Working on a short story for Fiction Workshop at the moment. Here's something brilliant from YouTube.
October 22, 2010
October 19, 2010
NaNoMeme thieves are on the loose...
AT THE START: DO YOU:
Have an outline? Oh yes. Goodness yes.
Scene-by-scene? More or less.
Know how it starts? Yup.
Know how it ends? EPICALLY.
Have your climax in order? After some very intricate plotting, yes. I've been working on this since April. ^_^
Know your main characters yet? Rhemy "Les Rhemes" Starrett (my main-main) and Oliver "Evansly" Evans!
Have a particular tone in mind? Kind of. Just gonna go with it.
Plan to draw on your own experiences? No.
IS YOUR WORK GOING TO BE:
Funny? For sure, to balance out the seriousness.
Serious? Oh yeah, definitely.
Sad? The opening scene is at a funeral. So...
Semi-Autobiographical? You caught me. I am from the future.
Based on another story? No, but I've been using Oliver forever. Like since 2006.
HOW HAVE MUCH YOU PLANNED? HAVE YOU USED:
A paper journal? Yes.
Pens? No... I really, really hate pens.
Multicoloured pens? Even multicolo[u]red ones.
A computer? Where most of the planning is done.
Index cards? Nah, too easy to lose.
Bulleted lists? Yes!
Plot charts? Haha, yes.
Character charts? Nope
Character formulas? ...What?
Favourite writing resource? Write or Die.
ODDS AND ENDS:
A line you would like to use: I've been saving them on Facebook. TECHNICALLY, it's not writing if it's Facebook.
“Ah, Y2K. I love this time in history. Apocalypse theories, the Amish secretly gloating, people gathering supplies for the end of the world. They’re like little squirrels!” *Sees a lady loading an obscene amount of groceries into her car* “Crazy, crazy squirrels.”
“This is our weird-o-meter! It goes bloop-bloop when something’s wrong.”
“And this is my watch!” *Power pose!*
“What does that do?”
“…It… it measures time. What did you think it did?”
“It’s always been about the past with you and me. When’s it ever going to be about anything else?”
“We’re brilliant!”
“We’re adverbs!”
“Let’s save the universe by playing the six degrees game!”
“WOOHOO!”
A scene you would like to include: Oliver and Rhemy making fun of everybody in the year 1999. Oh wait. That's a different plot point!
A concept you would like to explore: The future.
A cliché you would like to avoid: Part of the story takes place in Germany 1944. You would think someone is going to try to kill Hitler. OH NO THEY AREN'T!
A character you would like to use: All the characters I have for the story?
FORWARD THINKING:
Do you expect to be able to complete it? Yes.
Do you intend to complete it? Yes.
Would you ever try to publish it? After a lot of polishing.
What do you expect to get out of this month of frantic writing? AWESOMENESS.
Have an outline? Oh yes. Goodness yes.
Scene-by-scene? More or less.
Know how it starts? Yup.
Know how it ends? EPICALLY.
Have your climax in order? After some very intricate plotting, yes. I've been working on this since April. ^_^
Know your main characters yet? Rhemy "Les Rhemes" Starrett (my main-main) and Oliver "Evansly" Evans!
Have a particular tone in mind? Kind of. Just gonna go with it.
Plan to draw on your own experiences? No.
IS YOUR WORK GOING TO BE:
Funny? For sure, to balance out the seriousness.
Serious? Oh yeah, definitely.
Sad? The opening scene is at a funeral. So...
Semi-Autobiographical? You caught me. I am from the future.
Based on another story? No, but I've been using Oliver forever. Like since 2006.
HOW HAVE MUCH YOU PLANNED? HAVE YOU USED:
A paper journal? Yes.
Pens? No... I really, really hate pens.
Multicoloured pens? Even multicolo[u]red ones.
A computer? Where most of the planning is done.
Index cards? Nah, too easy to lose.
Bulleted lists? Yes!
Plot charts? Haha, yes.
Character charts? Nope
Character formulas? ...What?
Favourite writing resource? Write or Die.
ODDS AND ENDS:
A line you would like to use: I've been saving them on Facebook. TECHNICALLY, it's not writing if it's Facebook.
“Ah, Y2K. I love this time in history. Apocalypse theories, the Amish secretly gloating, people gathering supplies for the end of the world. They’re like little squirrels!” *Sees a lady loading an obscene amount of groceries into her car* “Crazy, crazy squirrels.”
“This is our weird-o-meter! It goes bloop-bloop when something’s wrong.”
