’t think about his birthday at all through his prayers. Of course not. Prayers were a time devoted to Lopt and Lopt only. No birthdays, no Richard, no anything, a safe time, a good time. The only time he wasn’t tapping his fingers anxiously, imagining the possibilities.

Why I Am Mostly Certainly A Teenager

2010-07-19T18:29:00.000-07:00

What makes me a teenager? I mean, aside from my age? Obvious lack of social experience? General awkwardness?

Quite frankly: The food I eat.

I love food. I really do. I don't think I eat enough of it.

Let me just give you an idea of what I've eaten today:

32 oz of coffee

(soon to be 48, in about an hour)

12 oz of Izze

(the blackberry kind, not the nasty pomegranate one.)

Six mini bagels

Two sticks of gum

(I know they aren't sticks, but I couldn't find the right sticks of gum so. ._. You're stuck with packages.)

Two of these chocolate croissant things

(They're SO GOOD)

...and that's it.

My eating habits: coffee, juice, chocolate, and bagels. What more could one need in life?

So Starts Editing

2010-07-17T21:32:00.000-07:00

I think the explosion I mentioned last post is just about cleared up. No, I'm not posting the conversation the author and me had, but I will say this: I'm planning on still betaing. The writer is sick, deathly sick, and wants to get the novel finished and published before she has to go up to her plush seat Way Up There.

And I don't blame her for that. I want to help. I'm romantic at the worst of times. If I can make it even a smidgen easier for her to achieve that dream, call me goddamn Make a Wish, because I'm going to try.

July is turning out to be a month of editing more than anything else, editing of both her novel and mine. I'm sure I'm going to be burnt out come August, but oh well.

I've just recently begun editing my book All the Gods, a huge part of which involves rehauling the beginning entirely. Chucking some 30k, I expect, at least. Should help lighten the load a bit.

The clay's ready. It's time to start carving, I say.

Now I'm stuck at the beginning (of course. I'm horrid at beginnings). If anyone's reading this, however few you may be in number, could you do me an enormous favor? I'm posting a list of possible opening lines. I want to know which makes you want to read on the most, if any of them don't and I really do just suck at this, whatever. Numbered for your convenience and mine. If you take the time to reply, thank you so much. I really do appreciate it.

(If you must know what All the Gods is about, check out this page. Very first project listed, you'll see the book's general "wossit about?" ness. Shamelessly stolen from my friend Cee, because she's good at this summarizing stuff and I am not.)

Right, openings:

The end of Mortimer's world as he knew it didn't even have the common decency to go off with a bang.
Mortimer had never been fond of his birthday.
The game was Richard's idea.
Mortimer felt everything in his stomach.
None of these are good what the hell are you on.

Thank you again! I appreciate it.

Right. Working on beta, then my book. She's dying quickly, I'm not (I'm making a point to die slowly). She gets a slightly higher priority than me thusly.

Cheers,
The Redhead
(whose name, if you're curious and did not know this, is Taylor)

This Comes To You at a Point of Mild Irritation...

2010-07-16T13:44:00.000-07:00

So I offered to beta for someone a while back. I was feeling nice, she had some sob story, I got suckered in.

I critiqued her first chapter a couple months back, sent it off to her. She revised, sent me the revision. I got caught up in school, then writing, then driver's ed, until at last I got an email which was a sort of mid-summer check in.

At which point I said a nice version of, "Shit!" and dashed off to critique the revised bit I'd forgotten about.

It wasn't grand, but it wasn't awful. There were a lot of things to fix. Very hard to follow. Not my cup of tea when it comes to writing styles, that's for sure. I marched onward regardless, doing my damnedest to tell her what was wrong and what needed to be fixing and the bits that I liked (which, I'm sad to say, were not in abundance).

Shortly after I sent the review, I get this email back from her:

"I'm really feeling I should just quit now. I write it one way and it's wrong. I write it the other way and it's wrong. Gah. After yesterday's being told that I was so far out of context I was practically unreable on that other story, I just don't even understand why I'm /here/.

Maybe I should stick to the unappreciative work of information technology. It doesn't pay well, but at least I expect being slammed over the desk. And the delay isn't quite so long.

[face meet desk]"

My first reaction: I spent an hour and a fucking half of my only day off this week to write your critique and you don't even say thank you?!

My second reaction: I'm a bitch, aren't I? I'm a mean bitchy bitch who makes people feel bad. ):

My third reaction: Wait, no I'm not. I was purposefully nice in my critique.

My fourth reaction: Lady, I'm not your therapist. I'm your beta. If you can't take a review, don't ask for it.

I'm just... so frustrated. I don't want to reply while I'm angry with her and say something in haste, but, god. Talk about self-pity.

So the point of this post, beyond me venting, is to talk a bit about critiquing etiquette. The rules I live by when receiving critiques:

Always say thank you. Even if the reviewer ripped your heart out, chopped it up into tiny bits, stomped on it for a while, then threw it into the Thames, thank them for their time. It takes time to write a critique, and just whining or throwing a pity party is both rude and ungrateful.
Don't argue. If the reviewer is hugely off, you can correct them, but don't argue with a point they made. You don't have to agree with everything they say, just as you don't have to implement the changes they advise. Just don't waste your time and theirs by arguing. It's very unprofessional and obnoxious.
Don't let it get me down. No matter what a reviewer may have said, I never let it get me down. It's not an attack on me or my ability to write. It's advice. It's comments. What works, what doesn't. It's hugely important to become a better writer. I'm sick of people getting all droopy and depressed when they get negative critiques. If you can't take them, don't ask for them.

Now, for myself, I don't know how to reply to this writer. I want to blow up at her and tell her that if she's going to be so emotional and whiny, she shouldn't ask for opinions to begin with. I want to tell her that the only way she's going to get better is for people to tell her what she's doing wrong. Otherwise, it's like not telling someone their fly's open; they never realize it until it's too late.

Also, dislike on the thinly veiled bitch-barb. "And the delay isn't quite so long." Quit your complaining. You never gave me a deadline, so I had no real initiative to get it done immediately. That's a bit of a problem on your part. Also, excuse you? I have a life, as it turns out, obligations, appointments, work, things that need doing, just like you do. Don't harry your reviewers along or bitch at them when it's only been maybe a month and a half. Not only is it irritating, it's more than a bit rude.

God, I'm pissed right now.

Long story short? Don't do what she did. Act professionally, and you'll be treated professionally. All my respect for that writer went down the drain the moment I read that email.

Cheers,
The Redhead

Writer's Block Doesn't Exist

2010-07-15T08:34:00.000-07:00

Don't give me that injured look. Don't break out your reference material and your "but I--" stories.

You're wrong.

There is no such thing as writer's block.

Writer's block. Our ghost in the closet. Our cries of something foreign and mysterious, something otherworldly, supernatural, this Thing that intrudes into our brain and blocks up that creative energy.

Writer's block is an excuse.

Let me tell you a story. When I wrote my first book, Lycka, I was thirteen years old for most of it (had my birthday after about a week of writing it), and I started out strong. Some fifteen thousand words in, and suddenly, it wasn't very easy anymore. I didn't really know what was going to happen next. It was hard.

Little thirteen year old me, with my dark frown and mild irritation that it wasn't easier, I went the easy way out, taking advice from people on the NaNoWriMo forums.

I just switched plotlines.

I'm pretty sure I went through seventeen different plotlines, just writing starts, getting stuck, not knowing what was going to happen next. And when that happened, suddenly writing wasn't a breeze anymore. I had to make an effort.

Aw, damn, Taylor, you say, poor you.

Oh, don't be sarcastic, you grumpy titch.

Like you've never had the same mindset.

That thirteen year old me encountered what people often call writer's block. I didn't know what it was at the time. I'd been writing on and off since fifth grade (which was about when I started taking writing seriously), you know, but I didn't really get it. I just thought that I must suck and I'd just try out seventeen different stories to see if something happened with those.

And it won't.

It never does.

What is "writer's block" to people is a wide range of things. I don't personally believe in such a thing. It's our bogeyman, and we're doing nothing more than pointing fingers. It's laziness, fear of totally screwing up, anxiety, confusion, reluctance, irritation with a story, hate for characters, insecurity about writing, whatever the hell is your problem, that's what's masquerading as writer's block.

"I have writer's block."

What's your problem, then?

"I don't have any ideas."

Man, that's not a writer's block, that's just inability to daydream effectively. That's fine. You'll learn how. You get a writer's ear for phrases or images or ideas, the question "What if?" becomes your mantra, you get better at recognizing when fleeting thoughts could become stories.

But, for now, I've got links for the idealess:

NaNoWriMo Forums:
all these sites are from the NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, forums. really terrific and helpful if you're stuck in a rut or need ideas
Adopt a Plot thread Part One and Part Two.
These are all plots free for the taking, looking for a good home.

Adopt an Opening Line thread.
Various opening lines up for grabs.

Adopt a Title thread.
Some titles up for adoption. Pretty helpful, if you want to write from the title back.

Misc.
PostSecret.
Not always appropriate, just as a warning (hah, but then again, neither am I). This is an art site, and some photos have included nudity, language, and questionable themes. The idea is to write your secret on the front of a postcard, mail it to the guy running the site, and he posts a select few every Sunday. Absolute literary gold here in regards to inspiration.

Seventh Sanctum.
Lots of different generators here. Neat site overall. I don't use it much myself, but lots of writers I know really like it.

Pandora Radio.
If you're inspired by songs, use this to hear some new songs. See if anything strikes you. (: I dunno if that'll help you much, but it's given me loads of inspiration before.

"I have writer's block."

What's your problem?

"I don't know what to write next."

Buck up and figure it out. This is writing. If you need to, talk to people, bounce off ideas. Not knowing what's next is not a valid excuse to quit.

"I have writer's block."

What's your problem?

"I don't know if my writing's good and it feels like I'm wasting my time and--"

Stop talking now. I see what's going on here. You know what? That's not writer's block. That's a complete lack of self-esteem. For one thing, get a little more confidence in yourself. Also recognize that everyone reaches that point in pretty much every writing project, where you really don't know if this is any good or if anyone's going to like it.

You know what you do?

Keep putting down words anyway.

Stop doubting yourself. Some writing, even shitty writing, is worth your time. It is always worth your time. Practice, practice, practice. You won't have anything to fix if you never finish the thing.

"I have writer's block."

What's your problem?

"I don't know =/"

That's crap. You legit do.

"...well."

Yeah?

"It's just not an easy bit to write and--"

Leave before I throw something at you. This isn't an easy hobby, not if you want to be good. It takes a little thing called effort.

Haha, I feel mean after all that.

Long story short, I don't believe in writer's block. I believe in people avoiding responsibility for themselves. I believe in pointing to a monster in the closet when you say that's what made the grape juice mess on the carpet.

When you tell yourself, "I can't write, I've got writer's block," your brain will just soldier valiantly onward to prove just this. If you tell yourself you can't do something, you won't do it.

Simple solution?

Tell yourself that you will.

On Driving

2010-07-15T07:45:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I did something Astounding.

I drove a car. A real car. With a motor. A big car. (Well, no, not BIG, it's a Mazda, but still.) A really real car on a really real road with lots of other really real cars.

And you know what I did?

NOT THIS:

I am so good at this driving stuff.

Yesterday was my first drive in driver's ed. Drives last for three hours, and you go with two other kids and my teacher, Mr. Ezbe (the coolest bloke you'll ever meet, he is). Two hours of "observance" (you need 12 to pass the class, I think), then an hour of driving yourself.

I drove second.

My first attempts at driving... were not spectacular. We're not reliving the first five minutes when my foot couldn't decide which pedal was right or left or when I almost crashed into the nice, shiny Soccer Mom car because I, as I so eloquently said when Ezbe slammed on his "oh my god you're going to kill us all" brake on his side of the car, "hit the wrong button."

I'm a dork, if you can't tell.

But, after I got that awkward bit sorted out, I got actually pretty good. I started turning on the blinker without thinking about it and stopping at stop signs in such a way that doesn't give you whiplash. It was fun.

I'm gonna hate driving at the end of these six weeks, but, right now, it's fun.

Let me tell you about Mr. Ezbe. Ezbe introduces just about every important thing we ought to know with "This is Ezbe's tip of a lifetime," which means that there are about three hundred of them. He's legitimately ADD, I'm sure. He always talks about his mind racing. I love it. I love his tangents and stories. He's got some of the bet stories.

Other things I love about Ezbe:
1. He doesn't act like I've never heard a bad word in my life. He says "hell" or "damn" casually and flippantly, like the gen-u-ine Idaho man he is. He's the kind of teacher who says, after drawing a four-way intersection on the white board, "Sorry for the shitty drawing," with absolutely no qualms. He's an awesome, honest guy. I like that.

2. He talks about the best things. We can discuss the origins and original implications of the word "chalet," which is like this nasty little Swiss goatherd's hut, if the French and Mexican are trying to insult us with Foreign Words in their restaurant signs (I know they're not; it was a JOKE), whether book series are better than standalone books, why we both hate Daniel Craig as James Bond, why Jude Law makes the best damn Watson in any Sherlock Holmes movie ever. It's fun, driving with him. Plus the talking relaxes me when I'm driving. Helps me learn how to focus on two things at once.

3. We play slug bug. And I won last time, so.

Hah, a quick way to make the driver's ed car dead silent:

When everyone's talking about what they're doing after the drive, don't do this.

Megan says, "I'm going to go see my grandma."

Cute guy whose name I forgot says, "I'm going to go eat food and play video games."

I say, "I'm going to go write."

The car goes silent.

Finally Ezbe says, "Write?"

I say, "Write."

He says, "Write what?"

I say, "A book. My sixth book."

He asks if it's a series. I say it's not, that I prefer just stand alone novels. We start talking about the pros and cons of series-length things, and yeah.

Was curious.

But, I had fun. Looking forward to my next driving session. Can't wait.

Off-topic and something that only Sarah and Lauren will understand and have already seen, but whatever.

I was procrastinating, so I made banners! For Detox! It should be noted at this point that I'm not an artist, or a designer, or... anything. Haha. Just a bored writer who isn't very familiar with gimp.

Look, see:

This is Daire, the novel's protagonist. The words on the side are stolen from a song. Shamelessly. From Bruised by Jack's Mannequin. (Sorry, Jack's Mannequin.)

This is the version of MorleyxTel that I like considerably better. They're two characters from my book that no one knows, but this is the pretty version of the banner I made, and I'm rather fond of it, so.

They words are straight from Morley and straight from Morley's soul. If that tells you anything about the bloke. Reluctant sap.

Hey, at least there's no stolen song lyrics this time!

I made another version of MorleyxTel, the first one, but I hate it so it's not going up here to embarrass me.

Right, g'bye.

*stops talking*

Seattle and Postscripts

2010-07-15T00:43:00.000-07:00

This post is a long time coming.

On Sunday morning, I left the (surprisingly) fair city of Seattle and made my journey back east toward the Motherland.

Immediate difference in city skylines, for one thing. The Big City around where I live (shitty cell phone pic. Don't get your hopes up):

Big City skyline in Seattle (well, of Seattle, actually):

(At this point, I would just like to pause briefly to say that I do not profess to be a photographer, and getting pictures of the Seattle skyline with my phone whilst whizzing by on the highway as guardrails and trees get in the way SUCKS.)

I had a lot of fun after Friday's game (WHICH THE YANKEES ONE HANDS DOWN 7 TO 1 SUCK IT MARINERS). On Saturday, slept in almost late, had not-bad coffee (I'm a coffee snob. This was impressive for me.), went out into the world.

First stop Saturday morning, shoes for my dad, because he brought the wrong shoes and yeah. He needed tennis shoes so he wouldn't whine the whole time and piss everybody off. (I make us sound like such a loving family.) Also, no one wanted him to be in pain from walking around the whole day in shoes that suck.

So we went to the mall. Westfield, to be exact.

To those of you who know what I'm talking about: I know it's not a massive mall, but I'm from Idaho. The closest Big Mall around here has two stories. This mall was MASSIVE. Three stories easy, escalators EVERYWHERE, all these stores... Very large. To me. So. Don't make fun of me, please.

Went to Macy's. Got this ADORABLE purse. I love it immensely. I'm a girl. I get to talk about things like that.

After, went to Kio... Kiun... I don't even know. A place in the international district of Seattle, Chinatown and stuff. There was this one shop that was part-food place, part-book shop. All the books were either manga or novels and were all in like Japanese, so that sucked. Then the food place had this really yummy soda I like, which I bought a bottle of and drank. Was good.

