Monday, January 31, 2011

Update #8: You don't even understand what you're doing to me

I was listening to RED's song Lie To Me (Denial) while I wrote this, from their new album Till We Have Faces. I would say it's a lovely song, but it rings with such power it needs a stronger word than lovely.  The words are full of remorse, pain, and pity. 
It made me think of this situation where someone was hurting another without realizing all that they were doing.  The one hurting knows what's wrong and wants to help.  They ache, knowing and wishing for things to be different, somehow, but they're in no position...
Or maybe they're in the best position of all.

Lie to me
You can feel
That this love was never real
Walk away
You can learn to love again

Lie to me
Watch me bleed
Cause I'll still be here when you see
You're not alone
You don't have to run again
Leave me in denial

Can you just turn away and let me go?

Sunday, January 30, 2011


Time.  It’s an interesting thing: always flowing, but never going anywhere.  And whereas we’re always using it, we’re not always taking advantage of it.
We’re stuck in a world of Todays.  Today is the only thing we have.  There is no promise of Tomorrow, and when we are blessed with it, like those Tomorrows of the past it once again becomes Today. 
The curious thing about humans, though, is that we pretend that we exist for Tomorrows.  We’re always looking to the future for our accomplishment, our fulfillment, our drive.
There’s nothing wrong with looking towards the future.  The problems begin when the future is all we think about:  our Tomorrow, our hopes, our expectations.
We humans watch the horizon eagerly, as if there is something we can do about what we see there.  We plan for the things that are obvious like trips or new additions for the family, but the little things slip us up, the things we can’t foresee.
Life isn’t about Tomorrows.  It isn’t about what’s in store, or what may happen, or what we plan.
Life is about the little moments.  It’s about those things that slip us up when we have somewhere to be, when we have an appointment or date we can’t miss.  It’s the interruptions, the slip-ups, the delays. 
Life is when you look out your window when you’re stuck on a dingy grey interstate and you see a glorious rainbow.  Life is the man waving the sign on the corner of a busy intersection, who smiles at you even when you pass him and his sign by.  Life is the little girl in the supermarket who tells you that she thinks you look nice that day.
Time isn’t life.  Life can’t be subjected to it.  Life should never be controlled by time, any more than the sun should never be controlled by the moon.
Life— those simple moments that slip by us in our search for Tomorrow – should never be overlooked.
It’s easy to overlook the little things.  Making the effort to live in the now and pay attention to that and those around you is difficult.  Slowing down, opening your eyes, smelling flowers is hard, especially in the hyperactive, cybernated world we live in.
I’m not saying that you have to.  But if you’re content, watching the ever-looming, ever-arriving Tomorrows—if you’re content, missing the people in your lives as you overlook them for selfish pleasure—if you’re content, ignoring the flowers on your table someone put there this morning—you’re lying to yourself.
Why settle for the mediocre? 
You’re missing out on so many more wonderful pleasures that God has let into your normal, ‘boring’, wonderful, extraordinary everyday life.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Update #7: Depression Central

Just realized the other day I’ve written a whole bunch of depressing stuff lately.  No reason why, though.  I've been happy as a lark recently.  A little stressed, but content beside that.
If you’re prone to depression or just aren’t cool with emotional masochism, you don’t have to read it.  Heck, I’m not.  I’m just dumping it here so I won’t come across it later and I’m not like, “Hey, what’s this doing here?”

I take as little responsibility as I can if you have any qualms with it.  If you think a style is cool or something, well then, yes, I did write it.

It’s a weird thing—I have no idea where all of this comes from.  And I know that that sounds like an excuse, but honestly… it just appears in my mind and I write it down.  I’m really a very happy person, as you all know. ^_^

So here goes nothing:

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Last Chance Detectives!

(Okay, so not really.  I did always love them, though.  Great series.)
If you want to read the first draft of Islander, I’d do so now.  Pretty soon I’m going to take it down in preparation of the rewrite going up.
Though I’m not saying you should read it.  It’s pretty bad.  I know first drafts are supposed to be bad and all, but honestly, that thing is not a novel.  It’s just a bunch of words, kind of like I put the idea and all the right words in the blender.  The plot is intact, but the characters need work, and the overall style just needs to die.  It’s like Stephanie Meyer, but worse.
Aaaand now I’m going to pretend like I didn’t make that statement and hide in hopes my friends who are Twilight fangirls don’t eat me alive~
But I just wanted to give you a head’s up.  First draft is coming down at the end of February.  If you don’t, great.  You’ll just be that much more impressed when you read the rewrite!  And that’s always exciting.
I don’t know if the *rewrite* will be done by February, but hey.  That’s what we’ll shoot for.  I’m definitely hoping that it’ll be done before May so I can get a free proof copy!  Thank you, CreateSpace.  You are my new love.
If you want a little update, so far I’ve got 2,054 words and plenty of inspiration.  I’m turning it from a 20 chapters to 8, not including the prologue/epilogue.  So far Hero has become 90% more manly.  (That might only have to do with the fact that I went from being a 13-year-old girl who didn’t know what she was doing writing a 17-year-old guy to a 16-year-old girl writing a 17-year-old guy who is working with him to make it all work out in the end.  (In the way that Islander all works out in the end, that is.)) 