“And this is my watch!” *Power pose!*
“What does that do?”
“…It… it measures time. What did you think it did?”
“It’s always been about the past with you and me. When’s it ever going to be about anything else?”
“We’re brilliant!”
“We’re adverbs!”
“Let’s save the universe by playing the six degrees game!”
“WOOHOO!”
A scene you would like to include: Oliver and Rhemy making fun of everybody in the year 1999. Oh wait. That's a different plot point!
A concept you would like to explore: The future.
A cliché you would like to avoid: Part of the story takes place in Germany 1944. You would think someone is going to try to kill Hitler. OH NO THEY AREN'T!
A character you would like to use: All the characters I have for the story?
FORWARD THINKING:
Do you expect to be able to complete it? Yes.
Do you intend to complete it? Yes.
Would you ever try to publish it? After a lot of polishing.
What do you expect to get out of this month of frantic writing? AWESOMENESS.
October 18, 2010
I promise...
...to write well.
...to write badly first.
...to be honest.
...to not be preachy.
...to not take myself seriously.
...to not write for trends. Trends change.
...to not get so caught up in words that I lose sight of the story.
...to not care what people think.
...to remember why I'm doing this.
...to make people laugh.
...to make people feel good.
...to make a difference.
...to never stop.
OK, now it's your turn.
(PS: WMU's literary magazines, The Laureate and Third Coast are accepting submissions!)
October 14, 2010
That nonfiction piece I was working on.
It's amazing what you can finish when you have an hour to do it. :) Anyways, this is about my paternal grandpa who passed away a few years ago. It's called "Some Other Monument".
--
It’s May, and we’re bicycling to the church. I could ride ahead of Laura if I wanted, but it’s easier keeping watch if she’s in front of me. As if there’s ever anything to watch out for.
The church is just around the corner from home, behind some houses and trees. When the entrance is in sight, Laura decides it’s time to race, as always. “I’m going to beat you!” she cheers. Her three-wheeler protests how fast she wants to go.
We’re blurs as we spin into the parking lot, sashaying around the rock islands and speed bumps. We cut across to the edge of the playground that’s next to the memorial. Laura laughs triumphantly; she wins this round.
Two white arches stand guard at each end of the small memorial that’s next to the playground. Red bricks trace the patches of purple flowers. In the northwest corner, there’s a grave marker that time hasn’t worn. It doesn’t say much. John Hanson. 1923. 2007. There are two engravings on it: one of the cross, and one of two evergreens. Today there’s a small flag standing over it.
Some people add nice sentiments about the departed on their grave markers. Most people have room for exact dates, but not the ones here. Names and years are enough. How are you supposed to sum up a life in a few well-meaning words anyways, especially one that lasted 84 years? Grandpa would remain an enigma to future generations.
He was always like that. Quiet, a bit serious, but once in a while he would catch you off guard with his odd sense of humor. While Grandpa McNees made sure we all knew beans are a magical fruit, he taught us about Yon Yonson. My name is Yon Yonson. I come vrum Visconsin. I verk in de lumberyard der. And all de people I meet as I valk down de street say, “Hallo der! Vat’s your name?” And I say, “My name is Yon Yonson. I come vrum Visconsin. I verk in de lumberyard der.” To be said with a horrible Scandinavian accent. To be repeated endlessly. To make everybody laugh at how Danish we are.
And we are Danish, no matter what the people at Ellis Island would lead you to believe. They’re the ones who put the “o” in our name when it should be an “e”. They’re the ones who inadvertently gave Grandpa his nickname – Swede. People called him that his whole life. Grandma once told me about a time when they were dating and she called him that. He said, “Mary… I have to tell you something.”
He looked so serious that she thought he was going to break up with her. “What is it?”
“I’m not Swedish.”
Grandpa had the chance to visit Denmark back when I was 13 and Laura was 11. That was the year he was diagnosed, I think. He brought me back a copy of some fairy tales by Hans Christian Anderson. Then Laura took it and wrote her name all over the cover page.
There were so many pictures when he came back, even of little things that most people wouldn’t think to record. That was Grandpa, always noticing the insignificant details. And he took pictures of the big things, of course: the cathedrals and Legoland and the Little Mermaid statue and everything. When he went on a trip with a camera, you could always be sure that you got a fair representation of what happened.
That’s what he always did anyways. I was under the impression until I was seven that he was literally attached to his camera. Everywhere he went, he was taking photos. It didn’t even matter if there wasn’t an occasion.
