It has obviously been a while since my last post. I've been rather preoccupied with college things, Christmas, work, and video games, not to mention the novels that I have to read before winter break is over (Their Eyes Were Watching God and Invisible Man). I'm alternating right now between Invisible Man and The Lightning Thief, a children's book that I adore and have finally gotten to read.

On another note, I discovered The Weepies today; they're a band that reminds me of Damien Rice, or what he would have sounded like before his cello-playing lover jilted him. I'm really enjoying them right now.

I can't decide if this blog will be transformed shortly or if it shall continue to be my personal space...as I also want to begin posting about books that I read and commenting on their beauty or lack thereof concerning their marketing, jackets, editorial mistakes (or, again, lack thereof) as I think that the practice will be eye-opening for me. I have a feeling that I will begin another blog for that, as my uncle suggested. (Thanks again!)

I have had an amazing year in many respects...and I know that 2009, the year I've waited for my entire life, will be just as great. To all of you and yours, happy new year.

I have my first calculus final tomorrow, for which I am very frightened.

This boy that I know is...moving very quickly in on the friendship front. He's been talking about taking a road trip to San Diego so that we can see a concert of Final Fantasy music (which, I admit, does sound totally AMAZING). I like him a lot, as a friend, obviously, but I don't know about a road trip.

I don't really know what to do about that...I'm torn between encouraging this rapidly accelerating friendship or backing off a little bit...Hmm.

I was asked out today through hang-man in economics. That was...a little weird.

I am so exhausted from this week of school, regardless of how fast it passed me by. I am sooooo thankful that I get to sleep in tomorrow, for the first time in....a month or so. Hooray. Goodnight everyone, and good luck.

:)

I am the big winner. I had six hours to spare, too! Go me!

I think it's odd that NaNoWriMo has brought me through all of the stages of author-ship in just one simple month. I've felt elated by my progress, depressed at my lack of, and anxious to finally be within inches of calling myself an actual novelist.

At this point, I'm at 35,000 words. I'm so close that I can taste it. Truthfully, I wish I could copy and paste this into my word document so that every "it it" that I type out can count towards the total. But that would be cheating.

I don't know that anyone understands how important this is to me, or understands how amazing it feels to have written an entire novella (because that's really what my story is) without even feeling too much pain. The deadline is a beautiful thing, and so is, I must admit, the ability to turn off spell-check. This process would have been much more arduous with the internal editor, the great mistress, harping at every "jsut", "Cant" (a name of a character), "Sarculet" (supposed to be Scarlet), and so on. On this Thanksgiving Eve, I am thankful for being able to have a good enough idea, a small support network, and plenty of time to sit in my room and write. I couldn't have asked for more.

Well okay...I could have done with some more chocolate...

I am very behind in my word count. I don't know if I have the will power to sit and sprint to 20,000 in one night (I'm currently at 17,318...I know I can get there). Nor do I know if I have enough ideas. I suppose that I could skip some parts...but I've gone off on a tangent and don't even remember where I am.

I'm frightened that I won't be able to make it to 50k. Someone give me a hug.

Excerpt from the novel...please disregard all spelling errors, lapses in proper grammar, and lack of hyphens. I turned off spell-check. My fingers know not what sins they commit...