That place was boooooooooring.

So here's the sad news.

I didn't get to go to the zoo.

I was ready to cry, I was. I'd been looking forward to the zoo this whole time. Then we went for a good walk from Pioneer to Pike Street, I got seven new books, ate chicken at a seafood place (I hate seafood, didja know that?), browsed this AWESOME antique store, traversed, looked at shops, was nice. Apparently I don't look like a tourist either, so that's cool.

By the time I went home, I was satiated. I had my books. I got to watch The Bounty Hunter, that one with Gerard Butler (I love that maaaan). A good end to a good day.

Plus, LOOK AT WHAT I FOUND IN SEATTLE:

EXTERMINAAAAAATE.

So About Them eReaders

2010-07-11T15:49:00.000-07:00

Popped into Barnes and Noble last weekend to get a copy of Stories, a short story anthology edited by Neil Gaiman and Al Sarrantonio (WHICH IS WONDROUS AND BEAUTIFUL IN EVERY WAY).

Now I don't go to Barnes and Noble normally. I'd like to, but it's about an hour out from where I live, so I usually just go to Borders instead, even Hastings, if I'm really desperate. So I hadn't been in B&N since the arrival of their nook, an eBook reader thingy. I didn't even know it existed until Miss Sarah got one and texted me a picture.

So when I walked inside, about three feet from the door, I'm hit with this WALL of a stand for their nook. Three different nooks on display to play with, a solid wave of accessories arcing into the sky.

I edged past it, averting my eyes, because I am a Book Reader, not an eBook Reader, and I try to make people aware of that.

As I perused the shelves, hunting madly for my book (which I found for 20% off!), I kept thinking, Why do I care so much if people know that I'm Old School? Why do I feel a little dirty when I play with the eReader, like I'm about to do something awful and turn my back on my soul and religion and life*?

I didn't have a qualm about trading in my walkman and CDs for an iPod and ~~illegally downloaded~~ mp3s. Swapped the old telephone for a cell phone. Went from notebook and pen to a laptop.

Then what's the difference with books?

It doesn't make logical sense for me to buy seven books on my trip to Seattle and carry them all about and eventually home. I could have bought thirty online from an eReader and no added weight. You know, logical. Who wants to buy twelve CDs and carry them around when you could just download the mp3 files that take no literal space. Your iPod doesn't get heavier.

Part of it, for me, is that I hate reading stuff off of screens for long spans of time. It makes my eyes hurt and my brain wander. I lose focus reaaaaally easily. I don't know why, but I do.

There's that argument that people are nostalgic. They're children of books. They were raised by the silent halls of libraries. Their lives and worlds were books and stories and words. They love the feeling of a book, the way the spine cracks and fades, the curl of a well-read book's cover, the feeling of writing on a page, underlining and highlighting and writing What in the hell are you thinking?! in the margins, as though the characters can hear you.

They love books.

I'm one of those people. Most of my childhood memories aren't even of things I've done; they're of the stories I've read and the stories I've invented. My whole life has been shaped by books, my very being, everything that makes me who I am, I attribute to books.

Writing.

The love of words.

We don't want to release our books, our walls of spines, paperback books laid on every free surface, piled and dogeared and stained with spilled coffee or pages bloated with water from when you dropped it in the tub.

But I want to know why.

I have my own suspicions.

I think that the book-reading world, the older you get, becomes more of a pomp and circumstance society. You're defined by what you've read, what you haven't read, what you are proud enough to put on your shelf, what books look like you've read them so many times each page is threatening to come out one by one. People can't see that you love classics, that your copy of Great Expectations is so well-read that you've taped the spine, that it is dripping ink from your annotations and commentary in the sidelines. That is your proof. That is your war scar.

Readers, we're show-offs.

Myself, I don't like buying books from the YA section, because God forbid someone thinks that I still read those. I don't want them to think that I'm one of those people, who stocks Twilight on their shelves and just loves the dramas of high school ups and downs and betrayal and heartache and... whatever else YA is about..

You judge people based on what they read.

Your slender Kindle sitting on the coffee table doesn't nearly equate to having hundreds of books crowding your home. It's not the same. No one can tell at first glance what sort of reader you are, and I don't think that a lot of people like that. I certainly don't. I'm a proud person. I damn well want you to know that I love Catch-22, and I want people to ask me about House of Leaves.

That could be part of a reason, even just a subconscious reason, for some people. I'm one of them. Maybe it's just me. I don't know.

One of the biggest reasons I'm always given, though, when I ask why people don't want to switch over to eBooks, is people say,

"Because they're books. You can't just stop reading books."

I wonder what those blokes with the scrolls thought, when the Christian writers started whipping out their codex and their thick volumes of books. But you can't stop reading scrolls. They're scrolls.

In all seriousness, though, there does seem to be this effect that book-readers, the real ones, are part of some enormous doctrine that decrees that we will not be swayed by the digital sins of this world, we shall read books in book-form and in that manner only!

And, why?

Because they're books.

They're pockets of history.

They're evidence.

We were here. Look what we left behind.

Books are little pieces of life, and the idea of everything being digital, to me, is terrifying. It's too easy to change information, too easy to have one programming error, just one, and the records of the past twenty years of existence is gone. It's too easy to forget. It's too easy to stop thinking, when everything is handed to you on a glowing silver screen, why should you analyze anymore? Why should we stop for thought? I think that turning books into nothing more than a collector's item, severing our last real disconnection from a world entirely driven by digital media, is a rattling concept.

It's the last domino to fall.

If eBooks were to really take off, if printing books were to become a thing of the past, if bookshops were to die out as record stores have, if it's only a select few who still read books, if one day my grandchildren giggle over the fact that Grandma still has those cluttery old books, then I see it as the beginning of something grand or something awful.

Something grand: Things keep going as they always have. People still write and read great novels. We aren't simplified people.

Something awful: Literature is dumbed down further and further until at long last reading Pudd'nhead Wilson equates to what everyone did at least once in high school: reading the Spark Notes version. Where we're not only given the book, we're given what to think about the book, and then we don't form our own ideas at all.

It sounds so conspiracy theorist, doesn't it?

So what do I think? I think that books have soul. I think that every story is a living, breathing thing, whether or not it's "living" to most people. I think that that is the magic of books, when it curls its fingers around yours and pulls you gently along and you are unable to resist.

I think that people are afraid of losing that, with eBooks.

We're afraid of change.

We don't want to sacrifice that feeling, that tug in our stomachs when we can't turn the damn page fast enough.

We want to stare at the blank page after those magic words, The End, and wish that there was more, because you can't imagine life without those characters.

It's reading.

It's books.

And maybe that mindset isn't so bad after all.

*that is, books

General Commentary

2010-07-09T13:30:00.000-07:00

7:20 AM: Sister walks out of her room with a duffel bag bursting at the seams and a tote bag. We're staying for two days. What a promising start to this day.

7:40 AM: Sister won't SHUT UP. She's shaking the charms on her wrist and ankle and crying tihat she is JINGLYYY. This is setting up to be a long six hours.

7:41 AM: ONE MINUTE OF SILENCE AS SHE TWEETS. MIRACLE.

8:45 AM: Eating in a restaurant with animal heads on the wall.

Isn't this pleasant?

10:05 AM: Look at this thrilling view.

11:00 AM: AHHHH A BRIDGE I HATE BRIDGES.

11:01 AM: ...okay it's done.

11:07 AM: WINDMIIIIIIILLLLLLLLS

11:08 AM: HAYYYYYY

11:09 AM: OH MY GOD WHAT A BORING DRIVE THIS IS.

11:40 AM: Stopped in Ellensburg. Had to pee like none other. We went to the Big Country Store. Real classy place. Had moose-themed hats and personalized pocket knives and all. Went outside to their bathroom and found...

...a goddamn portapotty. Soooo pissed. Not literally. Walked across the street to a perfectly respectable Texaco. Which had a bathroom. And toilet paper! And soap! Luxury out here. Got me some Izze and Coca-Cola gummies. Settling in to do some writing.

11:41 AM: I lied. Eating popcorn. ._. Read this label:

and I spent like thirty seconds trying to figure out why they didn't put "popcorn" on the label.

Then I felt dumb.

12:10 PM: Was devastated to discover that Keebler semitrucks are not driven by Keebler elves.

1:15 PM: On computer and feeling carsick. Bleh.

1:25 PM: Finding way to hotel.

The Redhead is Stupid

2010-07-09T01:25:00.000-07:00

So I had work today.

Work involves getting up at 5:20 in the morning.

I thought it would be a really, really good idea to stay up writing and talking with my friend Sarah until 2 AM.

(Which it later proved not to be.)

So after about three and a half hours of sleep, I got up, showered, went to work.

TEN HOURS OF WORK LATER...

Got home at seven. Completely crashed next to my mommy on the couch.

Woke up five hours later.

Am now awake and too awake to sleep for a very long time. Blah. I'll do some writing, I suppose.

So tomorrow morning at seven, I will get into a car and drive for about six hours from here to Seattle, Washington. Which means you won't hear from me until this evening, probably.

Baseball game tomorrow after we arrive in Seattle. *cheering and celebration* Then Saturday for doing tourist-things. I shall take pictures (and maybe video?) while I'm at the zoo! Which I'm thrilled for. It really is a human tragedy that I've only been to a zoo once in my life. I insisted that we go again.

Right. Settling in to write.

Excerpt from the book about the nightmare-boy. It doesn't have a name. I'll just call it King of Dreams. Which is probably an irrelevant title. Oh well.

Wait.

A whisper of a word.

Wait.

Listen.

Do you hear that?

The faint creak of a step.

Stomach tightening. Throat parching. Muscles in you, everything in you, slowly winding tighter and tighter, ready to bolt.

Somewhere in the darkness, there are sounds.

No, don’t run yet.

They’ll see.

They always see.

Wait.

Listen.

Shh, shh, down here, come down here. Pressed flat against the far wall, there you go.

Hide in the shadows.

Listen to your heart pounding-pounding.

Listen to your own hitched breath.

Listen to them coming for you.

Footfalls in the darkness.

Hold out.

Not yet, don’t flee yet.

A sharp hiss, like something feral, something unknown, something not human, breathing.

“The coast is clear,” said the voice, a rustle of night-wind in the silence. “Let’s clean the whole house while they’re away.”

“No, no, Calvin, stop.”

The dream jerked away until it was only the nightmare, standing there at the front of the class, flustering as his fellow students laughed and rolled their eyes and snorted. He stared at his teacher, white eyes large and wide. He said, “Yes, sir?”

Calvin’s teacher was a very tall nightmare, spindly thin, even without his costume, and, when he glowered down at Calvin, the boy suddenly felt much, much smaller and hunched in on himself to compensate.

“What,” said Calvin’s teacher, whose name was Mr. Carter, “was that meant to be?”

“A, um, a nightmare, sir.”

“What did the project tell you to do?”

“Make my own nightmare, um, without my parents’ help, with, um, ghosts, and, um…” Calvin flickered a glance up at his teacher, then looked down at his sneakers. He mumbled, “It had to be at least five minutes long a—”

“Specifically, what did I ask for, Mr. Jones?”

Oh, his last name. Oh, no. He was in trouble. Mr. Carter only called students “Mr.” or “Miss” when he was making a Point.

“A nightmare, sir.”

“Can someone tell me exactly what a nightmare is, at its core?”

A girl raised her hand and said matter-of-factly, when she was called upon, “Scary.”

“And what, Mr. Jones, was your nightmare lacking?”

“Scary… stuff…”

“Precisely.”

“But there were ghosts!” Calvin said a little desperately. “Lots of them! I made six!”

“Mr. Jones, there is absolutely nothing intimidating about ghosts that clean houses. Return to your seat.”

Calvin hung his head, crammed his hands into his pockets, and tried not to cry, sinking into his seat. He could hear the snickers and jeers the other nightmares didn’t even bother to stifle. Just because he wasn’t a good nightmare, like Allan or… or… Lucy, she was good, too. Just because he didn’t make ghosts that tried to eat you up or stole up your parents and your friends and left you all alone, so that it was like you were the only person in all the world or who jumped out of the darkness at you.

He liked nice things.

What was so wrong about that?

Ne Me Quitte Pas

2010-07-07T17:39:00.000-07:00

How is it that a person can completely forget that they're going to go to Seattle until two days before?

Because I'm pretty sure that I did.

I'm leaving on Friday to spend the weekend in Seattle. Which I think will be enormous fun myself. Gonna go see a Yankees vs. Mariners game. /pro-Yankees, man. Very exciting. Then I get to go to the zoo.

We don't have a zoo around here, and I've only been to the Seattle Zoo once in my whole life. I insisted we spend some of our extra day going to see it. So excited. I'll take pictures and post!

In other news, yesterday at 4:30 AM, I hit 50,019 words in JulNo. Didn't write another word after that. Need to start to again. I'm aiming for 200,000 this month and intend to hit it.

GOD I feel boring right now. Where's my wit. Where are my topics of conversation? -_- I need school. I swear to God, I'm so hungry for a damn debate that I spent half an hour trying to prove to my sister that it wasn't my turn to do the cat chores. /so pathetic.

Someone. Please. Give me something to do with this poor brain of mine.

Maybe I really will translate The Vulgate. It's pretty much a Latin version of the Bible, translated by this bloke I learned about once for ancient history extra credit. It's written in Vulgar Latin, or pretty much common Latin, so it's pretty easy to translate. My Latin teacher recommended that I try to translate it to keep up on forms and vocabulary and stuff over the summer.

That will be so pathetic. We won't resort to that unless it's absolutely necessary.

Let's see, what else?

Oh, thanks to Sarah, who sat and listened while I talked my way through a plot-wall in my novel Detox. That was wonderful. Do believe I know where I'm going now with this.

Now, excerpt time! A bit about a boy-dream from Detox:

The man took the dream-boy to a house on the other side of town, small and innocuous, condemned and waiting to be torn down. The dusty windows glowed a low amber, and, at first, the boy didn't want to go inside, gripping the man's arm tightly, pushing back with all his might.

"They're safe," the man assured him again and again, and eventually coaxed the struggling boy inside.

He was mostly aware of the emptiness. The lights on, no one home.

"Tel," the man shouted, pulling off his jacket. "Tel, it's just me."

A pause, and a woman's face appeared. Tel looking at the boy with bright eyes as she breathed, "Oh, he's a pretty one."

The boy stared at the toes of his too-big sneakers that he had stolen from his creator.

"What's your name?" asked the woman, coming up to him and crouching down onto his level.

"He's mute."

"Look at you." She reached out and stroked his cheek, smiling at him, wild and reassuring all at once. The boy stood stock still, unable to break her stare. "It looks like he was dreaming about some sea somewhere." She kissed the top of his head, breathed in his hair. "Mm, you smell salty."

The boy just looked at her and held his arms out to her. Safe. She was safe. The man made him feel a little sick, because he looked like the others, but the woman Tel meant safety.

"Come on, let's go get you cleaned up. Dream him up some clothes, babe." Tel picked him up and carried him further into the bowels of the little house.

The bathroom she took him to was like a little cupboard with a bath tub. She ran the water until it was warm, helped him undress, and eased him down into the water, scrubbing the salty grime off of him.

"Are you the sea or the ship?" asked Tel, scrubbing out his hair.

The boy shrugged absently. The sea, he thought. Sea. I am Sea.

"You look like the sea. I know you aren't the sailor. Sailors can speak." She twirled his damp hair between her fingers and smiled. "You look like a night-sea. I wonder how it looks in the daytime."

The boy didn't say anything, staring at his inky-black hands, the color almost seeming to almost ripple, some places on his back entire whirlpools of color, distorted skin, reflecting back the night sky, the moon a disc of wrinkled white on his belly.

"Can I call you Sea?"

The boy nodded.

JulNoWriMo

2010-07-05T17:55:00.000-07:00

Right, ahah.

You know you're an author when you avoid writing by writing.

I just wanted to post here saying that I've been a little bit busy with JulNo lately (sitting at about 42.7k words over here) and am sorry for not updating.

BUT. I finished All the Gods! Just recently! Which is thrilling. It ended at about 247,128 words. Giving it a couple of weeks to be by itself, then I'll start in on editing.

Right. So. I really don't have much to say, so I'll just... post an excerpt! Yeah! Yeahhhh!

This is from my new novel, Detox. The first part of it.

Detox.
Daire was five years old when he met the first idea.

She was just a little bit taller than him, stocky, hair dark and wildly curly, moving as she moved, bouncing and swirling on her head like a little sea of brown waves. A little princess in mismatched tennis shoes.