One of the home videos he took when he had a video camera – one of those big clunky things – is after I was just born and trying to sleep. Grandpa was asking my parents, “Can you get her to open her eyes?” He took a lot of pride in his amateur photographs.
What really tickled me was this letter he sent to his parents when he was serving in the Navy. He sometimes wrote about how he missed his camera equipment, and in this particular letter, he told them about how he was put in charge of taking pictures of everybody on deck. He loved that job.
I actually found one of his old war photos when I was nine. I had no idea he had ever been in the military up until then. When I asked him about it, he told me that he had served in the Navy during World War II. There are three other things I know about his experience serving. One: he fought in Okinawa. Two: he didn’t believe it when he first heard that the war in Europe was over. Three: he really was homesick. And those are all from his letters that we found after his death.
Now there are dozens of boxes filled with pictures organized by date because that was the way he liked it. Grandma thought it would be better if they were organized by who was in the picture. She still organizes them by date.
“Grandpa, she… he died.” Laura doesn’t understand what this fully means yet. She seems to think that if you’re a very, very good person, then you won’t die. We go through this conversation every time we come here.
“Yeah.”
Laura sighs. “Poor Grandpa.”
It would be easy to think that way. It would have been easy for Grandpa to let himself think that way. But not once did he get depressed, even when his 16-year-old granddaughter had to virtually babysit him while Grandma went to get groceries. He cheered right along with us when he managed to sit down or stand up. He made jokes about his constant shaking and how long it took him to get from one end of the room to the other. He may not have been graceful in motion, but he was in spirit.
He died on his favorite day of the year: Christmas Day. It was around 11 PM. He couldn’t get out of bed by then. The only person who could sometimes understand him was Grandma. My family had left around 9 o’clock. Laura had said, “Bye Grandpa! I love you!”
I had waved and said, “See ya later, Grandpa!”
The shock came on slowly. When we told Laura, she thought of our second dog who died seven years before. “Grandpa died?” She looked confused. “Shiloh… she died.” She’s had a hard time understanding it. Even now.
Before I can tell Laura that no, it’s OK that Grandpa’s gone now, she’s distracted. “Hey, what’s this?” Someone has left a poem written on a plastic square standing on two thin wires over the grave for another veteran. Someone else’s grandfather.
“It’s a poem.”
Laura kneels down and examines it for a second. I look over her shoulder and spot several words that she won’t know how to pronounce. She reads as if the words were fragile. She reads like she once did to Grandpa. It’s not an amazing poem. It’s clearly meant only to comfort, but Laura’s bringing something new to it.
When she finishes, we’re quiet for a while. Laura stands back up, but keeps looking at the poem.
“Laura, that was perfect.” I’m not entirely sure what just happened. There was no way Laura, who loves to read but always struggles with it, could have read that. Every syllable, every line was in perfect form. What just happened?
“Tank you.” Laura lets out a big sigh. “Well, Sister Sue, we better to get going. It’s getting awfully late.”
I nod. She’s probably right – the sun’s already starting to set. “Yeah.” As we walk back to our bikes, I ask, “You know what that poem meant?”
But whatever compelled her to read that poem is gone because she answers, “It’s about… hey I know! Let’s sing a pirate song!” And she proceeds to belt out Disney songs at the top of her lungs.
--
Oh, my sister. She's moderately autistic, by the way. So that explains a lot, doesn't it? :)
--
It’s May, and we’re bicycling to the church. I could ride ahead of Laura if I wanted, but it’s easier keeping watch if she’s in front of me. As if there’s ever anything to watch out for.
The church is just around the corner from home, behind some houses and trees. When the entrance is in sight, Laura decides it’s time to race, as always. “I’m going to beat you!” she cheers. Her three-wheeler protests how fast she wants to go.
We’re blurs as we spin into the parking lot, sashaying around the rock islands and speed bumps. We cut across to the edge of the playground that’s next to the memorial. Laura laughs triumphantly; she wins this round.
Two white arches stand guard at each end of the small memorial that’s next to the playground. Red bricks trace the patches of purple flowers. In the northwest corner, there’s a grave marker that time hasn’t worn. It doesn’t say much. John Hanson. 1923. 2007. There are two engravings on it: one of the cross, and one of two evergreens. Today there’s a small flag standing over it.
Some people add nice sentiments about the departed on their grave markers. Most people have room for exact dates, but not the ones here. Names and years are enough. How are you supposed to sum up a life in a few well-meaning words anyways, especially one that lasted 84 years? Grandpa would remain an enigma to future generations.