“What a nice place.”
“Thanks.” I smiled and stirred the noodles that had become soft over the course of two minutes. Irvine sat down at the bar and fiddled with his keys.
“What are you making?”
“Some chicken thing.”
“Smells good.”
“Thanks. It's almost done.” He stood up from the bar stool, came to stand next to me, and drummed his long fingers on the counter top.
“Is Ceara here?” I nodded. “Hm. You look really good, Gavin.” While stirring the noodles, I looked up at him and smiled. “I know that we're genetically and socially programmed not to accepts those kind of compliments, but you seem both happy and healthy.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I can tell because your beautiful blond hair si super shiny. And your eyes have something in them—like a sparkle. You never looked like this during high school.”
“I wasn't happy during those four years.” The wooden spoon turned in my hand. “I'm happier in college. It seems like there aren't as many people. You aren't forced to sit alone at lunch or raise your hand during class. It's all centered around what I want to do.” The timer went off. Irvine slide to his left as I brought the pot full of noodles over to the metal strainer in the sink.
“Well I'm glad.” Then Ceara walked out. “Ah, you much be the lovely lady of the house.” As she removed her fingers from her hair, Ceara raised a perfectly plucked, black eyebrow at my friend. “Gavin's told me so much about you.” I shook the remaining water off of the steaming noodles.
“He's told me almost nothing about you.”
“I shall have to enlighten you, then.” Irvine had suddenly adopted a slightly different accent; not enough to be noticed, for sure, but recognizable to me. He sat down across from Ceara and she rounded the rim of the wine glass that I had set there for her. I pulled out three plates, three sets of silverware, and some napkins and spread all of them out on the little brown table, where my girlfriend and friend had already begun a conversation without me. I had a moment of self pity. “So my current base of operations is in Chicago. I've been working for a wonderful lady there for a couple of months now.”
“And what is it that you do?”
“I'm in the public relations business, you could say.” He smiled at me as if we had a secret. “What do you do?”
“I'm a budding lawyer in a firm a couple of blocks from here.”
“Exciting. Your prospects seem delicious, much like your boyfriend's food.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It wasn't hard to make but I'm not that good of a cook.”
“It's better than I could do,” Irvine laughed. Ceara seemed unamused; I could tell by the way she stared from under her eyebrows. “So what have you been up to, Gavin?”
“Um, well, school mostly. I'm working on finishing up my bachelor's degree and then I might get a job. I'll wait a while for the master's.” I slid my left hand into Ceara's right. She didn't hold my hand back. “I'd like to work on a family, too. And my book.”
“You're writing a book?”
“Not yet,” I sighed. “But I'd love to.”
“He spends all of his time reading so he might as well,” Ceara said and sipped from her glass. “I want to hear more about your job, Irvine.”
“It's really not that interesting. I make room calls in a hotel to make sure the guests have everything they need and take care of any concerns that they might have. It's very boring, but I get paid well. Enough, actually, to live by myself.”
“You aren't dating?”
“I do occasionally. I haven't found the perfect woman, though,” he winked at her and I laughed out loud. “I'm not a complete iconoclast, however. I have the boyish dreams of getting married, just like Gavin.”
“Orthodox ideals are how our world is run,” Ceara practically snarled. Her temper was flaring by the second. “You would be better off if you modeled yourself after Gavin instead of after that whore of a father you had.” I stared down at the wood grain of the dining table, not knowing how the conversation had suddenly taken such a drastic turn. Irvine sat in silence for a moment, then set his wine down.
“Whatever Gavin told you isn't entirely true. My father did leave, but not because he was a prostitute. My mother had a lover. Any self-respecting man wouldn't stay with a woman like her.” He glared. “If you're so offended by what I am or what I represent, then you should question Gavin about his studies and some of his beliefs. Or do you not care what your perfect little house-pet does at school?” I could feel my stomach sinking lower and lower. I was angry at Irvine for bringing me into this argument, angry that he should bring up my business to my girlfriend who was blissfully ignorant of the dormant personality that only surfaced in class, and angry that she was pushing him into saying all of it.
“Get out,” Ceara said.
“Fine.” Irvine grabbed my arm and yanked me up and out of my seat. “I'll send him home after he's good and unorthodox.” And we walked out the door together.

Yes, as my mom says, the goal is to FINISH 50,000 words...and with my friend's help at a coffee shop, I have enough of...a plot...to keep going for a while. (It involves a Volkswagen Bus and a crazy commune...with...intoxicating substances. It'll be good.) Although I originally wanted this to be a serious story, the character is indeed making a large transition, and as Kelsey says: "Taking a road trip to FIND himself."

Some time this weekend, I have to sit down and write for a very long time. But I have confidence in myself. I can do this.

This will be a short post because the trademarked National Novel Writing Month Guilt Monkeys hover over me whenever I'm on the computer and my fingers are not churning out another 1,000 words.

The novel is progressing well, I suppose, with the exception being the lack of plot...and the presence of...Harlequin paperback...characteristics.

My characters lack depth and are boring and I have to work up the nerve to still CARE about their dismal lives, which is harder than it should be. Whatever.

I can't wait for this month to be over.

New post, new quarter.

I woke up late this morning...took a shower...attempted to get a sibling out of bed. Was unsuccessful. We were almost late to school.

I'm excited as there are only 12 days left before NaNoWriMo...and I have a feeling that my novel will be the shiz. LJ, you'd better cheer me on...as I will do for you. I'm not joking around this year. I need to write something...like nobody's business. It's a matter of proof for me now...that I can handle my imagination without the previous catalyst whose name shall not be mentioned here. I have the idea..and...Flying Spaghetti Monster forbid--the symbolism. That alone should last me 20,000...

I believe that I might plan a book drive in order to donate to Care.Org through Extra Mile. If we could get a large amount of books, computer games, movies, magazines, etc. we could sell them at Half-Priced Books and send all of that profit as a donation.

But I'd like to outfit all of the volunteers in Care t-shirts or buttons...but those are so expensive.

I'll worry and plan all of that after NaNoWriMo...

I'm tired and frustrated by American politics...

I'm seriously considering moving to Vancouver, Canada as schooling isn't expensive and I firmly support universal/socialized health care. I might apply...