Daire was swinging on the swing set in his backyard, the one that his father had put in. He was too little for the ideas in the syringes, too small to understand what the IV tubes in his parents’ arms were for, only understood that it meant you were Grownup, and he wanted one terribly.

He didn’t see the girl at the fence, peering at him through a very small hole in the wood, before she put her mouth to the opening and she shouted, “Hi!”

Daire jammed his heels to the ground and came to a shrieking, dusty stop. He looked up toward the sound and said, “Hi.”

“Can I come in?” asked the girl. “I wanna play.”

Daire had just been daydreaming about having a friend to come over and play, a new friend. He hadn’t lived in the neighborhood very long, not really, and there was a boy across the street his brother’s age, a girl a few houses down his sister’s age, but there was not a child in the whole of Maple Street who was Daire’s age.
He was imagining coming to school in a few weeks, to his first day of kindergarten, and finding his very best friend in the world, someone who made him laugh and liked playing in the mud and picked up bugs without shrieking and who liked fast cars and running up slides and climbing trees.

Then the girl arrived, just like that.

Daire said, “How come?”

“You’ve got a swing set. I love swing sets. Can I play?”

Daire looked over his shoulder, ran to the fence, and pulled back the wooden slat that his father said he had to fix, the one that was pried loose when they moved into the house. It never quite got down, moved further and further down his father’s List of Things To Do until at long last it was forgotten.

The boy peered out through the opening of the fence at the girl and said, “I’m Daire.”

“You didn’t give me a name,” said the girl matter-of-factly, edging in past him. She didn’t walk; she flounced.

“Oh,” said Daire. “Sorry.”

She shrugged.

“Where did you come from?”

The girl grinned at Daire wildly and said, “Are you going to name me, or am I going to have to name myself?”
She didn’t talk like any other five year old Daire had ever known, more like a grownup, like she knew so much more than him. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.

“I don’t know any girl names. Not good ones. Just like my mom’s and my sister’s.”

The girl pursed her lips, put her hands on her hips, and said, “That’s stupid.”

“Sorry.”

She launched into one of the swings, throwing herself into it like she were belly-flopping into the lake, and swung on her stomach, pushing herself back and forth with her feet, running forward until the swing lifted her up so high the tips of her toes could barely touch the ground.

It looked like enormous fun to Daire, and he joined her.

The girl named herself Bee, because, she said, she liked bees and she liked flowers.

“What have flowers got to do with it?” asked Daire, pausing, staring at her with a frown.

“Bees love flowers.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that’s why they’re always touching them. It’s like they’re kissing flowers, they love them so much.”

“My mom says that they’re collecting stuff to make honey,” said Daire, wrinkling his nose.

“I think your mom is wrong. I think that bees kiss flowers. I think that there is some pretty boy or girl in flowers that all the rest of us can’t see, and the bees love them. I think that they have to keep their love a secret, so they don’t get in trouble.”

Daire decided not to tell her that he thought that too. “I dunno.”

The girl Bee grinned at him. “Why did you make me?” she asked, kicking the dirt almost absently.

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No,” said Daire, frowning at her. “I didn’t.”

“No one likes us anymore. I know that. That’s what they say, at home.”

“Where’s home?”

Bee just shook her head, smiling. “You know, we could get in trouble. If someone saw us.”

“Why?”

Bee turned onto her back, swinging slowly back and forth, head dipping so low that her curls almost brushed the ground. “You’re sort of dumb, for a dreamer.”

“No I’m not!” Daire felt himself fluster.

She sat up, looking at him. “Do you even know who I am?”

The boy had to shake his head, staring at his dirty bare toes.

Bee rolled her eyes, opened her mouth to speak, and blanched as the back door to Daire’s house opened and his mother peered out, saying, “Daire, it’s time for lunch.”

The girl met the woman’s eyes, visibly trembling, and didn’t say a word.

“Daire? Who’s your friend?” Her smile looked suddenly tight.

“Bee,” said Daire.

Bee glanced at the hole in the fence, at Daire’s mother.

“Do you live here, Bee? In this neighborhood?”

Bee said, “N-no. I just came to visit Daire.”

Daire looked between Bee and his mother and knew that something was wrong and that no one was going to tell him.

"Would you like to come in to eat?" asked Daire's mother. "There's plenty."

"Yeah, stay for lunch!" chirped Daire brightly.

Bee shook her head slowly and whispered, "I have to go home."

"Come inside, Bee, I'll call your mother to have her come pick you up."

"No. My mom's just down the street. Visiting some friends. It's okay."

"Oh, well." Daire's mother managed another stiff smile. "You two just play out here for a little while longer, Bee, just until Daire's lunch is ready." The woman retreated inside.

Bee sprinted to the hole in the fence and wriggled out.

Daire followed after her, not nearly as fast, shouting to her to wait, wait. The back of his house faced a great field, a prairie his mother called it, ringed by roads on all sides. Bee ran and ran across the field, so fast that Daire thought she was flying, launching herself from pocket of air to pocket of air, propelled by something so much stronger and faster than a child's muscles.

Daire stopped a few yards from his backyard, watching her disappear down the road and out of sight, never slowing. He wilted, jamming his hands in his pockets, and turned back toward home, suddenly sullen. He really did think that he had found a best friend, someone who would all play with him, tell him stories, want to listen to him talk about his collection of baseball cards or his trains. He trudged back to his house, little-boy dreams crushed, and found his mother inside on the telephone.

Plopping himself at the kitchen table, Daire waited an entire ten seconds for her to say, "Thank you, goodbye," before announcing, quite irritated, "You scared her away."

"Who? Bee?"

Daire nodded. "She just left without saying goodbye or anything." He cupped his chin in his palms, staring at the wood of the table. "She was my friend."

"Daire, you need to show me which way she went."

Daire went and pulled out the board in the fence, pointed out the direction that he had seen Bee run in. Then, when the police came to the house, an officer, whose name Daire could not remember but brilliantly red hair he never forgot, let him hold his badge as he told him about Bee, where she came from, what she looked like, everything he knew. The policeman said that Bee's parents were very worried and scared, and Daire believed him whole-heartedly.

That evening, Daire's father fixed the fence panel, nailing it in so tightly that it would not so much as quiver when Daire tugged at it.

His mother took him to the doctor the very next day. She said it was just to make sure that he was still healthy.

That was when he got an IV of his very own.

"You're such a big boy," said the doctor, ruffling Daire's hair. "You get to get an IV early."

Daire had been so happy.

It hurt a little, to get it, and it kept itching, but he didn't pull at it.

Bee was Daire's very last idea.

After that, there was nothing in his mind but the immediacy of a moment and facts and the preapproved ideas of the bottle-green syringes.

...right, so. Hope that wasn't totally miserable to read, haha.

Bye for now. Off to write.

Review: The Hunger Games

2010-06-26T18:07:00.000-07:00

Keh. This is for Lauren. :D

Spoiler-free review here, methinks.

So I don't read much YA, haven't really since about fifth or sixth grade. It lost my interest. There are some authors I enjoy, like John Green, Maureen Johnson, or Philip Pullman (can we count Neil Gaiman because of The Graveyard Book? I THINK WE CAN), but otherwise, I'm pretty much outside of that literary sphere entirely.

And then I heard about The Hunger Games. There has been a lot of hype surrounding this book lately. Praises trumpeting to the skies. The heavens themselves singing the glories of this book.

Wow, I thought. Suzanne Collins must be pretty good.

I picked up the book for a couple bucks at a Scholastic warehouse sale, read it, and was stunned.

How. Do people. Like this?

I'm shocked. Completely, utterly shocked.

The writing is tosh, the characters dull, the action ridiculous, the plot poorly executed, the "romance" horrid, the climax pulled out at the last minute, and rather poorly, too, the whole concept so completely screwed up I couldn't believe it.

And to add insult to injury, I mosey on over to Amazon to read some reviews and find people comparing it to The Lord of the Flies.

EXCUSE YOU?

EXCUSE YOU?!

No. Not now. Not ever.

Right, so, let's be professional about this. A copy-and-pasted summary from the back of the book (I would suggest reading the wall o'text, 'cos, if you don't know the story, you won't know what in the hell I'm talking about):

In the ruins of a place once known as North America lies the nation of Panem, a shining Capitol surrounded by twelve outlying districts. The Capitol is harsh and cruel and keeps the districts in line by forcing them all to send one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen to participate in the annual Hunger Games, a fight to the death on live TV. Sixteen-year-old Katniss Everdeen regards it as a death sentence when she steps forward to take her sister's place in the Games. But Katniss has been close to dead before--and survival, for her, is second nature. Without really meaning to, she becomes a contender. But if she is to win, she will have to start making choices that weigh survival against humanity and life against love.

Aw, you might think, reading that summary, that sounds like a multi-faceted, heartbreaking work of staggering genius (reference noticed? Yeah?) that I am really going to enjoy. What a stunning display of the true depths of humanity.

Ah hah. Ha ha. Hah hah hah.

Maybe I was expecting too much. 747 5-star reviews on Amazon at the writing of this, another 180 that were 4-star. Only 71 3- to 1-star reviews. Mm. Definitely in the minority there.

Let's get into this.

I did not enjoy this book, as I've said.

And here's why.

The Writing.
The writing was less than enthralling. I'm not looking for Dickens here, but Lordie. Keep my attention. There are some strong moments. The first couple of pages? Yeah, I wanted to keep reading. Right when the Games started, too. Collins hit a stride here and there in the book, a stride that was so genuinely Katniss that it kept me in the story.

Don't ask me about what happened with the rest of the story, though.

The present tense was tedious, Gale's dialogue ridiculous and unrealistic (no one tirades like that, especially not an eighteen year old man raised in such a tough life), an overabundance of rhetorical questions that were beyond obnoxious riddling Katniss' narration. It was a weak voice that felt weak, like Collins wasn't going as far as she could. Like she was just as bored with some bits as I was.

This whole book read as a middle-aged woman trying to write as a teenager, and not very well either.

Also, Collins chickened out. Where is my violence? Where's my gore? Where's the pure emotion and intensity of these Games? 'Cos, frankly, man, I wasn't feeling it. It was all tell-tell-tell, all through the book, but at the Games especially. There is a particular point in the Games, right at the start, when all 24 of the competitors entered the arena and an enormous golden Cornucopia is out there. Katniss constantly refers to it as a coming "bloodbath," even after the fact.

Bloodbath, you guys. You didn't see it, but it was intense. Too bad you missed it.

The fact is, it's lazy writing. This first person narration, the evasion of action sequences, it came across as Collins not wanting to write the hard bits. We're told how horrid those Games are the entire 147 page build-up to them, and it just deflates. Katniss, our narrator and protagonist, is thirsty. She's hungry. She's lost in unfamiliar terrain. She's tired. People are trying to kill her.

Oh, boo hoo.

I don't care. There is a complete lack of emotion and intensity in this book that all possible impact is lost. All the possibilities mentally from the pure terror associated with these Games, the constant fear of what was around the next bend, what was waiting behind a bush or tree to dash your life out, the suspense, the relief, the thrill over the smallest thing, was gone. Every little opportunity to connect the reader to the text, the characters, the world, was missed. I never felt more disconnected from such a politically vivid world.

The closest I got to feeling something, anything, was when Katniss was still back in her home district, District 12. There was some genuine emotion there, when she took her sister ~~What'sherface (ahaha I can't remember her name)~~ AHH Primrose that's it. If that tells you how little an impression these characters make. Couldn't even remember this kid's name. Anyway, when Katniss takes Primrose's place in the Games, there was some emotion there. Some feeling.

Don't ask me what happened to it.

After that, it was all very disconnected. Didn't care. All possible effects of this book were lost.

Let's talk for a bit about the point of view it was written it, shall we?

First person narration is such a hit and miss. If you've got a little Holden Caulfield on your hands, with such a stark voice that you can't help but love it, then I love you. I love you, and I probably love your story. If you've got Generic Narrator #6932, wow I don't want to read your story. I might still love you, but that depends on who you are.

In this book, it definitely did not work. Not only did Katniss not have a voice, but it was just a logistically bad choice on Collins' part. God, man, I didn't want to be stuck with this kid the whole time, not with the pure scope of this story! I missed so much. It was like being shown this whole feast and just being given the grubby little fish sticks that your Aunt Edna brought. You've got twelve districts, the entire capital, at your fingertips, and you choose first friggin' person? Are you insane? I wanted to be at the campfire of the Careers, the players who had been training their whole lives for the Games. I wanted to watch the silent District 4 member Thresh work. I wanted to see the stupid bloodbath at the Cornucopia, for God's sake.

I felt ripped off, gypped. It was like Collins weaseled out and said, "Mm, you know, nvm, you just get Katniss here." And Katniss said, "But I'm boring. ):"

AND SHE IS.

But that's not what we're talking about at this point.

So, the writing of The Hunger Games? Not totally horrid, but not exactly good.

¢¢¢¢¢

The Plot.
Dude. That was just cool. It was a fantastic idea.

Less than well executed.

The "love triangle" felt rather shoved in, linking back to the crummy writing thing. I'm pretty sure that Katniss didn't love Peeta OR Gail. Well, you wouldn't get that from the actual story, anyway. It's pretty convenient that Collins went out of her way to tell us that Katniss loved the kid, right? The boy from the bakery that she never cared about until the Games started. Or, hey, how about this: Katniss loves her best friend Gail who is eighteen and physically desirable even though they all live in muck houses and probably look gross and hollow-cheeked and malnourished in general from how Collins describes it from back home! Isn't that completely and totally original and not thrown in at the last second to make some horrid attempt at drama!

Yeah. Wasn't impressed by the love triangle. Felt trivialized, like she was doing it 'cos All The Cool Kids Were Doing It.

It also really pissed me off that whenever Katniss needed something, it just floated down on a little silver parachute from the heavens, with the little excuse that it was a gift from her sponsors. What a horrid little cop-out. Lazy writing. I felt cheated every time one of those little packages came in, like Collins was making this writing business easy for herself.

It was all relatively concise, didn't really lag too often, I thought (though it came pretty close. If the pre-Games writing went on another 10 pages, I would have put the book down. Too much exposition, not enough story, sort of like listening to sport commentators).

I don't have much to say here. Not shabby, at its core, and for that alone it gets three stars from me.

¢¢¢¢¢

Characters.
Gah.

You know what?

Prepare yourself.

This novel contains an overabundance of unrealistic characters in its little pulpy self.

Let's start, shall we?

Katniss Everdeen. Our narrator. Our beloved protagonist. Our lighthouse here.

Katniss. Everdeen.

I think her mother the apothecary must have poked around and found herself a little marijuana from those fields before giving birth to this kid. Good Lord. No one of complete mental awareness would name a child that. Not unless they happened to be a psychopath and enjoyed that moment when the kid came home in tears from elementary school because Little Timmy made fun of her name. We won't even go into some other character names. (Like fucking Glimmer. No shit.)

I'm getting carried away.

Right, well, Katniss. Wow. What can you say about Katniss?

She loves her mother and sister. She talks about her dad a lot. She speaks with too many exclamation points and uses too many rhetorical questions. She hunts a lot.

She's also really, really boring.

There is absolutely nothing spectacular about our narrator. Nothing that really makes her... matter. She's just like every other independent, stubborn female character out there. So Strong and Stands Up For Herself. What a Great Role Model. She's dull. Another nobody written like she's a nobody. A face that matches thousands.

We're told people like her. That's great. Because I'm pretty sure I don't.

There were sparks of characterization. She always kept the audience in mind in the Games, which I rather liked. Showed her priorities, how the world of it has affected her not only in the immediacy of the moment but also over the years. Manipulative. That was cool.

But otherwise, she was... bland. I only remembered her name because it was so WEIRD.

The other characters don't get much better. Stereotypes. Not very... impressive. I barely remember half of them, and that was not for a lack of attention while reading. They just weren't memorable. I'm guilty of this myself, but I recognize it. Not so sure that Collins does. Haymitch was such a pathetic display of the typical "drunk gruff guy who really cares deep inside" that it was painful. Gale, Kantniss' hunting partner and friend, barely registered to me. I only remembered him because Katniss kept talking about him in the much aforementioned retarded rhetorical questions that she asked herself to keep from getting lonely, I guess. I dunno. Guess that's what happens when you don't have any friends.

Peeta, Katniss' fellow District 12 representative, was relatively okay. Didn't love him, didn't hate him. Wasn't horrid either way, didn't seem like a total failure of a character. Generally meh. Average.