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Re-writing and Cookies

So here I am, it’s 12:04 AM, and I’m Battling the Green Death. Why, you ask?
Why, it’s novel re-write time!
You see, I was so sick of all of the people over at NaNoLand telling me, “Rewriting is the most important part of a novel!  Rewriting is the majority of the work!  Rewriting is polishing and making your novel readable!  Rewriting!  Rewriting! Rewriting!”
I was good with being told what the next step was after rough draft.  But imagine being told that you had to make 17 dozen cookies for a luncheon, and you had no way of getting a recipe.   Your computer was dead, your cookbooks burned in your last attempt to make nachos, your phone networks are down (all of them), and the library is closed.  The only thing you’re getting from other people is, “You know, I had this really great recipe once that used some kind of butter or butter substitute.”
It was a little like that.
But imagine you wrote a book.  You’re feeling great, like, “Wow, I did this thing!” and everyone else is telling you, “Now you have to rewrite!  That’s most of the work!”
And you say, “Okay, cool!  So what is rewriting?  Do I cut/move things around, or rewrite the whole book, or just scenes, or do I change wordings, or get new characters, or what?  What’s typical of a rewrite?”
And you hear, “Now you have to rewrite!  That’s most of the work!”
And you say, “Okay, great!  So do I print off a copy of the novel and proof it, and then I rewrite in my changes?  Or do I change wordings of passages and switch up some dialogue?”
And you hear, “Now you have to rewrite!  That’s most of the work!”
Now you think that’s annoying.  I heard it a lot more than 3 times, honey.  And what was I going to do?  No one would define ‘rewrite’ for me.
So I came to the obnoxious conclusion that maybe no one can define rewrite.  Maybe it’s just that part of the creative process when you do whatever you can to make your novel rock.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

What Comfort Is There?

Imagine being told just a few days before you turn 17 that your uncle committed suicide.  Imagine being eleven, and suddenly your uncle is gone.  Like that.
I can’t imagine.
I just can’t imagine.
I don’t want to write out petty comforts or pretend like I know anything about the situation.  It’s not my place.

I always thought suicide was something that kids did.
But to think that the stress of life was too much, too much for a grown man, with a wonderful wife, and two college-age sons, and a teenage daughter—to think that he thought he needed to escape that much—
It doesn’t just scare me.  It terrifies me.

I didn't know his name.

What can I say to them?

Please pray for a family that's really close to mine.  They need it right now.


Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Update #6: Cages


We live in cages.
Each of us, suspended over what is sure to be a bottomless pit, over darkness, over oblivion—in cages, alone.
But please, don’t feel sorry for us.
We make them, after all.
I live in a society where we build ourselves cages. We don’t do it because we have to—only because it’s something that we’ve always done.  You become an adult and you move into a cage.  For me, it was at age twelve.  A friend just got her cage, and she’s fourteen.  Some don’t get their cages until they’re almost twenty.
We all get them, though.
Sitting here, against the adobe coating the inside of the metal contraption, I have to think about this.  Looking around me, I can watch as others come to age.  We build them and we weep.  A life of captivity.  A nightmare.  We don’t want to live in these cages.  We don’t deserve to.  Life in a cage… what are we?  Are we animals to be contained? 
We are people.  We are human beings.  We should be out, and free, and alive.  Wonderfully uncaged.
I wept myself, while I pounded the iron and spread the adobe.  I wept for who I was becoming, and who I had to be, and who I was.  I wept because I had to enter the cage.
My pillar of ice was frozen.  I crouched on it, and wailed aloud, mourning it all.  Others, from their cages, cried with me.  We were the most pitiful of people.
I linked my cage to the iron chain, hanging there for that purpose, ascending into the blackness above, where no one know what lurked.  I climbed into my cage, utterly devastated, and sat down on the packed dirt to wait for the ice pillar under the cage to melt.
And now that it has, there isn’t any way to let myself out.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Update #5: Atlantis

I wrote something while I was listening to Atlantis by Deas Vail the other day, and I said I was going to post it.  So here it is!  I hope you like it.  It's kind of depressing, so I apologize.
I like it though.  And I think you should  listen to Atlantis while you read it... but you don't have to. :]