So I can believe all that I want that I am an intelligent person capable of solving calculus problems, but I didn't know, until today, what the square root of one was. I feel a little stupid.

I got the problem right (as I put 'plus/minus square root of one') but have been brought down a rung on the intelligence scale. Eh.

Once again: I am tired. I think I shall sleep.

I'm in the process of multiple scholarships and college applications...and they need to be done before November; partly because that is when they are due and also because I will be venturing off into Novel-Land and will not be returning until December.

I am also thinking hard about my travel companions, who, as of right now, are nameless and have no physical manifestations. Other than one is a woman and one, a man. That much I know.

Hmm...maybe I should plot some...

I am tired. Government teacher...basically scolded the class today for not being like college students nor being prepared before-hand for his lectures. I understand where he is coming from...but he said it in such a mocking manner.

And that textbook...Almighty Mother of Frappucinoes...

I should probably be continuing the progress that I have made of my scholarship/college apps...but I think I will have a bath and read A Handmaid's Tale or The Awakening. I'm in that kind of mood.

I think I will post later about power...because I am still turning it around in my head; that is, my idea of power. We'll see.

This was going to be a personal statement for college applications...but I got off on a tangent.


I have been told, inadvertently of course because no one is that rude, that I read too much, and when that occurred the lyrics from Beauty and the Beast instantaneously popped into my mind. Yes, I spend most of my time (with my nose stuck in a book) researching matrilineal mythology and the conversion from Paganism to Christianity, but I acknowledge and accept my passions, no matter how odd they might seem to teachers, bosses, or friends.

All of the time spent reading, the thirty days every November when I attempt to write 50,000 words, is simply seconds towards accomplishing my goal of completing my novel, my brainchild, my unique stamp upon humanity. I'm another believer; I feel strongly that if I work hard enough, I will influence the world in some manner, large or small. The book I wish to write encompasses ideas that are unorthodox; if one person were to read it, ingest it like I would, and ponder the great gaps in our human psyche (which I wish to illuminate somewhat), then I have done my job, completed my mission.

Every novel that I read (The Awakening, Kafka on the Shore, Frankenstein) poses questions and influences my view upon the world, regardless of that author's intentions or the standard of interpretation for that novel. My unique take on Edna drowning or on Victor's god-like aspirations may or may not be the same as other readers but I close those worn-through books as a different girl, a changed person, than when I first thumbed through the pages.

I feel that author almost channeling their ideas through my subconscious and I sense the power that thoughts such as that can have over one person, who, in turn, will spread their love. My English teacher proclaimed Margaret Atwood's A Handmaid's Tale as one of the best books ever written, and I read it. I devoured it. The plot was so striking and the female protagonist so close to my heart by the end that I could not exactly remember who I was before reading that book.

I suppose that many people experience this sort of personal evolution in different ways, or take these life-altering happenings from different sources, but I know so many people like myself. In fact, I know more kids my age who don't feel this way about reading, specifically because they have not found that book that shatters their entire existence. (That may be, in part, because we have so vague an understanding of our being at this time.) I do my best to interest students slightly younger than myself in literature that they are forced to read for a grade, that book that they don't comprehend and would rather burn than read, and I acknowledge how difficult it is to force-feed yourself novels. But it is the approach that is needed to read dry books like The Hobbit (a great book, no doubt, but the style is simply too much to take in for a 21^st century adolescent): every sentence of J.R.R. Tolkein's books are lovingly crafted and formulated for maximum effect. I told a sophomore trying to read it that “It was written purposely for Tolkein's son who was fighting in a war. The never-ending passages produced an escape from the horrors of battle. Think about that while you read.” I don't know if that boy ever finished or if he could even fathom what a young man serving in the ultimate way could be feeling, but he left looking puzzled, in the least.

I can only do so much with explanation. I feel like I can do more by creating, crafting, cutting, compiling, and even cultivating a novel that might be that one book that completely alters one person's life. That's all I could ever want, all I could ever hope for. I don't know about other authors, but that's how I feel.

I hope that you take time to appreciate the novels that shaped you: for my dad it was Where the Red Fern Grows and for my mother (and myself) it was The Red Tent. Of course we are created out of more types of clay than simply the literature we indulge in, but that is a defining element in our personalities and beliefs, and I have been shaped more by books than by people, regardless of how many amazing people I have in my life. (The difference lies in their ability to challenge my perception of myself and of reality.)

If books, novels, are not what does it for you, then find what does and accept it, embrace it.

This is my Hell-Week. I managed to trade one of my work shifts so that I only have 28 hours to work...but I still have tests and homework and text-book-reading up the spout.