The only ones I liked were a few of the Capitol characters, like the stylist Cinna's assistants or Evie, the District 12 spokeslady person. They all did a good job of presenting the flightiness and materialism of the Capitol, a remarkable contrast to the general plain and woodsy main character. That I will give her credit for.

Also I loved Cinna. He made an impact. He was original. He was quiet, level-headed, a voice of reason from the Capitol. Reminded me of the, well, pretty much the clown from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar at first, just because of the shared name, but I got over that.

Other characters I liked: Thresh, Rue, "Foxface" (she was a redhead. Don't judge me), Katniss' father.

Yeah, you know what?

THEY'RE ALL DEAD.

OF COURSE.

Except for Cinna. He's still alive and kicking.

Also, something of note: What's with all these District 12 characters having such a great education? I mean, good Lord. This is a mining district. First priority: don't starve. Second priority: get a job. I was stunned that there was a school to begin with, much less that not a single District 12 resident used double negatives at least. It didn't make sense. That's the kind of environment where schools and proper grammar are for rich kids, you learn your letters from your mom and dad, and the joined up letters were harder and you don't read much higher than a fourth grade reading level.

I mean, use some realism, please. ._.

I give it three stars. The extra one is for Cinna. It's a Cinna star.

¢¢¢¢¢

(^===== Cinna star)

The World.
Right.

Here's the basic scheme of things:

Twelve districts of folks ruled by a Capitol of a bunch of rich guys obsessed with their appearances. Totalitarian.

The explanation for how it came to be like this is stupid and makes no logical sense. I would have preferred that Collins had just set it up as an alternate reality, or never given a full explanation at all. Would've worked out better for her, I think.

I've got nothing against this system. For the most part, it's got the realism things down. There are some misses, but it's at about a four-star rating. It's pretty darn good. With some refining, and it would be a good dystopian society to add to the list.

Here's what I'm a little less thrilled with:

The painfully obvious parallels of the Capitol to ancient Rome.

They weren't missed, Miss Collins. Nor was the fact that they weren't very well done.

The Games are an obvious nod to the Roman gladiatorial games. Pitting human beings against one another as a fight to the death for the thrill of it. Collins takes it a step further, enhancing the arena, televising it across Panem (which is straight Latin for "bread." What the hell? I thought when I first saw that. That doesn't MAKE SENSE. And it still doesn't. Don't ask me why the hell it's name "bread." I don't know why the hell it's named "bread." ._.), chucking in 24 players in there instead of just 2.

All right, I could live with that.

Then there are the Capitol members with Roman names, like Octavia, Cinna, and Venia. Heavy emphasis on Good Food.

Call me cynical, but my next point, I think, was completely unintentional on Collins' part. The treatment of districts by the Capitol is distinctly Roman in nature. As the city expanded, right around the gentle shift between Republic and Empire, Rome began conquering more and more places, they had a general method of treatment post-conquering: the carrot-on-the-stick idea. You do good, you get rewards. In Rome's case, it was special treatment, the allowance of every member of the conquered area to become Roman citizens, sometimes tax redemption. Just send the Roman army some troops, and you're gold. You do bad, you get punished.

The treatment of the various districts is a lot like that. Some are favored by the Capitol and treated well, and others are not.

I don't think Collins intended that, haha. She's not one for that kind of careful weaving of a story, I've found. Probably dumb luck.

Otherwise, I dunno. It didn't feel like she knew much more about ancient Rome than a generic Google search would tell her. Call me a Latin dork, but there was so much more she could have included, militarily and politically, to really embody this idea that the Capitol is supposed to be like Rome. Right now, message was only received because of the Games and the characters' names. Oh, and the Avox, traitor people who got caught, got their tongues cut out, and became Capitol servants. Isn't that tasty? Their name literally means "without voice," a splice of "vox" and the preposition "a/ab". Pure Latin there, behbee.

It was a real hit and miss for me, the Roman references. It stopped a bit too short for my taste, like it really biffed it on the chance of enriching this society even more.

Speaking of. The society wasn't half-bad. It was pretty accurate, economically and socially, to a surprising degree. There was some spots of general "what?" reactions, such as the surprisingly high-quality and important education I mentioned earlier, in District 12. Otherwise, though, it really wasn't too shabby.

¢¢¢¢¢

Overall.
The Hunger Games definitely wasn't a complete waste of my time, but good? Nah, not in my opinion. It's a mindless read that I probably won't pick up again. Left me generally unimpressed. Not even Cinna could earn it another star.

¢¢¢¢¢

Hate

2010-06-22T19:36:00.000-07:00

I just read The Hunger Games.

I hated it.

I started writing a rant to post here, describing why I hated it.

I wandered over to this writing website, Storywrite.

There was a new contest up: Rants on Books You Hate!

I was thinking, HEY THIS IS COOL MAN I'LL WRITE A HUNGER GAMES RANT.

There was, predictably, a Twilight rant already entered. Cliche folks, talking about a book that only the antis even care about anymore.

I clicked on it, because there was a shit ton of comments, and I was curious.

Didn't read the rant. I've put enough hate into Twilight for this lifetime. Said my piece, moved on with life. I'm done. I don't simmer, smolder, hold grudges. Hell if I know how to even STAY mad at someone for very long. I skipped over it, down to the comments.

Everyone kept mentioning this conversation the author of this rant had with someone named "Renesme." They were praising him. Great job, man. That was hilarious. Way to fucking go.

So I thought, Well now I have to read it.

I went searching through the comments and found it.

I was sick to my stomach.

Ugliness on both sides, the swear words thrown, guns loaded, anger riled, hate raging over it all.

A Twilight fan posted against his rant. She wasn't the most educated of girls, but she was relatively composed about it, stating her points clearly, keeping largely clear of offensive remarks.

The author says

Firstly, I didn't know Twilight was going to suck moose dick when I began it, otherwise I never would have.

right off the bat. At first I smile, because I thought it was funny, but I read the rest of his comment and it was... rude. Accusatory. Ridden with cursing. Subtly calling her a dipshit.

It was a chain reaction.

Any hint of civility, gone.

Twilight fan says, "I don't care what you say."

Author says, "if you didn't care what I have to say than [sic] you shouldn't have read my damn rant in the first place."

Twilight fan, "I read it because I wanted to know why you hated twilight. Not because I gived a shit what you had to say."

It gets ugly here.

People jump into the fray, antis, mocking the Twilight fan, calling her intelligence into the issue.

I stopped reading.

Now I'm just... dejected. I want to say I'm enraged, pissed off. But I'm just disappointed. Hate triggers hate triggers hate. There is nothing positive coming from any of this. You get some sick thrill from making a rant, having people agree with you, publically humiliating people who disagree with you?

Congrats. You're a douche. I hope you're happy with yourself.

I'm still stuck on her question though, the Twilight fan's: Why do you hate something so much that you feel compelled to spread that hate?

I'm a hypocrite here, God knows it.

But I have to agree.

I've written a Twilight rant before, I'll admit. What I haven't done is resulted to childish stupidity, pure hate for hate's sake. It's bigotry. It's horrid. It's mindless destruction.

Hate is consuming.

Hate is like a dragnet, sweeping up the world, and you don't realize you're caught in it until it's too late.

I'm just... generally unimpressed right now.

=/

By The Book

2010-05-23T18:29:00.000-07:00

So here I am, talking to this writer I vaguely know from school. We're discussing writing and I'm saying, "Yeah, I'm working on my fifth novel right now."

This writer, she says, "Wow, that's a lot!"

Modest shrug here, since I don't want to appear as obnoxiously proud as I am. I ask, "What about you?"

This writer says, "Oh, I've started a lot, but they never really get very far. I've read this book on writing though, and this book, and I'm on these forums and I follow this blog and blah blah which makes me just as informed as you are, Miss Novelist."

Aaaaand I tune out and try not to wrinkle my nose.

That's what I'm tried of hearing. I'm tired of hearing about writers who "lose focus," who "just can't get through the middle" and STILL claim to know what writing is just by reading a book.

No. You don't know what writing is.

You know what the honeymoon of writing is. You know what the fine wines and laughs and easy dates are like. You know what the walks under the moonlight are.

But you don't know the morning after. You don't know the hangover, the bitter aftertaste, the flaws you can't see in the darkness. You don't know the arguing and bitching and wrestling that comes with the days after the honeymoon, the stressful days, the days when you don't know if this is all going to work out. The days when you're so overcome with questions of "is this right? Am I doing this okay? What I am doing in a place like this?" that you can barely see ahead.

You don't know the making up. You don't know the realization that there are answers, and you know what they are. You don't know the downhill slide that comes when you wrestle your way to the top. You don't know the ease that it all comes at. You don't know the simple brilliance that makes itself known when you let it all go and see what happens, all those inhibitions, all those fears of messing up.

You have absolutely no idea.

Books don't teach you that, blogs won't make you a writer, and talking about it won't get you through the morning.

Are you a writer still? Yeah, as much as a fair weather friend is a good person to rely on. You're romantic. You don't want to get your hands dirty. You want it to be as easy as it seems like when you read your little books on "how to make a good character," or "how to construct a great storyline."

Writing is messing up. Writing is digging into the engine elbows-deep, getting grime smeared all along your arms and shirt and face, and, somewhere in there, finding that one good bit, the one part you made right, that makes it all worth it.

And you get better.

You get better at the morning after.

That makes all the difference.

WHAT? A POST?

2010-05-02T22:21:00.000-07:00

Yeah man.

I have been neglecting my blogging duties.

(haha, duty)

Anyway. I have. Bridge-building was horrid. Did not like it. Lost 'cos I'm a shit designer. Oh well. I took a lot of pictures of the competition, annoyed a lot of people. Was goood. Oh, and there was this man there, who was like

"Hey, what kind of batteries do you use?"

because after about three hours of taking pictures nonstop on my sister's fancy big-lens camera (it has a name, but I don't know what it is. Canon Rebel? I don't know.) I was still going strong.

I said

"The kind my sister puts in?"

And he said

"Typical smartass teenage response."

To which I smirked.

Right. Did Screnzy. Pulled 116 pages. The last 100 were in about five days, when I decided to pick it back up on the 26th.

Writing Penta. Claire came up with a great new name for it: All The Gods. WHICH I LOVE.

What else?

School is tiring and long. I want it to be over. I miss the august days of winter, when summer wasn't so close, when every day did not drag past like a very large slow thing (I'm tired, okay?).

Doing MayNoWriMo with my friends Stevie and Doughie. S'fun. At like 2k. I don't even know anymore.

Writing.

Living.

Breathing.

What's new?

- Trix

The R-Word and Bridges

2010-02-18T21:14:00.000-08:00

My bridge.

This is what I've been slaving over.

It's 20 grams over the maximum weight limit for the project.

20. Goddamned. Motherfucking. GRAMS.

That's 15 Popsicle sticks' weight.

If I don't fix it tonight, that's 10% off my overall grade.

Which means that the approximately 20 hours of my life I've wasted on this stupid thing will be for a B.

A goddamned. Motherfucking. B.

I'm not taking a B after all that work.

Never.

Also, something that bothers me. I was vaguely listening to The O'Reilly Factor while I worked on my bridge, and there was this thing about a Family Guy episode that spoofed Sarah Palin's daughter, right? Anyway, they were talking about the word "retard" on the newscast, and everyone kept saying the "R-word." A few brave souls even ventured "retard."

What. The. Heck.

I hate that. F-word. R-word. H-word. B-word. It's ridiculous and childish and you sound like a dunderhead when you say it.

The word's fuck. Retard. Hell. Bitch or bastard, 'pending on what you meant.

If you don't feel comfortable saying it, don't even mention it.

It's like someone who says "f you." I want to strangle them. It's pronounced "fuck."

Say it with me now.

FUH

KUH.

YOU.

FUH-KUH YOU.

There you go. Fuck you. That's how it goes. Not "f you" at all.

Well, that's all I wanted to say. Bye.

- The Redhead

No School Today

2010-02-17T06:23:00.001-08:00

I'm "sick."

The sickness that comes when you've got some desperate bridge-building to do.

See you in a few hours, when my fingers have quite worn away and my bridge is complete.

- The Redhead

A Brief Intermission

2010-02-16T22:44:00.000-08:00

This is my life right now:

No writing.

No blogging.

No other schoolwork.

Just bridge-building.

There are blisters on my palms.

The living room carpet is littered with popsicle stick-pieces.

I hate this.

Writing shall come with Friday evening, if luck will allow it.

Shower, then a bit more bridge-building. Right.

- The Redhead

They're Gonna Wash Away

2010-02-15T20:40:00.000-08:00

ahhhhhhhh

bridge-building

is consuming

my life.

gawddayum.

><

Okay, taking a moment to post.

You know what really bothers me? More than anything else?

Stupid people.

People who are so retarded, so completely idiotic, that you want to just smush whatever might be left of their brain with a brick.

There's this girl that I know. Let's call her Lynn (because, well, that's her name). Lynn is a larger girl, but fairly nice most of the time, and she's not strictly the brightest crayon in the box. I'm not entirely sure if she's even aware where and what the box is.

She's a moron.

An "oh my god are you fucken kidding me was your mother drinking while she was pregnant" kind of moron.

And it pisses me off.

"Huh?" "What?" "I don't get it." "...oh... but... wait..."

She didn't understand My Sister's Keeper, the friggin' movie.

"Why does she have hair?"

"Is she the one with the cancer?"

"What's going oooooon?"

"Wait, who's HE?"

I wanted to scream.

On the bright side, I came home and talked with my friends and had cookies and milk. And then I napped, fazing in and out of reruns of NCIS. Woke up, got to work on bridge.

S'gonna be a long night.

Valentine's Day and Blistered Hands

2010-02-14T09:23:00.000-08:00

Good morning, world.

I woke up this morning and realized it was Valentine's Day.

I realized it was Valentine's Day and that I don't have a boyfriend.

I realized that I don't have a boyfriend and am actually really happy that way.

The people whom I want to say I love them today:

My mum.

My dad.

My longest and closest friend, Robyn.

Kira.

Ana Maria.

Sarah.

Lauren.

Claire.

Anna.

Liv.

Danny.

Sean.

Em (or, as I call her, Indie).

My doggies. :)

My sisters.

My brother.

My nephews.

My nieces.

My granny.

All the amazing teachers at my school. Thanks for not making my brain bleed with boredom.

Yeah, even Pony Boy.

This is going to be a good day. I'm off to my friend's birthday party in about 3 hours. Will be sleeping over.

Woke up today to my left hand blistered and bruised in the shape of a pair of clippers' handles. This is from about six hours straight of trimming and cutting popsicle sticks for my bridge. I can't use it to cut wood anymore; I can barely even make a fist without it hurting.

Have switched to my right hand.

Hope it won't give out on me.

Ta ta,

The Redhead

Quick Post

2010-02-13T22:58:00.000-08:00

No real time to post today.

Working on building a bridge.

Will post pictures later.

Had a word war, wherein you get together with a couple other nerds, write for an allotted amount of time, and see who got the most at the end.

I got 567 in 10 minutes.

*has nothing else to talk about*

Later,

The Redhead

Dies Amantis et Extorum

2010-02-12T21:38:00.000-08:00

Ugh.

I have to blog today.

Again.

Today was our impromptu Valentine’s Day around the school, since the real one’s on Saturday. So my Latin teacher, Magistra, had us Latin 2 students do what she has her students do every year: Go home, draw a liver, and write some Latin quote that is Valentine’s-ish.

Mine was “Amantes sunt amentes.”

“Lovers are lunatics.”

Then, we brought all our livers to class today, passed them in to Magistra, and she handed them back at random, so everyone got a liver for Valentine’s Day.

We began plotting some sort of “heart attack” on Magistra’s door, taping bajillions of hearts on her door.

Then Millie said something brilliant:

“Let’s go liver someone’s door!”

We all thought this was a brilliant idea.

The “someone” we chose?

The principal, of course.

So Magistra, upon hearing this scheme, grinned at us and said, “If we got caught, I’m blaming you all.”

Well, we could live with this.

So us sixteen or so Latin students went to the principal Nickalay’s door, crept up to it on our hands and knees so that he wouldn’t see us through the window, and taped livers ALL OVER his door.

We all hurried back grinning stupidly and giggling and drunken on the fun of it all.

The rest of the period, we played a Latin trivia game, because we’re nerds and that’s what we do for fun. (That and stick livers on principals’ doors.)

That was the best part of my day. :)

- The Redhead

Corporate America and Secrets

2010-02-11T16:28:00.000-08:00

I'm being lazy with blogging.