January 4, 2011

I didn’t know there was anything wrong with the way we lived until I walked hand in hand with my mother through the city one day.  It was empty, like it always is, and somewhere the whirr of the oxygen machines could be heard.
I was all right, kicking a pebble along, until I looked up at my mother.  Tears stood in her dark eyes.
“What’s wrong, mama?” I asked, pulling on her hand.
She looked down at me, smiling, and stroked my head.  My dark braid matched her own.
“Nothing, love,” she reassured me.
“Something’s wrong, mama.”  I wasn’t easily fooled.  “What’s the matter?”
She knelt beside me.  “I was just remembering, a very long time ago, when a lot of people lived here.”
“Like me and you?” I asked.
“And your daddy, yes,” she told me.  She looked off down the street, where tan sandy pillars stood.  She looked like she was seeing something else, with that faraway look in her eyes.  “A lot of people where here,” she repeated.
I didn’t like the look in her eyes.  I tugged on her hand again, so she looked to me.  “What happened, mama?” I asked.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Explanations: An Interview

Hrrms.  Well.  I posted Do You Hear the Violins? and then I got to thinking.  You know, some of you might be reading some of my stuff going, “Wait, what?  I know this girl in real life.  She’s not cynical.   She’s not depressed.  She isn’t in love, and she doesn’t know weird people, and she’s not a jerk.  Rather, she’s happy and fun and cute and rainbows and sunshine.  I don’t get it.  Where is this stuff coming from?”
So, here’s a little interview with myself:  something to help you see if we can figure this out without you thinking I’m bipolar or something.
Me: So, the first question is this:  Why do you write some of the stuff you do?  I mean, Transformation was a horror story.  That Do You Hear the Violins? story you just posted was pretty depressing.  Why do you write stuff that’s so not you?
I:  Well, I can’t really help what I write.  I know that sounds like an excuse, so you have to bear with me.  Sometimes a story just comes on me, like BAM, inspiration, and I have to write it down.  That first happened to me in March 2009, when I wrote Darkness.  I was ecstatic, but when I showed it to other people, they were all confused and weirded out.  “That’s so depressing!”  They said. “It doesn’t make sense. What goes on in your head?”  And they’d laugh.  I wasn’t upset, per say, by their response, but I couldn’t really defend myself, cuz, hey, it just happened.  I don’t know exactly how the story came about.  I just sat down, and it kind of created itself.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Update #4: Do You Hear the Violins

I wrote a short story.  It gets its own page over there, on the side bar. Violins is its name for now.
If you read it you have to listen to Anberlin's Inevitable while you do.  No exceptions.  At all.  Go look it up on Grooveshark or Youtube or something.

You know, I heard about this challenge to blog every day for a month.  I thought about doing it, and then I realized... That's pretty much what I'm doing right now. :]

Seiji George sends his greetings.

UPDATE: (a few hours later)  Just kidding.  Its name is Do You Hear the Violins. Same story, though. :]

Monday, January 3, 2011


So lately I've been feeling kind of addicted to chocolate.  I rediscovered the bag of Hershey's Kisses Sarah Roney gave to me for my birthday... and it all kind of went down hill from there.
For example, I had some pretty amazing hot chocolate the other day.  It's super amazing, let me tell you.  So if you want to make it, here's how I did it:
First, you nucrowave some milk, however much you want.  I think I probably did a little over a cup… but don’t quote me on that.  Enough to almost fill a mug.
Then, once it’s hot, you put in two packets of hot chocolate mix.  Now, before you freak out on me, those packets are meant for 6 ounces of water… and that’s a lot less than one cup.  So don’t feel bad—you’re just following the directions. ;]

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Hello, January

We took down our Christmas decorations today.
The end of the Christmas season always depresses me. I know that as I pack all the cheery decorations away, it all only means that we'll be unpacking them next year, but I still wish that the spirit of that one day-- that tiny window of time-- when everyone proves that they can love, and do-- would linger forever.  Christmas is just so ethereal.  I hate the end.
I felt like Relient K's song Boxing Day the whole time I pulled the lights from our artificial tree.

Take it all down
Christmas is over
But do not despair
but rather be glad
We had a good year
Now let's have another
Remembering all the good times that we had
No more lights glistening
No more carols to sing
But Christmas, it makes way for spring
Though hearts of man
Are bitter and weathered
As cold as the snow
 That falls from above
But just for one day,
We all came together
We showed the whole world that we know how to love
No more lights glistening
No more carols to sing
But Christmas, it makes way for spring
Remember that Christmas, it makes way for spring

And now it's January, the new year.
I've always harbored a dislike for January.  I apologize to anyone born this month, but it's just icky.  Depressing.  Cold and dry.  I don't care if it's new... it's just gross.
Happy New Year, ya'll.  Have a dose of realism with your resolutions. :]