But I got a volunteering gig at Meridian Elementary and the librarian seems really nice. The library itself is beautiful; there are murals on the wall of historical things (Crossing the Delaware, Native Americans, etc.) and even pictures from book covers (Harry Potter, Esperanza Rising, etc.). There were even some kids who came up to me and asked me questions.

One girl asked Ms. Gifford where she could find a book called "Scary Stories to Tell in the Night" and I told her that I thought it was by R.L. Stein and that she should check fiction S's. Ms. Gifford turned to me and said "This job is perfect for you."

(Even though it wasn't written by Stein, it was by Schwartz and I was really super close.)

So I plan to spend a lot of time in there and help kids to read some books that I always enjoyed. I have to study up on my colors, though. AR was a couple of years ago. All I know if that I now rank Super-Black. (Battle of the Books still goes, as well. I might try to help there, too. I'd love to read some new fiction geared towards young adults.)

Although I am stressed, I feel sufficient enough in my busyness and in my workload. I can handle it. I have to. Another nine months. In-counting.

I'm slightly nervous for my senior year of high school, for multiple reasons.

I feel quite alone, already, at the thought of having no friends with which to 'hang'; I feel stressed that I will be working a lot, volunteering, and trying to maintain A's in AP classes; I feel...unloved, I suppose, because of my lack of...relationships that have helped me grow as a person. That probably made little to no sense, but I wish that I could find a boy to take my mind away from my friends. I had that with Matt...I don't want to think about that right now.

I'm nervous, frightened, sad, anxious, are there anymore synonyms? Should I quit typing?


Another thing: I have not written anything for a while. No poetry, no fic-lets, no short stories. I contemplated writing some sort of 'closure' pieces for the characters that I must leave to my ex-best-friend, but I can't bring myself to even think about it. I feel torn between one final send-off for those brain-children and acknowledging that they'll ever not be there in case I need them.

I may seem strange that I'm attached to figments of my imagination, but I put a lot of time, effort, and love into them and I feel that they deserve a nice...resting place. How awful-sounding. Perhaps I'll write a poem about it.

I began reading a book called Are Men Necessary? by Maureen Dowd and it has really...made me angry. The book itself is amazing, as it's simply observations by Miss Dowd as to how the Gender War has not been at cease-fire since the '50s.

She brings up points on a woman's IQ and how her chances of getting married decrease by 40% with each 16 point increase because "men think that women with important jobs [and high IQs] are more likely to cheat on them". Most love stories and movies depict men who fall for the women in lower positions than they are, such as secretaries and maids.

I'm frustrated right now. I'm at a point in my life where my future is being mapped, and I now notice that if I become an independent an successful woman, my chances with men are slim. Honestly, if I have to be a blonde bimbo to have a male partner (extra emphasis on the 'partner'), an equal, then I'd rather be alone. I have goals. Those goals do include a husband and children, but my life is first, and I don't plan to immediately put myself second or short-change myself in order to secure a man.

Needless to say, this book is already beginning to shape my outlook. It will only get worse, that I can promise.

I spent the day among people who have stopped feeling pleasant towards me. They may not act out those feelings, but I can sense that they're there.

I'm having difficulty because these people are the only friends I have at high school...and this is my senior year. I feel like I've spent the last year trying to find new friends, completed my task, and then those friends graduated. And I am stuck with the same people since fifth grade. I'm simply tired of them. I can't stand their attitude towards me...I don't want to deal with them.

But it's my senior year. Why can't every awkward moment simply sort itself out for one, last year? Why do I have to be the odd-man out?

So this is what I like to call 'Decorative Brainstorming'. I've begun the planning of my novel to be written sometime after November of this year (because NaNoWriMo will be spent writing my high school memoir).

I decided that it is high-time that someone examined our society and it patrilineal inhertances, a.k.a why the men are more important than the women.

I'm about half-way done with a book called The Book of God, which is the novelization of the Bible, both the Old and New Testaments, and I notice very few women throughout the stories. I just began wondering why everything began to focus on those with penises...and what the earth would be like now if we had Men's Studies classes instead, or how countries would behave with female rulers, and if all women would become like Amazons, or if men would be the primary caregivers that played with Ken dolls as children.

I think there are a lot of questions that I can speculate upon and perhaps write a very convincing novel that mirrors The Book of God in a 'Bible-y' kind of way.

The frame story will focus on men of college-age in a Men's Studies class trying to breach their own 'glass ceiling' by examining how gender roles have shaped their lives.

I hope it will be interesting...and I'm doing my best to keep myself interested...which is half the reason for the brightly-colored post-its.

It's 12:44 am on my mother's birthday. We just finished a lovely evening of gory movies (Nanking) and television shows (Fear Itself) and I am sufficiently ready to sleep.

But before I do, I think I'll read, as usual.