I really am.

These history lectures? Literature essays? They're all my attempts at shirking really talking about stuff, and it's painfully obvious.

Will the history nerdrants stop? Well, probably not. I can't help myself sometimes. But I'm going to try to talk about stuff that actually... matters, I guess.

So, first things first, PostSecret. I love this site. It's a place where people write a secret on a postcard and send it in anonymously to the guy who runs it all, Frank Warren. He reads all the postcards, and he posts a select few every Sunday on the PostSecret website. I'm going to start putting up my favorite secret from all the ones that he chose and post it here (boy, I hope that's legal).

Like that one.

Or that one.

(And there may be two, like I just did, if I really can't decide which one I like more.)

There's this beast, huge and gluttonous and cruel, powered by millions of brainwashed soccer moms and disgustingly overweight people. This monster, it consumes all in its path, anything that gets in its way, and it is prolific and it is deadly. It monopolizes on the people with minimal schooling and desperately in need of a place to work.

They call it Wal-Mart.

And it doesn't give two shits what you think.

You see, there's this bare lot in part of my town, right across the street from the outer edges of a neighborhood where many of my friends live. This lot was quite barren until the beast that was Wal-Mart prowled along, spotted it, planted it's little Evil Seeds of Evil, and slunk off into the black.

And you know what comes of Evil Seeds of Evil?

Evil Buildings of Evil.

They call these Super Wal-Marts.

These are the worst of the worst, the biggest and baddest, the roots that plant in the deepest and twist into the core of the town and refuse to let friggin' go.

Whether you want it there or not, the Super Wal-Mart shall come.

This is the brainchild of what is called Corporate America. CA, as he's called (no relation to California, a different sort of ultimate evil), is pretty much Satan, if you want to put it bluntly. Some people have likened the acronym to be, in fact, "Cocksure Asshole."

(well, I have, anyway.)

Corporate America wants what he wants and he wants it now. He doesn't care that the towering lights from the parking lot alone, so burningly bright, will shine right into the window of my friend's house across the street. He doesn't care that most of the people in my town have said that they don't want this. He doesn't care that he's crushing smaller businesses into the dirt.

This is because, as I said, he is a cocksure asshole.

People are discussing burning it down.

I like this plan.

Even Evil Buildings of Evil can't stand up to heat.

Plotting away,
The Redhead

Because I have no time to blog today...

2010-02-10T22:18:00.000-08:00

Here, Salinger article I wrote for the newspaper. A tardy tribute. Had to be 700 words or less. This was hard for me.

----

It was the 27th of January when he died, and I received the news by text: my friend Jessica absolutely heartbroken, saying, “JD Salinger is dead.” (Only with more explanation marks. And sad faces.)

If you’re like me, you remember the days of Holden Caulfield and his ramblings and incredible character found in Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, the book that launched him into fame and hermitage. Maybe you were old enough or heard about the lawsuits he endured through his years, or you might have just seen the news article.

This guy, JD Salinger, he’s a legend.

Salinger’s story starts where many other stories have started, in New York City. He was born on January 1, 1919 to a Jewish father and a Scotch-Irish mother, a trend those who have read his stories have seen with Holden Caulfield, Salinger’s fictional Glass family, and quite a few other characters. He spent his early years growing up on the stylish side of Manhattan, at first attending public school, then prep school, where he apparently had trouble adapting to the atmosphere of it all.

By 1934, his father shipped young Salinger off to Valley Forge Military Academy near Wayne, Pennsylvania, where he graduated in 1936.

Salinger was your average kid. He got some fairly good grades, stayed pretty active, took part in extracurriculars, chorus, drama, the works.

But there was a big difference then and now between him and the average high school kid: JD Salinger was a writer.

He started his great endeavor into the literary world by writing fiction under his bed covers by the light of a flashlight, an hour after the lights were shut off. He contributed to his school’s literary magazine. He took up the literary editorial position on the school yearbook. He even was accredited with writing his school’s national anthem.

In 1938, he had a brief enrollment in Ursinus College at Collegeville, Pennsylvania. After a semester, he dropped out, never one for the rigors of a college education, and these thoughts shine through in many of his works.

It was in 1939, when Salinger was enrolled in Columbia University, that Salinger published his first story. At that time, he was still a young guy, only just twenty, and he was in a creative writing course taught by Mr. Whit Burnett, and this is the man who propelled Salinger into the world of publication. He convinced Salinger, after helping him edit a short story, “The Young Folks,” to submit it to The Young Folks.

They accepted.

Salinger, enlivened by this success, continued to try publication, sludging through a year of rejection slips to find a great, wide world of paying magazines and his name in ink time and time again.

In 1942, Salinger was an army man, fighting in World War II. He kept writing. He kept living.

By the time he landed back on American soil, his fiction career really took off. The New Yorker published his short story “Slight Rebellion off Madison,” in 1946, which was eventually rewritten and became a little piece of The Catcher in the Rye.

Then, one grand day in 1951, Salinger’s first novel and his magnum opus hit the stores. The Catcher in the Rye, the story of an infamous young Holden Caulfield’s journey to the west, where he intends to build a log cabin and live in solitude for all the rest of the days, a journey that is set wildly off track when he decides to travel up into New York, to see his little sister Phoebe and say goodbye to her, setting off a whole swarm of adventures and mishaps and pure Holden.

Salinger went on to publish one more book, Nine Stories, a collection of, you guessed it, nine of his short stories.

From there, he lived in relative seclusion in rural New Hampshire, only peering reluctantly out every few years, and even then only briefly.

The man is a puzzle and a true talent, and we were lucky to have him.

Rest in peace, Mr. Salinger.

Right. Blogging.

2010-02-09T21:09:00.000-08:00

I hate blogging every day.

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

I don't have anything to say.

I rarely do.

So today, thanks to the likes of my friends Lauren and Sarah, I'm playing a game. Google-verb-meme-thing, I think Lauren called it?

Whatever.

It's a thing.

You type in your first name in Google and then some verb. Aaaand this is what happened.

Taylor needs...
taylor needs to go potty on the way to the hannah montana/jonas brothers concert

That is a boldfaced LIE. I went before I left.

Taylor Needs to Lighten Up

SHUT UP NO I DON'T

Taylor looks like...

Taylor looks like a Japanese cartoon character

well, that one stung.

Taylor really does look like a Christian... doesn't she?

What, is it the glowing sign? Is that it?

Taylor says...

Taylor says she will have heart procedure

...I don't remember agreeing to that?

Taylor says leaders must have vision

Yeah. Now they just need to get rid of the cataracts.

Taylor wants...
Taylor wants to remain with dolphins next season.

You bet I do. Those things are beasts.

Taylor wants you to see This Is It.

No. I don't. He haunts my nightmares.

Taylor does...
Taylor does Single Ladies video

Ah ha. None of us want to see that.

Where does Taylor Lautner live?

I don't know, he won't tell me, even though we're fellow Taylors and it's not fair and oh my god his CHEST*.

Taylor was arrested for...

Taylor was arrested for trying to nab batman poster while dressed as Joker.

Bitch yeah I did.

Taylor arrested for hit-and-run

I... uh... uhhh... LOOK, I didn't want them to catch me and take my Batman poster, okay?!

The end.

- The Redhead

*Note: I am not a Twilight fan, only a Taylor Lautner one.

I didn't lose the challenge, I swear

2010-02-08T22:04:00.000-08:00

It appears that I missed two days of blogging for unexplained reasons and that I should now be punished.

One of these is true.

I did miss two days of blogging for unexplained reasons.

But I am not to be punished.

I was (and technically still am) grounded, by parents being parental, and could not go online to post a blog.

So, I'm sorry.

My fault, sort of.

Nothing is happening.

I'm building a bridge out of Popsicle sticks and wood glue for geometry class.

I hurt my bum in drama class. Sitting hurts. ):

Bye
- The Redhead

LOOK GUYS

2010-02-04T23:59:00.001-08:00

It's a blog post!

BEFORE midnight!

*wins*

EDIT: Posted that with one minute to spare. Whew.

It Takes a Tragedy

2010-02-03T19:31:00.000-08:00

A good friend of mine has this cousin. He's not in good shape. It's the kind of shape you find yourself in after all the tests and attempts and doctors, and at the end of it all the guillotine falls and you realize that you're doing all you can, and that it's not going to change anything.

It's confusing and it's saddening and it's frustrating and it's horrible.

But what happened was, I prayed.

I haven't done that in a while. I've had passing thoughts about death and the afterlife and heaven and hell and I'd think, "Hey, we're still cool, right Big Guy?" to ensure that I still had my plush seat Way Up There.

That's not the same, though. That's fear speaking. Fear of death. What's on the other side. Facing myself at the end of days.

This was praying. This was asking God for help for myself and my friend and her family and all the people feeling the aftershocks of this, whether directly or not. This was something I hadn't done in a long time.

And I think that this is the true fork in the road, when the worst does inevitably happen. You're like me and you realize who you need, or you have this burning fury at whatever so-called benign god up on his golden throne who would let stuff like this happen.

It makes sense. What kind of god would let something so awful happen to a perfectly wonderful person who never hurt anyone in his life, who was a friend and a family member and an inspiration and a miracle that you wanted to see happen.

This is advice for her, and this is advice for anyone who has lost someone that they love.

Don't be bitter. Nothing comes from that. Keep on living, dreaming, hoping, smiling, enjoying, breathing. Even when it feels like all the world is more fucked up than it should ever be, I don't want you to be angry.

Remember the good times.

Remember the laughs and fun.

Remember all the people whose lives he has changed forever.

Remember all the wonderful things he's done in his time here, however short it may be.

Don't be cynical.

Grieve if you need to grieve. Cry if you need to cry. But at the end of the day, I want you to smile and say, even if things aren't right now, they will be, if you just keep on going. This is the hardest time of your life.

Don't give up on love.

He wouldn't have wanted that.

You have us, and we will always be here for you.

- The Redhead

The Furthered Adventures of The Redhead and Mary Anne

2010-02-02T21:04:00.000-08:00

Today in history we had what my teacher called a Socrates Cafe.

We brought in our pillows and our blankets and our snacks. We crammed all of our desks into the corner of the room. We sat on the floor in a circle and we debated.

Socrates raised six questions in his lifetime. Well, of note, anyway, the ones that he focused largely on. We only looked at four of them (and of these four had enough time for two). They were:

1. Integrity
2. Justice
3. Courage
4. Good

The first point we debated was "good."

What is good?

I myself said and still say that goodness is a quality judged by other people than yourself. It's how the world views you. No one gives two shits what you think of yourself. I used the example of Adolf Hitler, since most people could relate to him. He thought what he was doing with the holocaust was great. Brilliant, even. A lot of people at the time agreed with him as well. But in the grand scheme of things? He's evil. The symbol of the NAZI party leaves people with shivers. We're disgusted by this man.

That is how good is defined, I think.

Then there's Miss Mary Anne. You might remember her from a certain blog post from a couple of days ago. We're not on good terms for reason I'm not wholly sure of.

Anyway, she raised her hand and said, "I disagree with The Redhead entirely. I think it's silly."

I said without thinking, "I'm happy for you," which was meaner than I meant to be.

She gave me this sort of dirty look as people started laughing, which I wasn't intending to do at all, and continued on how she felt that there was this higher power that decided what was good and that there had to have been a set standard.

I was like "NO" in my head, but let other people speak out instead, who agreed with me and presented their points quite well.

The next point we continued on to was this idea of justice.

I said that I didn't think that it's possible for us to achieve "true" justice. The best we could ever hope for is a judicial system based upon the values and beliefs of a country. I said that the human factor, as cynical as this sounds, makes it completely impossible for us to reach this idea of justice in its purest form. We're too human for something like that (which is hugely ironic to me, that the Greeks would puzzle over this and the idea of the Truth, when they believed so strongly in individualism, a concept that makes their perfect utopia a complete, unreachable fantasy).

At which point Mary Anne scared the crap out of me.

She said that there was no god. She believed that the world was based in logic, that that was the ruling force of all things, that that was where all the answers to these questions could be found.

It sort of terrifies me that someone would think that way. No abstract concepts. All concrete. All things have their place, and all things are in their place.

I'm what you call a free-thinker. My whole life, I've thrived on the impossible, the improbable, that maybes and the could-bes of life. The idea that people don't have that made me feel a little sick to my stomach. It was too Big Brother-esque for me.

Isn't the beauty of humanity in our diversity, our lack of logic at the best and worst of times?

Well, anyway, I refrained from pointing out that, for someone who believed so firmly in logic, she put her faith in the most illogical theory for the creation of the world fricken possible (the Big Bang Theory), since even scientists in support of it have confessed that it's unfeasible. It wasn't a religious debate by any means, and I wasn't going to turn it into that.

The bell rang.

I took my sock monkey, my Goldfish crackers, and my pillow and left.

That was history today.

- The Redhead

Okay. That's it.

2010-02-01T21:37:00.000-08:00

I am done with being the smart kid. I am done with being the only one who knows the answer.

I'm not your last hope, teachers. Don't give me that subtle, desperate look when no one answers your question.

I'm sick of it.

Just.

STOP.

Christ.

Okay, I cannot angst for long. I really can't. I've tried before, and I can't. That's about as much bitching as I can do at one time.

There's not much going on in my world right now. I'm still writing Penta. I can't stop thinking about it. Every second, my head's in writing-land. I can't control it.

Tomorrow going to talk to my creative writing club about the anthology I'm pulling together to commemorate our first year of the club. Should be awesome.

OH HISTORY.

Today, in history, my teacher was starting the unit on Greek philosophers. You know, those vague names you've always heard linked with Smart People: Plato, Socrates, Aristotle. So, anyway, she explained to us that "philosophy" comes from the Greek "philos" for "wisdom" and "sophos" for "love of."

I kinda paused for a moment.

Then, in my head, I was like, "Hey, wait a second!"

I raised my hand. I said, "Uh, Mrs. Stembridge, isn't it the other way around? Isn't 'philos' 'love of'?"

She paused for a moment. Then, "I'll look it up and tell you. I'm not totally sure."

A couple minutes before class was over, while we were all working on the that evening's homework assignment, she whispers to me, "[Redhead's Name.]"

I'm like, "Whut?"

A package of Smarties catapults from her desk. I just managed to grab them and look at them with vague confusion.

She says, "You were right."

Best moment. Of. My life.

That was my day today.

Bye!

- The Redhead

(by the way, Sarah: me HEIDI)

COFFEE. FROM HAWAII.

2010-01-31T18:05:00.000-08:00

OHHHHHH MY GOD.

I never thought that straight coffee could taste like this. In a world terrorized by Folger's and Starbucks, one coffee stands up amongst them all and proves to the world that there is magnificent coffee outside of an espresso machine.

And of course, it is Hawaiian.

My good friend Sarah mailed me some coffee beans while she was over in Hawaii visiting family. Being the coffee addict I am, she knew just what to get me.

I finally tried them today.

Gooooooooooooood lord.

Um, what else?

Still slogging away on Penta.

I realized a while ago that I really would not get 50,000 words on JanNo and I never should have claimed to be attempting to do JanNo because I didn't care that much in the first place. I wouldn't call this a fail year because, well, how can you fail when you never really tried, you know?

I have no idea.

Anyway, off to school again tomorrow.

Should do my math homework.

Probably won't.

Cheers,
The Redhead

Banned Books and Rebellion

2010-01-30T20:28:00.000-08:00

The moment I'm home alone, I do two things.

I turn up "This Ain't A Scene, It's An Arms Race" as loud as I fricken can, until the beat pumps through the floorboards.

Then I go to fridge and take a swig out of the orange juice bottle.

That's right, bitch.

Out of the bottle.

It's pathetic how much I love doing this, but, really, how many of you guys have parents who tell you not to drink out of the bottle? It just makes you want to do it so much more.

There are authors out there who drink straight out of the literay bottle of orange juice. They're the rebels, the bad boys, standing and smirking and saying, "And your point is?" with the orange juice still smeared on their upper lips. They're the ones bucking society and its standards, for the sake of all things realistic for their story. And for that, they have been blacklisted since the time of publication.

So I wrote an article about it a while back for my school's newspaper. When I reference Charter, I'm talking about my school. This is the article, in its entirety, since I'm too lazy to write a real entry. But I made up for it! I included pictures!

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Book?