He was always like that. Quiet, a bit serious, but once in a while he would catch you off guard with his odd sense of humor. While Grandpa McNees made sure we all knew beans are a magical fruit, he taught us about Yon Yonson. My name is Yon Yonson. I come vrum Visconsin. I verk in de lumberyard der. And all de people I meet as I valk down de street say, “Hallo der! Vat’s your name?” And I say, “My name is Yon Yonson. I come vrum Visconsin. I verk in de lumberyard der.” To be said with a horrible Scandinavian accent. To be repeated endlessly. To make everybody laugh at how Danish we are.
And we are Danish, no matter what the people at Ellis Island would lead you to believe. They’re the ones who put the “o” in our name when it should be an “e”. They’re the ones who inadvertently gave Grandpa his nickname – Swede. People called him that his whole life. Grandma once told me about a time when they were dating and she called him that. He said, “Mary… I have to tell you something.”
He looked so serious that she thought he was going to break up with her. “What is it?”
“I’m not Swedish.”
Grandpa had the chance to visit Denmark back when I was 13 and Laura was 11. That was the year he was diagnosed, I think. He brought me back a copy of some fairy tales by Hans Christian Anderson. Then Laura took it and wrote her name all over the cover page.
There were so many pictures when he came back, even of little things that most people wouldn’t think to record. That was Grandpa, always noticing the insignificant details. And he took pictures of the big things, of course: the cathedrals and Legoland and the Little Mermaid statue and everything. When he went on a trip with a camera, you could always be sure that you got a fair representation of what happened.
That’s what he always did anyways. I was under the impression until I was seven that he was literally attached to his camera. Everywhere he went, he was taking photos. It didn’t even matter if there wasn’t an occasion.
One of the home videos he took when he had a video camera – one of those big clunky things – is after I was just born and trying to sleep. Grandpa was asking my parents, “Can you get her to open her eyes?” He took a lot of pride in his amateur photographs.
What really tickled me was this letter he sent to his parents when he was serving in the Navy. He sometimes wrote about how he missed his camera equipment, and in this particular letter, he told them about how he was put in charge of taking pictures of everybody on deck. He loved that job.
I actually found one of his old war photos when I was nine. I had no idea he had ever been in the military up until then. When I asked him about it, he told me that he had served in the Navy during World War II. There are three other things I know about his experience serving. One: he fought in Okinawa. Two: he didn’t believe it when he first heard that the war in Europe was over. Three: he really was homesick. And those are all from his letters that we found after his death.
Now there are dozens of boxes filled with pictures organized by date because that was the way he liked it. Grandma thought it would be better if they were organized by who was in the picture. She still organizes them by date.
“Grandpa, she… he died.” Laura doesn’t understand what this fully means yet. She seems to think that if you’re a very, very good person, then you won’t die. We go through this conversation every time we come here.
“Yeah.”
Laura sighs. “Poor Grandpa.”
It would be easy to think that way. It would have been easy for Grandpa to let himself think that way. But not once did he get depressed, even when his 16-year-old granddaughter had to virtually babysit him while Grandma went to get groceries. He cheered right along with us when he managed to sit down or stand up. He made jokes about his constant shaking and how long it took him to get from one end of the room to the other. He may not have been graceful in motion, but he was in spirit.
He died on his favorite day of the year: Christmas Day. It was around 11 PM. He couldn’t get out of bed by then. The only person who could sometimes understand him was Grandma. My family had left around 9 o’clock. Laura had said, “Bye Grandpa! I love you!”
I had waved and said, “See ya later, Grandpa!”
The shock came on slowly. When we told Laura, she thought of our second dog who died seven years before. “Grandpa died?” She looked confused. “Shiloh… she died.” She’s had a hard time understanding it. Even now.
Before I can tell Laura that no, it’s OK that Grandpa’s gone now, she’s distracted. “Hey, what’s this?” Someone has left a poem written on a plastic square standing on two thin wires over the grave for another veteran. Someone else’s grandfather.
“It’s a poem.”
Laura kneels down and examines it for a second. I look over her shoulder and spot several words that she won’t know how to pronounce. She reads as if the words were fragile. She reads like she once did to Grandpa. It’s not an amazing poem. It’s clearly meant only to comfort, but Laura’s bringing something new to it.
When she finishes, we’re quiet for a while. Laura stands back up, but keeps looking at the poem.