Charter, censorship, books, the American Library Association, and what they all have in common

You might not know this, but us Charter students, we’re rebels. Every year, when Mrs. Baker passes out those copies of To Kill a Mockingbird, or Dr. Proser informs you that you’ll be reading Catch-22, you’ve got in your hands a classic that is both fascinatingly beautiful and fascinatingly controversial. In fact, quite a few books that you read in classes here at Charter have been banned or challenged in other schools or libraries across the nation. So, even if it seems like a great bother to crack open 1984 and get that night’s reading over with, you’re telling anyone who finds that book offensive enough to withdraw it from a curriculum to shove it.

To be honest, that’s pretty cool.

And that sort of book-rebellion is what the American Library Association (ALA)’s Banned Books Week is all about. This event has been going on for the past twenty-seven years or so, and it’s a pretty big deal. Spanning from September 26 to October 3, the ALA has invented Banned Book week in order to celebrate our First Amendment right to freedom of speech as well as the simple and absolute joy of being able to read a book—any book—even if someone disapproves of the subject matter. The fact of the matter is when we allow people to weed out books for any reason, we are liable to lose a part of our society that the book was meant to represent, not to mention a plain ol’ good read.

Banned Books Week exists to prevent that from happening.

I know, I know, you might hear about that banning stuff all the time, and you might think that it honestly doesn’t happen anymore, locally, at least. I can understand that. But did you hear about the official banning in Nampa, Idaho this past August? No? I hadn’t until just recently either, but apparently the Bible is formally outlawed in a school district down there. I find it moronic, for one thing, to just cast aside such a majorly important historical document like that, not to mention narrow-minded. I mean, honestly. The Bible is something that historians can only dream of. I imagine that any good scholar would be slightly faint to discover an intact account of the lives of a certain tribe of people from ancient Mesopotamia. That alone should be the very reason that the Bible ought to be taught in every single high school as a historical text, I think. But, well, someone gets huffy over the fact that it’s a religious text, and all that historical and cultural importance of the Bible is kicked into a gutter, just like that. Disgusting, isn’t it?

So, in honor of Banned Books Week, I’ve picked out ten classics from the twentieth century to take a look at what Charter students are reading and have read as part of the curriculum here. These are just a few of the books that have often been banned or challenged in schools and libraries across the nation.

10. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. A lot of seniors probably remember this baby from American Literature in eleventh grade. In this book, the main character, Nick Carraway, moved from Minnesota to New York in 1922, into a neighborhood called New Egg, where he garners a curious neighbor named Mr. Jay Gatsby. There is a lot of focus in the book on the American dream, society, people, what truly matters, and materialism.

The book was challenged for “language and sexual references.” I don’t remember Gatsby having really, honestly horrible language. Sure, a bit of light swearing here and there, but that was about the extent of it. There also didn’t seem to be that many sexual references, not bad enough to warrant wanting to ban the book, anyway, so I admit that I’m slightly confused as to why there was even a small spoonful of hullabaloo about it.

9. 1984 by George Orwell. Orwell isn’t exactly known for writing a good old, uplifting story. If you know anything about that guy and his works, you’ve probably noticed that they’re all… well… bummers, and 1984 is no exception. This novel is set in a fictional Oceania, which is a city-state encompassing North and South America, Britain, Australia, and southern parts of Africa. The whole idea behind Oceania is that it has this one ruler, basically worshipped as a god, called Big Brother. It’s a totalitarian society where every movement of every citizen is closely watched and censored, even and especially their very thoughts. What happens in this gray society when a man and government worker, Winston Smith, decides that he wants to join the fabled rebel group, Brotherhood? Well, not what you’d expect, that’s for sure.

1984, despite my poor descriptions of it, is one of those books that you read and walk away from changed. Yet it was still challenged under the terms that it was “pro-communist,” “immoral,” and “contained explicit sexual matter.”

8. Catch-22 by Joseph Heller. It was love at first sight. I picked up this book, got through the first page, and was completely sold. This is the sort of war novel on par with Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. In laymen’s terms: wow. The book largely focuses on an American bombardier, Yossarian, as he struggles his way through World War II mostly by trying desperately not to have to go on dangerous flying missions, though it seems that the bureaucracy keeps managing to stay a step or two ahead of him. It’s a charming, twisted, hilarious, and layered book that is number eight on our list and one of my personal favorites.

It has been challenged several times under claims of inappropriate language, particularly for the repeated use of the word “whore,” and even banned for about four years in Strongsville, Ohio, and I think that it’s a silly reason to even consider to ban the book. So much is lost when people get nitpicky and offensive over little details and miss the big picture. It makes me sad to know that, just for the use of one word there were people in Strongsville who never got the opportunity to read one of my absolute favorite war satires of all time.

7. A Separate Peace by John Knowles. Now why this one has been challenged confuses me. Any of you students who have taken eighth-grade English most likely remember reading this book. It’s a story of two boys, Gene and Finny, who are best friends and go to the same boarding school during the Second World War, where essentially their education is sped up so that they can be ready to enlist in the army as soon as possible. It’s a novel about growing up, guilt, friendship, life, and, according to a certain school district in Vernon-Verona-Sherill, NY, sex. Yep, you read right. Sex. Well, to be more precise, this school district called it a “filthy, trashy sex novel,” which makes me wonder if we even read the same book. A Separate Peace has also been challenged on occasion on the grounds of “offensive language.”

When I asked freshmen Raqual Andrews and Monica Sullivan what they thought of this, I received an immediate “that’s over the top” from Raqual, and Monica expanded further by adding, “[A Separate Peace] had a really good point that most people could get.” In other words, look past the foul language to what the meaning was, which is a message that seems to go right over the heads of parents and officials far too often.

6. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley. This book is disturbing and delightful from the start. Set in a post-apocalyptic reality that is split into rigid social classes and follows a sort of God-surrogate named Ford, Brave New World is a glimpse into a world that is bright and colorful on the surface, but a whole slough of gray and grime and horrors underneath. The culture is split into five specific groups, with the Alphas and Gammas, Deltas, and Epsilons comprising the bottom layer, or working force. See, if you’re an Alpha or Gamma, life’s all fine and good, sex is purely for the heck of it and even the children play erotic games, and Huxley makes every part of that lifestyle appear perfectly acceptable. Normal, even. It’s the first time I’ve read a novel of this genre that actually has this brilliant smear of an existence over everything else; take a look at 1984, and you’ll see that it’s a pretty crappy place on the whole, unless you’re part of the government’s Inner Party. Not for Brave New World.

Maybe I shouldn’t say that. It’s not an entirely bad place to live. I mean, it’s even pretty good until you peel back that top layer and get to the human fertilization plants, where people are literally made in bulk for the good of society, the hard lives for the bottom three classes, the measures gone to to ensure that there people stick to their set “place” in the world. In the book, Delta infants are electrocuted to teach them that books and flowers are bad. It literally made me sick to my stomach, reading that part, and it makes absolutely no sense to me that such a powerful book would be scorned because it made promiscuous sex “look like fun” (which displays a fundamental lack of understanding of what the novel was about), “centered around negative activity,” had descriptions of “orgies, self-flogging, suicide,” and contained characters showing “contempt for religion, marriage, and the family.”

Uh, wow. Point of the book? Consider yourself thoroughly missed.

5. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey. Man, I really love this book. I mean, really love this book. I know I’ve said that about just about every other book on this list, but One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is a book that I simply could not put down. See, it tells the story of a mental institution in the 1960s run under the firm and iron hand of the Big Nurse. Life was all mundane and repetitive at first, but, once Randle McMurphy swaggers on scene and takes it upon himself to push Big Nurse over the edge, it will never be the same again. This is one of those books that you walk away from changed, for better or for worse.

However, for whatever reason, it’s been challenged and banned multiple times for claims that it was “pornographic,” “glorified criminal activity, has a tendency to corrupt juveniles and contains descriptions of bestiality, bizarre violence, and torture, dismemberment, death, and human elimination,” and promotes “secular humanism.” This is an example of a perfectly good book being dismissed for perfectly stupid reasons.

4. The Lord of the Flies by William Golding. What would you expect a plane full of young, English school boys to do when their plane crashes on a remote tropical island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean out of contact and sight of the rest of the world? Well, The Lord of the Flies happens, I’m afraid. I really loved how, in the book, the readers could watch the island and jungle change the boys, for better or for worse, how hierarchies establish themselves, and just how far people can be pushed before they crack. If you haven’t read this book yet, read it, and prepare to be pretty disturbed. In a good way. It’s a great look into the psychology of people, and I’m always one for an examination of the human psyche, myself.

But then come the crazy folks to piddle on our parade of deeper thought and meaning by throwing out their cries that it is “demoralizing inasmuch as it implies that man is little more than an animal,” which displays a complete lack of understanding of what Golding was going for, “racist and recommended that it be removed from all schools,” and has “profanity, lurid passages about sex, and statements defamatory to minorities, God, women and the disabled.”

3. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. The Grapes of Wrath is probably one of Steinbeck’s most famous works, of the many, and it seems to be pretty notorious, too. The story, set just after the Great Depression, follows a family as they migrate from the Oklahoma Dustbowl to California, and then focuses on their following difficulties as migrant farm workers. It did a whole lot to raise awareness of the unfairness that migrant laborers had to endure, and some of the stuff going on in that book made me really shocked, so I suppose that the book did its job. Yet, from the time that it was first published, it has been a target of bans, and I cannot understand it.

In 1939, shortly after the book was published, a library in East Saint Louis, Illinois, burned it. From there the animosity ballooned entirely too much. The Grapes of Wrath has been called out on use of profanity, taking the Lord’s name in a “vain and profane manner along with inappropriate sexual references,” and even has been considered “full of filth.”

2. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. A vast majority of veteran Charter students probably remember reading To Kill a Mockingbird in seventh grade English. The book follows the story of Jean Louise “Scout” Finch and how she comes to grips with the society she lived in, what is really “right,” race, and more.

I remember positively adoring it, especially her father, Atticus, and it left me stunned and a little sick to hear that it had been called a “filthy, trashy novel” and challenged for that very reason. It’s also been a subject of some debate because it “contains profanity and sexual slurs,” “represents institutionalized racism under the guise of good literature,” and did “psychological damage to the positive integration process.” I made the trip over to the old school building to talk to a couple of current eighth graders about what they thought about this. Kenna Simon informed me frankly that it was “ridiculous,” and Maddie Iott said that the book’s point was “not to do that.”

1. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. Of course, no banned and challenged book list would be complete without our dear Holden Caulfield. The Catcher in the Rye is a more character-driven work, looking into about two weeks of the life of the main character, Holden Caulfield, when he is sixteen years old and shortly after he is kicked out of his boarding school. He acts out, he curses, he lies, he exaggerates, and he complains like anything. As you read, though, you find out just why he’s doing all of it.

This is one of my absolute favorite books and has a long history of challenges and bannings across the nation. In fact, in 1960, a teacher was actually fired for assigning the book to his eleventh grade English class in Tulsa, Oklahoma. The school board eventually gave him his job back, but the book was completely removed from use in the school. Ever since, it’s been a favorite target. Catcher has been challenged and even banned because, among many, many other things, it was “anti-white” and contained “excess vulgar language, sexual things, things concerning moral issues, excessive violence, and anything dealing with the occult,” “the F-word,” “profanity, lurid passages about sex, and statements defamatory to minorities, God, women, and the disabled.”

Lauren Brandt, senior, was appalled when I told her about some of the above. “I don’t agree with that,” she said, giving me a funny look. “I don’t think emphasis is on vulgarity. The emphasis is on philosophy.” Then, after another thought, she concluded that, “We shouldn’t ban the book on that, but should focus on the good points of the book.”

I’m willing to bet that most of you readers out there have read at least one of these books, within or outside of Charter, and I have to wonder if these cases made you as confused or even angry as they did me. It’s the book lover in me; I just don’t understand how someone can completely throw a book aside because it has period-appropriate racial slurs, or there were light sexual references. Instead of stifling a book for questionable things, we should embrace it, heart and soul, for the good things and the message of the story and, more often than not, simply the good story it is. Mrs. Baker, a long-time member of Charter’s faculty and middle school English teacher, summed up my thoughts on this perfectly. “Libraries,” she said, “aren’t there to be mothers; they should be for literature.”

Well, you know what, I hate your FACE

2010-01-29T18:40:00.000-08:00

No random facts today, only a brief excerpt of The Redhead's daily life.

Today in Latin class was election day. We have these class offices based upon the Roman government (consuls, aediles, quaestors, etc.) and we hold elections every quarter to see who gets what. It's run by the aediles, who are myself and my good friend Marina.

So the basic idea is that people can nominate themselves, give a 5-second speech on why they ought to be that officer, and then we vote on it.

There's this girl in my class. Let's call her... Mary Ann. Miss Mary Ann is not right in the head. She's on medication to keep from seeing these... hallucinations. She holds herself oddly. She is singularly obsessed with anime and manga to a creepy degree. She makes funny hand gestures sometimes. I never make fun of her. I'm one of the few people outside of her group of little socially awkward friends who is nice to her.

Mary Ann ran for aedile. She said that we should vote for her because she wouldn't rig the elections. At which point I glanced at Marina, because we had been planning to rig the elections a la a pact we had made with these other girls in our class. In our defense, we were only following the Romans' example of corruption in the government. Anyway, she lost. Mary Ann ran for censor. In her election speech, she said, "You should vote for me because I hate her." And she pointed at me.

I sort of hesitated.

The room went silent for a couple of seconds.

Then Millie said, "What the heck? How do you hate her?"

At which point I felt all glowy inside and continued on with the elections.

I was still sort of affronted, though. I mean, I was going to rig the elections in her favor, but then she was a bitchface (this has nothing to do with her mental state--she's a bright girl. She knows when she's trying to be a bitch to someone) and I decided not to and let her keep her 2 votes.

I have no idea why she said that. Everyone looked confused, like they couldn't process it, and Millie after class came to me and asked, "What the hell was that about?"

"I don't know," I said.

"She's weird, man."

I just shrugged.

The rest of the day, I didn't see Mary Ann much. When I did see her again, at the end of the day in literature, she was with her little bunch of aforementioned socially awkward friends. Didn't talk to her much, mostly goofing off with Bryan and Millie and some other kids.

When class actually started, she made a point of giving me a dirty look when I made a comment or trying to disprove my points. And, since I'm mature, I went out of my way to prove her wrong, even if I agreed with her.

But, yeah. Apparently a lot of people found out about it and were kinda pissed that she had said that.

*shrug*

Who'd a thunk?

So, that's my day.

First time someone's ever said that they hate me and, I think, honestly meant it.

Bye.
-The Redhead

Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody

2010-01-28T22:04:00.000-08:00

A great man died today. Fare thee well, Mr. Salinger. You will be sorely missed.

I don't want to spend a lot of time wallowing today. I really don't. This is a day to be happy and thankful for what he has given us, his words, and know that they will last even after his brilliance has flickered out.

So on we move to other topics, because death is hugely saddening to me.

Today I submitted my first short story for publication, a little thing called "The Woodsmith" to Weird Tales. I chose it only because Ray Bradbury mentioned being published in it in an essay in his book Zen in the Art of Writing. I'm sort of terrified.

I need to talk about other things.

Hmm.

I know!

Random fact time!

Here are some random facts that I can conjure up for you guys:
1. Most people don't know that our government came from the brain from a single man, and that it was largely founded in the Roman "republic," as well as that of the British government (which was also based on the Roman "republic") that he was most familiar with. And it was not George fucking Washington. His name is James Madison.
2. The Parthenon, possibly the most beautiful building constructed by man, has no straight lines.
3. "Tragedy" literally means "goat song" (coming from "tragos" for "goat" and "ody" for song)*. That's right. Goat song. I will never take tragedies seriously ever again.
4. If you look at nature, such as the seeds on the head of a sunflower or the petals of a flower that grow in rings, you'll find that, a couple rows away from the center, they start up a pattern. 3 in one row, then 5 in the next. It'll go 8, 13, 21, and so on. This is called the Fibonacci sequence, invented by this European dude named, you guessed it, Fibonacci. This comes up in nature over and over, minding the occasional exception due to inevitable mutations.
5. Pythagoras did not invent the idea of the Pythagorean Theorem (you know, a^2+b^2=c^2). There are records of the same basic principle tracing as far back as the ancient Babylonians.

And that's all the time we have for today, folks. Tune in tomorrow for... uh... more random crap.