“Laura, that was perfect.” I’m not entirely sure what just happened. There was no way Laura, who loves to read but always struggles with it, could have read that. Every syllable, every line was in perfect form. What just happened?
“Tank you.” Laura lets out a big sigh. “Well, Sister Sue, we better to get going. It’s getting awfully late.”
I nod. She’s probably right – the sun’s already starting to set. “Yeah.” As we walk back to our bikes, I ask, “You know what that poem meant?”
But whatever compelled her to read that poem is gone because she answers, “It’s about… hey I know! Let’s sing a pirate song!” And she proceeds to belt out Disney songs at the top of her lungs.
--
Oh, my sister. She's moderately autistic, by the way. So that explains a lot, doesn't it? :)
October 11, 2010
Another piece for Fiction Workshop.
I have been horrible on catching up with the blogs I'm following lately because of all this HOMEWORK. And outside stress. Stupid stress-inducers. Errrgh. Just ten weeks left... ten weeks.
So for Fiction Workshop this week, we had to write a fragmentary flash fiction, and I've been in a Halloweeny mood, plus I told my friend that I would write something along those lines for her local TV show event thing. So what came out was "A Ghastly Tale of Horrifying Horror. Or Something." That's honestly the whole title.
--
One Thing The Neighbor Said
“Stupid kids with their crazy rock music.”
Two Things The Kid (Who Isn’t As Funny As He Thinks) Said
“Huh indeed. The ghosts are totally jamming to Still Alive. The cake is a lie, anyone?”
“That is the worst possible thing you could do. Now I’m going home because the funny guy is always the second to die. Peace!”
Three Things The Natural Leader Said
“Don’t give me that crap about the suicide. Since when are you superstitious?”
“Hey, uh, if any ghosts are gonna show up, might as well do it now! Haha, lighten up, dude. Nothing is… huh.”
“I’ll be right back; I’m just gonna see where that’s coming from.”
Four Things The Genre-Savvy One Said
“This is a good idea. This is totally not dangerous or stupid at all. I mean, forget other-worldly happenings. There are noooo such things as, oh, trespassing laws. Let’s do this.”
“It was a dark and stormy night when the spirits beat Portal… it really writes itself.”
“That’s a super good way to get yourself murdered in the most appalling way ever. Or the most hilarious. But I’m talking closed casket here.”
“That was definitely the ghosts dragging Cal into Hell. Time to leave.”
Five Things The Homeowner Said
“What the hell?!”
“OK, stop screaming! Kid, kid, stop frickin’ screaming!”
“How did you get in?”
“Ugh. You’re the ninth person who thought this place was haunted. You’re looking for the house next door.”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey, can you toss over the Cheetos? Thanks.”
--
Completely not scary at all. But Halloweeny! :D So sad...
And now for something that's sure to put a smile on your face: The Yodeling Veterinarian of the Alps.
This blog really doesn't make much sense at times, does it?
So for Fiction Workshop this week, we had to write a fragmentary flash fiction, and I've been in a Halloweeny mood, plus I told my friend that I would write something along those lines for her local TV show event thing. So what came out was "A Ghastly Tale of Horrifying Horror. Or Something." That's honestly the whole title.
--
One Thing The Neighbor Said
“Stupid kids with their crazy rock music.”
Two Things The Kid (Who Isn’t As Funny As He Thinks) Said
“Huh indeed. The ghosts are totally jamming to Still Alive. The cake is a lie, anyone?”
“That is the worst possible thing you could do. Now I’m going home because the funny guy is always the second to die. Peace!”
Three Things The Natural Leader Said
“Don’t give me that crap about the suicide. Since when are you superstitious?”
“Hey, uh, if any ghosts are gonna show up, might as well do it now! Haha, lighten up, dude. Nothing is… huh.”
“I’ll be right back; I’m just gonna see where that’s coming from.”
Four Things The Genre-Savvy One Said
“This is a good idea. This is totally not dangerous or stupid at all. I mean, forget other-worldly happenings. There are noooo such things as, oh, trespassing laws. Let’s do this.”
“It was a dark and stormy night when the spirits beat Portal… it really writes itself.”
“That’s a super good way to get yourself murdered in the most appalling way ever. Or the most hilarious. But I’m talking closed casket here.”
“That was definitely the ghosts dragging Cal into Hell. Time to leave.”
Five Things The Homeowner Said
“What the hell?!”
“OK, stop screaming! Kid, kid, stop frickin’ screaming!”
“How did you get in?”