Farewell.
- The Redhead

*This is because theatre in Greece, where the word "tragedy" finds its origins, began with festivals to the god Dionysus, god of theatre, wine, and spring. They would have a spring festival each year, presenting four plays: three tragedies and one comedy. The tragedies often included, at first, a sacrifice of a goat to Dionysus, and, since at that time plays were often disastrous and ruinous in nature and chanted by a chorus of folks (Thespis had yet to come along and found this idea of conversation between different characters onstage), the word tragedy was born. /minilesson

Storytelling and just why it's so important

2010-01-27T21:53:00.000-08:00

My essay for ancient lit, since I have no time to write a blog AND the essay:

I will never forget the first time someone asked me why I wrote. It was fifth grade when I announced, quite firmly and decidedly, I might add, to one of my friends that I was a writer. He gave me this funny look, wrinkled his nose, and asked “Why?”

I hesitated.

I didn’t know why. I just knew that there was this part of me that thrived on the simple act of telling some event, imagined or not, that devoured happenings and retold them, exploding in a bloom of color and events and words swirling around in my head. This is called a story. Commonly linked to a condition called Being a Writer, stories are a backbone to the world and people as we know them. This idea, this high value of storytelling we find so prevalent in Homer's The Odyssey got me thinking about the whole thing, more as a writer than anything else. It made me wonder what story is nowadays and its place in the world and if it's really given the credit it deserves, especially compared to earlier times.

Stories are blips of time, sometimes decipherable, sometimes not, and they are an ancient creature. Before there were words, there were stories. Wild men of an ancient age came back from a hunting trip, regaling their tales of their power and victory, dancing it out before a great fire and all their fellow villagers to the beat of a heavy drum, incensed and invigorated with their tales. It has been used over the years as a catalyst for sharing knowledge, for passing along information, for recording histories. In times like The Odyssey, a wandering bard or rhapsode like Homer undoubtedly was was like a guest book of knowledge, newspaper-style. He was your ticket to the outside world and its happenings and the only chance you had to make your mark on the outside world, to impress the man so much that he might spread word of you or your peoples' greatness.

Ever since, stories have evolved.

There is no wonder in stories anymore. They wear different names and different faces. They are news articles. They are Guess What Happened to Me At Lunch. No one flocks to see the latest Broadway play anymore. No one cares if a man is walking around singing about foreign affairs, carrying news from faraway places. We're a world of coming and going, and stories are condensed and generalized and no longer considered "stories." People don't stop their daily lives to gather around a stranger to hear him tell in a master storyteller's voice some ancient tale passed down from generation to generation about a world gone mad and gods and goddesses and less than heroic heroes and all the people caught in between.

Stories as they once were have faded. We don't listen to narratives. We watch movies or television shows. Some of us even read books. The world as Homer's sort knew it is long gone, and the tradition of storytelling as a viable and important form of communication and entertainment has died with it. I'm not sure, as a writer, if this is a good thing or not.

Cheerio.

- The Redhead

Fine, Sarah. FINE.

2010-01-26T22:53:00.000-08:00

The classical age of Greece focuses mostly on Athens because, well, the other poleis, or the Greek city-states, weren't doing much of merit. The only other really remarkable bunch of Greek folks, the Spartans, were just hanging out, training, strengthening themselves. I mean, whoop de fricken do. They do that all the time.

So, we're here looking at Athens. It's the 5th century BC, a time when the world was fresh and the words were sweet and ideas were endless, the world ripe for the picking.

This is a time when philosophers thrived.

The Athenians were constantly debating three main questions in regards to philosophy and science, questions they never quite answered:
1. What is the nature of man?
2. What is the nature of the world?
3. What is the meaning of life?

I'm here today to answer these questions in 1000 words or less.

Question one:
Man is flawed. Man is conflicted. Man is a creature driven by himself, his own goals and desires, whatever these may be. Man is the most fucking retarded being in the world at the worst of times, and he is brilliant when it is least expected. Man is resourceful. Man is wildness refined.

Question two:
The world is bound by pattern and story and dreams.

Question three:
Go forth.

See? Philosophy isn't hard.

Byes.

- The Redhead
----
JanNoWriMo 2010: Somewhere over 30,000

Real Post Now. Right.

2010-01-26T22:30:00.000-08:00

I guess the polite thing to do now is apologize for yesterday's shit post and promise that I won't do it again.

But there are two problems with this.

First of all, I'm not sorry. So, really, there's no reason for me to apologize for something I'm not sorry for. That would be lying and it is wrong. Also, I probably will do it again, next time I forget to write my post. Like, tomorrow.

Okay, so. I promised to write about two things:
1. My play
2. Athenian philosophy

I'mma do the play first. Because that's easier.

You've all heard of Sherlock Holmes, I'm sure. It's a little hard not to be a properly functioning human being and not at least have a vague idea of who this guy is. Well, my school is putting on Tim Kelly's melodramatic adaptation of the Sherlock Holmes stage play that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote about good ol' Sherlock. It's fabulous and hilarious and I have received a part.

I am Mrs. Bassick, the badass villainous, masquerading as a leader of a gang of suffragettes who are only out to put on fake riots and, while the audience watches, spellbound, lift their wallets and jewelry.

Is fun.

I be bad. >3

Aaaand I'm doing the Greek thing tomorrow, I swear. I'm tired and I've been busy working on my book Penta, which I am goign to return to the moment I finish this post.

So.

Athenians.

Tomorrow.

I swear.

Night.

- The Redhead

Oopsie. I forgot.

2010-01-25T22:57:00.001-08:00

Damn.

I forgot to do the entry today.

I have to type fast.

I’ve only got a couple of minutes.

So I figure that if I keep putting spaces between my sentences.

Like this.

That it’ll LOOK like I wrote a lot.

Yeah.

That could work.

Tomorrow, answering the three greatest questions that the Athenians puzzled over during their classical age in 1000 words or less.

I’ll tell you about my play, too.

Yep.

Sincerely (and apologetically),

The Redhead

Things That Piss Me Off.

2010-01-24T21:40:00.001-08:00

Well, hi. Let me start off today by explaining that myself and my two friends, Sarah and Claire, have decided to try writing a blog post a day. I don't remember the exact sadistic details behind it, but it is what it is. (EDIT: and I forgot to mention. I've linked to their blogs in the row of linkses above.)

So. This is the third blog post in a row. *cheers*

All I could think to write about today are things that piss me off.

That's what you get.

Enjoy.

Things that piss The Redhead off:
1. Cute boys around my age with girlfriends.
2. Stupid people.
3. The sound of people eating.
4. Stephenie fucking Meyer
5. People talking to me when I don't want to be talked to.
6. Parents parenting at all the wrong times.
7. Bitchfaces.
8. Spiders that make me jump and/or squeal in a hugely embarrassing way. Like that time in history when I caused a chain reaction of girls squealing "AH WHERE?!"
9. People who are jerks about knowing stuff. You know, the kid in class who says "That was easy," as loud as he fricken can? Yeah, it was, but some people don't feel the same way. Belittling them doesn't make you look better at all.
10. Boys who flirt with me even after I give the very obvious hint that I'm not interested because they're gross and weird and annoying and won't stop hitting on me.
11. When someone I don't like has more Facebook friends than I do. /pathetic
12. When you do well on a test and your friend, rather than congratulating you, gives you a dark look and tells you to stop bragging even though they're the one who asked you what you got. (Think I'm bitter?)
13. Fat people in their little cars at the store loading up their baskets with fat sticks (i.e. Cheetos) and soda. I mean, why do you think you're so fat you have literally half an inch of flesh sticking out over your elbow joint? You're disgusting. I'm sorry, but you need to work on that. >>

...wow I sound horrible and superficial.

Ah.

Bye.

- The Redhead
----
JanNoWriMo: 25,879/50,000

WAIT GUYS.

2010-01-23T23:13:00.000-08:00

I just realized.

I do have stuff to talk about!

Yesterday was Friday.

I'm going to walk you through my Friday.

I woke up at 5:30, groaned for a while, got up, went to the bathroom, plugged in the curling iron, put on my school uniform, put on makeup, curled my hair, pulled on shoes, grabbed my things, and went out the door.

I got to school by 7, an hour before first period, and finished my notes for Athens and Sparta for honors ancient history.

First period, at 8, I got to drama class. Right now we're working on an improvisation based upon the Morality plays. These were popular from 900-1500 AD and were allegorical stories, like the play "Everyman." Filled with allegorical characters, almost always with the hero representing all of mankind, and with a good, Christian message. They were shittily written, for the most part.

So our job was to make up our own within our group. We did, and it is fabulous and hilarious and amazing.

Second period was Latin 2. I won't bore you with the details, but it was, as usual, amazing. We translated chapter 39 of Ecce! Romani II, our textbook, and I'm slowly coming to grips with the fact that I'm acquiring a second language.

*30 minute intermission for study hall*

Next, third period. Physical science. I remember something about nuclear fission and fusion and the difference between the two. I think I was mostly asleep?

Fourth period, honors ancient history. We were having a debate today over which was better, Athens or Sparta. We were supposed to research each side, take notes, and be prepared to vouch for either side, whichever we were assigned. I was sent to the Spartan side of things.

My friend Millie asked, "Athens?" looking all hopeful.

I said, "Nope, Sparta."

"Ah, hell. I have to go up against you. ><"

And she did. I gave our opening remarks, kicked ass, and, unfortunately, we didn't get time to finish. But, like the nerds we are, we were all still debating after the bell. Millie told me how they were going to point out Sparta's homosexuality as a reason that the Athenians were better, but, with a grin, said that they decided not to.

I said, "You guys sit around writing poems, eating nice food, and talking about your inner feelings. How're we the gay ones?"

Yeah, it was fun.

Worked on math homework desperately during lunch. Refused all help, because I'm a stubborn redhead.

Fifth period was geometry. Only missed 3 points on my assignment, the 3 problems I didn't do because the lunch bell rang. I got picked up early, for my orthodontist appointment.

Went to my appointment. They tightened my braces, caused me pain, gave me new red and pink colors for my brackets, and sent me away.

Talked to my friends. It was fabulous.

By the time I got home, it was around 7, and I was tired.

Then Mom said, waving an envelope, "Report cards came in."

I froze. "...that's nice."

She tore open the envelope, I considered all possible escape routes, and then she said something that made me slightly delirious:

"Redhead, you got a four-oh."

THAT'S RIGHT.

FRICKEN 4.0 FOR MY FRICKEN GPA.

That's with no effort on the Redhead's part WHATSOEVER.

Suck it, public education system. Suck. It.

Later,
The Redhead
----
*still too lazy to find word count*

I'll stand before the lord of song with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah (+ a nerdrant)

2010-01-23T22:24:00.001-08:00

So I wanted to write a blog post, right? Because, well, I'm trying to get better at this whole thing.

Aaaaand I don't have much to say, other than that I'm listening to Leonard fucking Cohen right now and you can entirely tell.

Oh, I know!

Calendars in other worlds.

I cannot tell you the amount of times I cracked open a fantasy novel, the typical high fantasy sort set in this made up universe filled with magic and mystery and dreams and such. So I'm just reading along, minding my own business, and then it is mentioned in this fantasy novel set in this world that is completely and totally fictional and completely unrelated to this world whatsoever that Frodo and Bilbo share the same birthday in September.

Fricken September.

I adore Tolkein. Really, I do. But he, like so many other fantasy authors, made the same mistake: They never made up a new calendar system.

This pisses me off incredibly because our current calendar is a byproduct of the Romans. There were originally ten months in the year (which is why November is called November, because it comes from the root "novem," which means nine, because it was at first the ninth month of the year), right? And then two more were thrown in, January and, I'm pretty sure, February, to honor a couple of gods. We renamed July after Julius Caesar, August after Augustus Caesar, screwed up the system that had been in place (long month, short month, long month, short month, etc.) to make sure that they had the same amount of days, which is why February is so short (they took days out of it to make July and August both 31 days long), and went along their merry way.

The calendar system, obviously, stuck. It's screwed up, but it's ours.

That is why it pisses me off to read The Fellowship of the Ring and see that huge fricken gaping plot hole RIGHT THERE. I mean, really. The man invented languages, lands, this completely real universe, but he couldn't manage to make up a new calendar? Come on.

Well, rant is done.

Buh-bye,
The Redhead
----
*is too lazy to hunt down JanNo word count*

P.S.: I must add that I have written a post two days in a row, and I am immensely proud of this fact.

i maek post.

2010-01-22T14:40:00.000-08:00

Ah ha. Right. Staying up on the blog. I'm doing that. Right now.

Penta's coming along smoothly enough. I still need more time to write, which school is hindering incredibly. ><

AND LAUREN IS HOME. MY DEAREST AND LOVELY LAUREN HAS RETURNED.

(you'll have to forgive me, I interrupted the writing of this the moment I first spoke with her)

She went on a cruise around Greece for far too long, about two weeks, but now she is back and I am thrilled.

Report cards should arrive home on Monday. I'm vaguely terrified.

Ah, what else to say? Um.

Well, I'm boring.

Ta ta,
The Redhead
----
JanNoWriMo 2010: 21,877/50,000

Well, Dammies.

2010-01-18T18:27:00.000-08:00

I could have another rant about how fricken awful I am at blogging. I could go on and on about how I had planned to be better about this. I could.

But I won't.

So, The Redhead. Not much has been happening in my life. Still doing JanNo, though not taking it half as seriously as I should be. Still writing Penta, still looking for a new name for it.

Still talking to dead air.

Took my finals last week. I only know two of my grades thus far. I got a 95% in drama and a 92% in Geometry. *is awesome* And then there was the four day weekend that followed, which I am on the tail end of.

Spent Sunday with the ever-fabulous Cee, my dearest and darling, light of my world, she who dances as retardedly as I and enjoys microwaveable cake.

Today, Monday, I talked to my love, my Sarah, for about 5 hours. I saw her father's arm in the Skype screen.

And tomorrow I must return to school.

Sadly.

Listening to "Pork and Beans" by Weezer. Love it more than I should.

I am marshaling together various versions of "Hallelujah" by Leonard fucking Cohen. I only have 5 so far. I intend to find more.

Ah, what else?

Right, Penta. So, the name needs to change. I think I said that? Yes, well, it's going to change. I'm dizzy with future scenes.

That is all.

The Redhead
---
JanNoWriMo 2010 Progress: 18,607/50,000

P.S.: Happy New Year.

/nerdrant

2009-12-21T16:23:00.000-08:00

Okay, internet, learn your fricken history for the days of the week.

Yes, our current system for the days of the week was passed along by the Norsemen.

No they did not invent it, you retards.

The Romans had a history of run-ins with the Norsemen. Every once in a while, they’d get the balls to poke at them, the Norsemen would tell them to shove off, and, eventually, run in, turn Rome into rubble, and tell them to leave them alone.

Finally, the Norse became so tired of Rome trying to overtake them, they swept through one final time and destroyed Rome for the last time. At this point, in their raiding and ransacking, they took a number of things that did not have monetary value, including the Roman’s calendar.

The Roman calendar at that time was composed of eight days: a market day, Solis Dies, Lunae Dies, Martis Dies, Mercurii Dies, Iovis Dies, Veneris Dies, and Saturni Dies. Solis Dies was named for the sun, Lunae Dies for the moon, Martis Dies for the Roman god Mars (or Ares for the Greeks), Mercurii Dies for the god Mercury (Hermes to the Greeks), Iovis Dies for the god Iupiter (Greeks’ Zeus), Veneris Dies for the goddess Venus (a la Greek Aphrodite), and finally Saturni Dies for Saturn (the parallel to the Greek Cronus, who was actually a titan for them). Pretty straightforward, right?

To sum it up: a market day, Solis Dies, Lunae Dies, Martis Dies, Mercurii Dies, Iovis Dies, Veneris Dies, and Saturni Dies. We clear so far?

When the Norse found it, they looked at it for a while, said, “Okay,” and cut out the market day entirely. They took Solis Dies, realized that they had their own name for it, and called it Sun Day. Next, Lunae Dies. Well, they had a name for that as well, and it became Moon Day. Onto Martis Dies. Well, they had a god like that: Tiu. And so, it became Tiu’s Day. Mercury was like another Norse god, so that day became Woden’s Day. Iupiter was like the Norse’s Thor, making the Norse change Iovis Dies to Thor’s Day. Then there was Veneris Dies, named for the goddess of love and fertility. The Norsemen took the closest goddess they had for that, Freya, and named the day Freya’s Day. Finally came Saturni Dies. However, this one the Norse did not change, as they knew Saturn full well, and the day became known as Saturn’s Day.

So, the Norseman walked away with the calendar week: Sun Day, Moon Day, Tiu's Day, Woden's Day, Thor's Day, Freya's Day, and Saturn's Day. Got it?