“Ugh. You’re the ninth person who thought this place was haunted. You’re looking for the house next door.”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey, can you toss over the Cheetos? Thanks.”
--
Completely not scary at all. But Halloweeny! :D So sad...
And now for something that's sure to put a smile on your face: The Yodeling Veterinarian of the Alps.
This blog really doesn't make much sense at times, does it?
October 7, 2010
Since it's been four days...
Sorry, this week has been trying to kill me. School... my dad was in the hospital for a couple days (nothing serious)... that sorta thing... then my phone is being stupid... *sigh* Anyway, here's something that never fails to make me laugh. Enjoy.
And something old from college and career. :)
And something old from college and career. :)
October 3, 2010
Third time's a charm?
Hey there. Blog's been quiet. GothNo is going... pretty well. I'm trying to focus a little bit more on my story for Fiction Workshop right now because it's due in a few weeks. I think I finally have a good story. It was inspired by this quiz called "What are the Keys to Your Heart?" or something like that. Right now, the title is "Key to Nat's Soul". It's verging on magical realism. Fun stuff. :) Here's the boring first part that hasn't been edited at all.
--
Zeke and Siobhan Grey gave their daughter the key to her soul when she was twelve years old, like most parents. Maggie Grey already knew she had one because everybody did. She had also heard all the stories that surrounded the things. Those were mainly cautionary tales about gremlins who sneaked in at night and stole the key, leaving the victim soulless. She also knew that her parents wore each other’s keys around their necks, but she couldn’t fathom why. Every time she asked, they would just say, “You’ll understand when you’re older,” and send her off.
For the first couple years, she kept the key hidden in the wintery socks she never wore. When she was a little older and moths started eating the wintery socks, she tied it around her wrist because that’s what all the kids in ninth grade did with them. It was best that she did anyway. Kids who didn’t were labeled as soulless and shunned.
--
I think the idea is kinda neat, even if it isn't completely original. It's fun. Hope you weren't completely bored by it.
--
Zeke and Siobhan Grey gave their daughter the key to her soul when she was twelve years old, like most parents. Maggie Grey already knew she had one because everybody did. She had also heard all the stories that surrounded the things. Those were mainly cautionary tales about gremlins who sneaked in at night and stole the key, leaving the victim soulless. She also knew that her parents wore each other’s keys around their necks, but she couldn’t fathom why. Every time she asked, they would just say, “You’ll understand when you’re older,” and send her off.
For the first couple years, she kept the key hidden in the wintery socks she never wore. When she was a little older and moths started eating the wintery socks, she tied it around her wrist because that’s what all the kids in ninth grade did with them. It was best that she did anyway. Kids who didn’t were labeled as soulless and shunned.
--
I think the idea is kinda neat, even if it isn't completely original. It's fun. Hope you weren't completely bored by it.
September 29, 2010
If you had 72 hours...
This morning's link is brought to you by one of my school's advisors. It's a writing contest that's free to enter (I know, how often do you see that?) that asks the question: what would you do if you had 72 hours to live?
You'll be able to get more details at the site. It's an interesting question, although we've all heard variations of it probably. I would really like to get to the top floor of Sprau Tower without, y'know, having a panic attack. And also have a wheelchair race. But mostly spend time with my friends and family. So what would you do?
You'll be able to get more details at the site. It's an interesting question, although we've all heard variations of it probably. I would really like to get to the top floor of Sprau Tower without, y'know, having a panic attack. And also have a wheelchair race. But mostly spend time with my friends and family. So what would you do?
September 25, 2010
It’s Banned Books Week.
It's a good reminder, I think. Even though America is a good country to live in – frankly, I'm just thankful that I'm safe, healthy, and in school – there are still serious flaws. I won't get too political here, but that first amendment is there for a reason.
With that being said… how is it possible that this week exists? How is it possible that this week someone who claims to be in Christ called Speak "softcore pornography" because it has two rape scenes? We should be worried. We should be angry. This country was founded so that people could say what they wanted without being prosecuted for it. And THIS IS STILL GOING ON? Does not compute.
What really makes me mad is that books with good, wonderful messages get roasted by the "moral guardians", and then all the other media gets away with this horrible, horrible stuff that's has no blanking point. I'm talking about the senseless violence and sensuality we see on TV and in movies, and hear about in music. At least in books there's a point. There's a deeper meaning. If there wasn't, the scene wouldn't exist.