It carried through the years to eventually, after much slurring, become the days of the week that we have now: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. See the parallels and now understand why Wednesday is spelt like that?

Good.

Learn some basic history, internet. Learn.

Catching up and apologies.

2009-12-20T18:18:00.000-08:00

Man.

I know what I said. That I was bad at this blogging stuff. And I am.

But I didn't think that I was the sort of "a month and a half going by without a single post" bad.

So, me. Not much has happened. Finished The Iliad. Know there's freaking more and some archeologists need to get their asses into gear finding it before I kill them. Won NaNoWriMo with considerably less than last year, coming to a stop at 102,005 words. Met amazing people. Wrote (I've been told) an amazing novel *blush*. Got a Superior (or top) rating at a district drama competition. Got a 95% on my geometry AND physical science tests.

The novel is tentatively called Penta, and even only that because my dear friends insisted on a name for it. At present, it's probably around 106,000 words and not quite finished; I'll probably wrap it up in JaNoWriMo (more on that later). It's about some alternate 1984-esque reality, some gods, some terrorists, and all the people caught in between.

Writing two short stories for my parents for Christmas. I've got 4 days and not a word written.

Okay, JanNoWriMo. Stands for January Novel Writing Month. I'm doing it again this year, second time running. Hoping for it to be my second win too. Dunno what I'm going to write. Probably Penta until I run out of story, then moving onto the uncompleted third draft of another novel of mine, thus far called As You Wish.

Um.

Nothing else to say, I suppose.

Off to write desperately,

The Redhead

It's just one of those days.

2009-11-11T13:52:00.000-08:00

Everyone has to face it eventually: one of those days that seems to go out of its way to tear you down and leave you shriveled up, exhausted and hurt, on the floor.

You know. One of those days.

This was one of those days.

I didn’t feel well when I woke up, hadn’t felt well the day before, but my school has a strict absence policy. You can’t have more than ten absences in a semester or you’ll lose credit for that class, therefore have to retake the course. I already have six, due to sickness (a la croup) and one day to stay home for plotting/NaNoWriMoing. So, I went to school, since I didn't want to miss school unless I absolutely had to.

Most of the morning was okay; I only felt a little dizzy and sick to my stomach, not as bad as it had been the day before. Everything was going along quite well until fourth period rolled around.
Now, I like fourth period, usually. It's my Honors ancient history class, taught by one of the world's single greatest teachers, and we're studying Homer's The Iliad, the Robert Fagles translation, and I adore it. I would adore history class as well if my usual awesome!teacher was there.

But, no. She fell prey to H1N1, which expounded into a few other health issues, and so I've had a substitute teacher for these past couple of weeks in her stead. Let's call this substitute Mrs. Almond (because I'm eating Hershey's chocolate at the morning with almonds).

Mrs. Almond and I have never been on the best of terms. The Redhead is upfront and generally has a strong personality. Vibrant. Let's call The Redhead vibrant. I tend to be loud, speak my opinion, and decided long ago that raising my hand belonged to the elementary school-age of things.

Mrs. Almond, though, doesn't agree. She thinks that students should be seen and not heard. She thinks that we must show the utmost of respect to her at all times, and any hint of what could be taken as anything but is unacceptable. We've butted heads a few times in the past, as she has absolutely no respect for her students (e.g. when she talks on her cell phone while I'm taking my freaking civics final exam) and doesn't jive too well with me.

Today she must have been extra menopausal.

She was talking about something that happened in chapter 15 of The Iliad that foreshadowed into later events in the next chapter. Mrs. Almond misstated, and I looked back over my shoulder to a friend who sits behind me, to tell her what actually happened.

I look up and the wrath of all living hell is in Almond's eyes.

There was the first lecture. About how I was disrespectful, how I mocked her (which I don't (not in front of her, anyway)), how she had to deal with my comments every day.

I fumed, kept my cool, and apologized through my teeth.

Almond went back to talking.

Now, at this point, I was trying to be respectful and pay attention to her, but she was sitting at the front of the room on a stool, in front of the whiteboard. As I already mentioned, I didn't feel well, and I felt even worse after that sudden swell of anger and embarrassment. So, well, between the white of the white board and the white of the wall is a black line of duct tape. All around her, the whites were jumping forward and changing color and the sides of my head throbbed and I felt the vomit rising in the back of my throat.

So I stared out the window in the door, trying to keep from feeling sick, since I only had a few minutes left of class, but I just couldn't look at her. It caused me literal physical pain.

Mrs. Almond pounced like a lion, and I got a hell of a lecture, ranting and raving and literally shouting at me for about three uninterrupted minutes. And the whole time I had to stare at her, at the white shifting and changing color, and my head whirled. I tasted bile.

By the time I left, I was crying a bit, hurt and so singularly pissed off I couldn't stand it.

Thank God for friends.

A lot of the girls from my history class hugged me and said it was okay, that I hadn't done anything wrong. A couple (love you guys) even went to argue against Almond on my behalf. They all were unspeakably helpful and wonderful. I doubt I would've been able to take that all alone.

I hugged people. I told the story over and over. I went in the bathroom and nearly vomited. I talked to the vice-principal, to give him my side of the story. I sat with my big sister and waited for my mother to come to pick us up. I came home, put on some pajamas, blew off some steam, and made myself feel a little better.

I had to skip two of my favorite classes because of Mrs. Almond's outburst.

Just one of those days.

So it goes.

- The Redhead
---
NaNoWriMo Progress: 19,759/50,000

Long time, no see.

2009-10-25T09:27:00.000-07:00

There I go again, 17 days without a post. >> Frick.

I'm part of a sort of haunted house event with my school, another local school, and a special effects company. The difference is that it's more of a haunted island, with savage natives and cursed wenches and rough-and-tough pirate guides.

I swear, it's not as stupid as it sounds.

As a matter of fact, it's actually quite fun. I'm a resident "guide," whose job is to guide the "castaways" (visitors) around the island and get them home safely, acting all creepy and piratey.

Last night, I worked from six to eleven P.M. I have no idea how many tours I went through, but it was a complete blast. There were small, terrified children, adults screaming and laughing all at once, teenagers huddling close and trying to act cool (failing when there's a sudden scream), and a particularly attractive young man around The Redhead's age.

Yeah. It was fun.

NaNoWriMo begins in a week. I have a vague backstory for my plot, involving forgotten gods and doppelgangers and trickery and totalitarian governments and a world gone positively mad. As for plot? Even more vague. I can't put it into words, not well, anyway. Wish me luck.

Reading The Iliad, Robert Fagles' translation for ancient literature and history. Two hours of Iliad all in one day, one for the historical aspect, one for the literary. I love it.

My nephew was born yesterday at 5:10 in the evening. I get to meet him today; I can't wait.

- The Redhead

I am NOT good at staying up on this blogging business.

2009-10-08T11:00:00.000-07:00

This entry comes to you in three parts.

Part one, I suck at keeping up on blogs. Journals in general. Thank God no one reads this, or else they would think that I died. Multiple times. So, yes, trying to fix my total and complete inability to stay with blogs. Bear with me.

Part two, disease. I've been sick since this past Saturday afternoon. The sort of sick that involves fever, massive headaches, more mucus than a human body should be able to produce, coughing, sore throat, and, occasionally, an aching tummy. When four days of Tylenol and Nyquil had no effect, I went to the doctor's last night. They crammed the world's fricken largest Q-tip up my nose to get a swab of my snot from both nostrils, to test for a pig illness, or H1N1. Now, I gladly would have just blown into a tissue and let them wipe it up or something. But no. They had to shove it up where no Q-tip should have to go, and made me bleed mildly.

I sat awkwardly alone for ten minutes while they ran the test. The doctor came in. No H1N1. But they did conclude that I had something called laryngotracheobronchitis. Well, I thought, okay. It's just a long way of saying "bronchitis." (It isn't.)

They gave me a kind of antibiotics to take for the next four days called azithromycin. Apparently that's one kickass puppy; you couldn't get a much stronger defense without an IV drip. Okay, I thought, that's weird and suspiciously not bronchitis-ish.

And it was.

I decided to Google my particular disease and found that laryngotracheobronchitis translates vaguely as croup. It's found mostly in children from three months to six years old, rarely in any older. Also, it is more prevalent in guys, 2:1.

Which begs the question: Why can't I get a normal disease? Why do I have to get the rare, small-child, male disease when I'd be happy with a regular, teenaged, female, common cold, thank you very much? Another question of life that I likely shall never know the answer to.

Thanks to croup, this has been and will continue to be a week without going to school. So that's not so bad, I suppose.

Part three, NaNoWriMo. It's coming back around again, ladies and gents. I'm already starting to plot, stock up on coffee and easy-to-eat-while-writing foods, and spend unhealthy amounts of time on the forums. If you're by some miracle reading this and wish to be friends with The Redhead on NaNo, you will find her account here.

Cheers,
The Redhead

I don't think my foot's supposed to be that color...

2009-08-05T12:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was something. I should have taken just from the way it started, at five thirty in the morning, that it was not going to go well.

Let's start from the top.

My phone's alarm started to go off at 5:30 AM. Got out of bed after about eight minutes of lying under the covers and hating whomever legalized waking up early in the morning.

Let it be said right now: The Redhead is not a morning person. She does not condone her consciousness any time before eleven AM. Heads roll when she is asked to rise by six. Why, then, would she be getting up so early?

The Sister wished to go to an anime convention yesterday and needed someone to cover for her at work. She bribed The Redhead with a comic book and, lo and behold, The Redhead had a day of work to face, all in order to receive a Sandman book*.

I stumbled out of bed and made coffee, changed into day clothes, and left with The Mother and Sister by 6:15, after waiting for The Sister to stop taking a lifetime to get ready to go.

I muddled around on the internet at work until about 8:30, vaguely considered working on my AugNo, then timed in.

First task: Make breakfast for fourteen hungry small children and two teachers, The Mother and The Nell (who is very lovely and nice), by nine. "Breakfast" was toasted cinnamon bread, cantaloupe, milk, and jam and butter on the side, for the bread, I would assume.

At first it was easy, since The Small Children were all outside doing Small Children things. And quiet. I liked the quiet bit very much. I set the two tables that The Small Children eat at.

Things were mostly ready as The Small Children began to flood inside, though the milk was still in the fridge.

The fridge at The Mother's daycare center is a fickle creature, constantly unwilling to hold the items that it is asked to. Instead it shoves them to the back where you simply cannot find them, or toward the very edge of the shelf so that they fall on your foot when you open the door in a mad hunt for where the hell you put those stupid milk pitchers.

Ever seen cups like the ones right? The one in the middle on the left, the purple-lidded one, is also the cup that a small child at the day care owns. When it is perilously placed on the top shelf and full of milk, which sets it off balance, it tends to hurt like anything when it hits your foot. Those things can hold 10 oz. of liquid. That's 10 oz. barreling downward from about three feet above the ground and can pick up a surprising amount of force.

Plus the bottom's made of hard plastic.

I sort of watched it fall, had enough time to think, "Hey, that's weird," before it hit my foot. Owie. ):

I hobbled into the classroom with the milk pitchers, then returned to the kitchen, reorganized things so that my foot wouldn't get hurt again, and proceeded to get an icepack out of the freezer, sit on the edge of the kitchen counter, and nursed my poor foot.

It was swollen then, and it's swollen now. Only now it's dark brown, too, right on top.

Let me give you an idea of where it is. Flex your left foot. You see that little ridge coming from your pinky toe to your ankle? To the left of that is an irregular bump on my foot, as well as a dark brown bruise about half an inch wide and an inch and a half long.

Walking is still a little painful, and I can feel the bruise when I put weight on my foot. Not bad enough to make me incapable of walking properly, but enough to remind me that, yes, my foot is bruised, and, yes, it hurts.

Urgh. Then I had to clean multiple times and be with loud, high-pitched little people for the rest of the day. My inner hermit was having seizures the entire time.

On the brightside, I made about fifty bucks, and got a Sandman book. That's a plus, at least.

Time to keep on writing, I suppose.

Oh. Speaking of which. I'm thinking about posting excerpts?

...not that anyone will read them. ._.

Writing. Right.

* For future reference, if you want to get on The Redhead's good side, buy her a volume of Sandman.
----
AugNo progress: 872/50,000 words

Right. August.

2009-08-04T08:02:00.001-07:00

It's August 4 now. I ended JulNo with a less-than-satisfactory 156k. That's not bad, per se, but it's not what I was shooting for. So. At least it was more than three-quarters of the way to 200k.

After talking to some of my JulNo fwiends (mostly Doughie, come to think of it), I decided to partake in AugNoWriMo, or August Novel Writing Month, with them. I'm only doing 50k though, so I'm not going to die or anything. In case you were worried.

In other news. On the second, shopping with The Sister and Mother was completed, mostly for things for school such as paper and pens and binders and other important things. But we also happened to stop by Borders on our way to TJ Maxx, since I think that The Mother felt bad about taking her pale, teenage recluse so far outside of her comfort zone, otherwise known as "at home." It was great. The Borders bit. Not the other parts, though.

Got awesome things. Then came home and died.

Yesterday, I veged. Watched an amazing movie twice.

Now it's the fourth, and I'm 639 words along on my August goal. But I like my relaxing. I think I'll keep doing it. :)

Have to work today, since The Sister is skipping out on work at The Mother's daycare center so that she can go to some little anime convention. Most stupid reason to lose a day of potential writing/goofing off time ever.

Also, I'm in the throes of a love-hate relationship with one of my current novels.

Well, bye.
----
AugNoWriMo Progress: 639/50,000

Commencing Panic Mode in 3, 2, 1...

2009-07-26T11:19:00.000-07:00

Gah.

I need to get 20k daily for the rest of July if I have even a faint hope for reaching 200k.

fuckfuckfuckfuck How'm I supposed to do that fuckfuckfuck...

The above is what I'm thinking, on the inside (I'm sorry if the words offended anyone). ._. But, hey, better to try than to just give up now.

...right?

Okay. Short post. Writing now. Gotcha.
----
JulNo progress: 109,718/200,000

Ignore all typos, repetition, or overall screwy word choice

2009-07-25T01:39:00.000-07:00

It's 1:40 AM The Rehead's time and guess who's not asleep?

The Redhead.

Guess who's at a good spot in her novel and still insists on avoiding it regardless?

The Redhead.

Guess who should just get that last 2k written so that she can go to sleep and wake up early for some writing before the parents start hounding her about chores?

The fricken Redhead.

Eh. So, I'm just about short of 109k. *little tiny party* I'm going to get 111.1k (see what I did there?), then call it a night. I'm not tired, but I know I will be in the morning if I stay up too late. And I think that my family has, sigh, plans for my weekend. My writing weekend. I'm grumbling in a corner right now. You just can't tell.

This makes me happy inside. :)

And it's really starting to piss me off that random, older people glare at me. For my teenager-ness. Like it's my fault that a majority of my fellow teen-creatures are complete pains in the arse, or that I'm one of them. Pfft. Stupid old, tempermental fogeys, putting me in a bad mood.

One of these days, I'll just confirm their suspicions about my maturity level and stick my tongue out at them.

Okay. Enough ranting. Back to writing.
----
JulNo progress: 108,802/200,000

Hi.

2009-07-24T15:20:00.000-07:00

I didn't start this blog with any real sense of purpose. If anything, I started it to avoid actually working on my novel. But regardless, I suppose that this is the "intro" post of sorts. I would take it, then, that I should tell y'all just who I am.

I am known only as The Redhead (unless you know me from somewhere else, then I'll be Impie, but that's beside the point entirely). I am a fourteen year old writer in the making, currently slugging my way through my... fifth(?) novel. Probably. Anyway, I have a passion for writing, as well as acting, singing, and many other things that are very difficult to make money off of. And, if you didn't infer this, I am a redhead.

There's not much to share right now, I think. Um... Oh. Got it. Ever heard of something called NaNoWriMo? It's this little thing where people are challenged to write 50,000 words in the month of November, and I've competed in and won two years of it, as well as one branch-off of it, JanNoWriMo, which is essentially identical, only smaller and occurring in January.

Well, currently, I'm taking part in a bit of a spin-off of NaNo, one of the many, called JulNoWriMo, the July edition of the challenge. This year I was stupid enough to decide that I wanted to hit, wait for it...

200,000 words

instead of the usual 50k. That was smart. ._.

Oh, well. I've got another 12k to write for my goal today (just short of 119k), so I suppose that I should get to it.

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JulNo progress: 106,277/200,000