I can hear you now. "Uh, Qzie? They don't exactly get away with the stuff. The moral guardians do get upset with them." Then where's Banned Music Week? Where's Banned TV Week? Banned Movie Week?
Yeah. Exactly. OK, I need to calm down before I make someone angry at me.
Some writers have made it their goal to be on this list someday. If they make it, I can only hope it's for showing the public the truth.
September 24, 2010
I was downright chatty this week. Holy cow.
You have to understand how weird this is. I'm never this wordy. Speaking of words! Sometimes when I get bored, I like pulling out a notebook and writing about whatever pops in my head. Which is only a little dangerous. :) Like so:
One word. Viva. It's like a little revolution if you say it right. Listen how it charges the air. Viva. It's more electric than electricity. It's light. It's free. Say it. Mean it. You see?
Love is an odd word. All you need is love. All you need is love, love, love. Love is all you need.
"Love's not something you feel. It's something you do."
"Someone else said that before."
"Because it's true."*
Love has no charge in its sound. It's too fluid for charge. Too soft for revolution. Too strong for electricity.
Lull. It’s a nice word on paper, but when you say it, it almost gets stuck in your teeth. Like you have to lull it out.
Wonder. There's something magical about this word. Best said in the summer, at night, surrounded by fireflies. It's a promise and a question. It whispers what if and maybe. It's the glimmer in the dark.
*That was part of our discussion at college and career last week. :D Actually, that's where I'm headed right now.
(PS: I'm not claiming I have psychic abilities, but...)
One word. Viva. It's like a little revolution if you say it right. Listen how it charges the air. Viva. It's more electric than electricity. It's light. It's free. Say it. Mean it. You see?
Love is an odd word. All you need is love. All you need is love, love, love. Love is all you need.
"Love's not something you feel. It's something you do."
"Someone else said that before."
"Because it's true."*
Love has no charge in its sound. It's too fluid for charge. Too soft for revolution. Too strong for electricity.
Lull. It’s a nice word on paper, but when you say it, it almost gets stuck in your teeth. Like you have to lull it out.
Wonder. There's something magical about this word. Best said in the summer, at night, surrounded by fireflies. It's a promise and a question. It whispers what if and maybe. It's the glimmer in the dark.
*That was part of our discussion at college and career last week. :D Actually, that's where I'm headed right now.
(PS: I'm not claiming I have psychic abilities, but...)
September 23, 2010
Because I adore The Princess Bride.
Late night clickables. I even created two new tags for this post: ...the aforementioned phrase and Books of Legend. Because if The Princess Bride isn't a Book of Legend, well, then the universe is out of whack.
Matt Mikalatos is giving away said Book of Legend. Go. Run. I mean click. CLICK. Here it is again!
http://mikalatos.blogspot.com/2010/09/books-i-love-win-copy-of-princess-bride.html
Matt Mikalatos is giving away said Book of Legend. Go. Run. I mean click. CLICK. Here it is again!
http://mikalatos.blogspot.com/2010/09/books-i-love-win-copy-of-princess-bride.html
Because I'm too tired to write an actual post...
...here's a flash fiction I wrote for Workshop. It's called "Distance", but a better title for it would be "On Getting Your Neighbor to Come Out of His Freaking House". But that one's long. :)
--
Gabe sits in front of me. Pissed. It’s too early for this, he thinks. Too early to be five feet within another human being. The crabapple lines he’s sporting around his eyes spell that out. You would never believe that he’s only been alive for twenty-something years. More like ninety. His joints even creak. What twenty-something is as rusty as the Tin Man?
He’s going to help anyways. We got walkie talkies and a flare gun. Thank you, Internet. Now we’re going to kill the point of you.
The only things missing from this scene are the tinfoil hats. Across the street, the lights betray the neighbor’s worry. Or his jealousy. Weird kids, sitting on the roof. With a flare gun. Don’t forget the flare gun.
“Niner-niner. Come in, niner. Or tener. Whatever. Are we on the radio yet?” Gabe doesn’t think I’m funny. He’s lame. “Someone’s gonna call the police on us. We’ve got a flare gun, world, and we’re sitting on a roof. Ah- haha.”
Gabe rolls his eyes. Too tired to comment.
The neighbor reappears in the doorway. A cat slips out, but the door doesn’t close. “Hey you! With the door!” I grab the gun and hold it up in the air. Showing off a bit. “Whaddya think of this?”
Gabe punches me in the arm. What are you doing, you idiot, he’s saying. Ever hear of safety first? He’s the one who agreed to come up on a roof with the thing. And me. That’s not exactly safe. And what’s he doing hitting me when I’m holding the beast?
The door stays open. Right now the neighbor’s thinking, What is that? What are they doing? They’re not doing anything weird up there, are they?
Well….
“It’s a flare gun!” I wave it like a flag. “If you come over, we’ll let you shoot it!” It’s a good offer. Get to hang out on the roof. Shoot at nothing. He can’t refuse that.
But he’s not coming. He’s just standing there, watching. He probably doesn’t believe me. Maybe he thinks the gun’s broken. Maybe he thinks it’s a real one, not a flare.
Can’t have that.
The blaze breaks the air. Gabe can’t believe I just did that. Neither can my fingers. I don’t think hearts are supposed to beat this fast. Just saying.
The neighbor closes the door. He’s probably calling the police now. In about twenty minutes we’ll know for sure.
--
We were supposed to be imitating Michael Davis. I think I failed, but the class laughed, which was kinda the point. It was funny because the teacher was trying so hard to find some deeper meaning and, as one of my classmates aptly put it, "It's about two stupid kids with a flare gun."
Still working on that book trailer. People have been looking at me funny while I film it. Whatever. :)
Chat later.
--
Gabe sits in front of me. Pissed. It’s too early for this, he thinks. Too early to be five feet within another human being. The crabapple lines he’s sporting around his eyes spell that out. You would never believe that he’s only been alive for twenty-something years. More like ninety. His joints even creak. What twenty-something is as rusty as the Tin Man?
He’s going to help anyways. We got walkie talkies and a flare gun. Thank you, Internet. Now we’re going to kill the point of you.
The only things missing from this scene are the tinfoil hats. Across the street, the lights betray the neighbor’s worry. Or his jealousy. Weird kids, sitting on the roof. With a flare gun. Don’t forget the flare gun.
“Niner-niner. Come in, niner. Or tener. Whatever. Are we on the radio yet?” Gabe doesn’t think I’m funny. He’s lame. “Someone’s gonna call the police on us. We’ve got a flare gun, world, and we’re sitting on a roof. Ah- haha.”
Gabe rolls his eyes. Too tired to comment.
The neighbor reappears in the doorway. A cat slips out, but the door doesn’t close. “Hey you! With the door!” I grab the gun and hold it up in the air. Showing off a bit. “Whaddya think of this?”
Gabe punches me in the arm. What are you doing, you idiot, he’s saying. Ever hear of safety first? He’s the one who agreed to come up on a roof with the thing. And me. That’s not exactly safe. And what’s he doing hitting me when I’m holding the beast?
The door stays open. Right now the neighbor’s thinking, What is that? What are they doing? They’re not doing anything weird up there, are they?
Well….
“It’s a flare gun!” I wave it like a flag. “If you come over, we’ll let you shoot it!” It’s a good offer. Get to hang out on the roof. Shoot at nothing. He can’t refuse that.
But he’s not coming. He’s just standing there, watching. He probably doesn’t believe me. Maybe he thinks the gun’s broken. Maybe he thinks it’s a real one, not a flare.
Can’t have that.
The blaze breaks the air. Gabe can’t believe I just did that. Neither can my fingers. I don’t think hearts are supposed to beat this fast. Just saying.
The neighbor closes the door. He’s probably calling the police now. In about twenty minutes we’ll know for sure.
--
We were supposed to be imitating Michael Davis. I think I failed, but the class laughed, which was kinda the point. It was funny because the teacher was trying so hard to find some deeper meaning and, as one of my classmates aptly put it, "It's about two stupid kids with a flare gun."
Still working on that book trailer. People have been looking at me funny while I film it. Whatever. :)
Chat later.
September 22, 2010
Three-Minute Fiction
This link comes to you through the grapevine... Jesi Marie heard about it from her writing group, and I heard about it from her blog. And now you're hearing it from me! Six degrees, right...?
So this morning's title will whisk you away to the Three Minute Fiction Contest. Basically what you have to do is write a story that's 600 words or less that starts with: "Some people swore that the house was haunted." and ends with: "Nothing was ever the same again after that." But the deadline is September 26th, so if you're gonna enter, write quickly!
OK. Good night, world.
So this morning's title will whisk you away to the Three Minute Fiction Contest. Basically what you have to do is write a story that's 600 words or less that starts with: "Some people swore that the house was haunted." and ends with: "Nothing was ever the same again after that." But the deadline is September 26th, so if you're gonna enter, write quickly!
OK. Good night, world.
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