RTW: Best Book of December

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Road Trip Wednesday is a "Blog Carnival," where YA Highway's contributors post a weekly writing--or reading--related question and answer it on our own blogs. You can hop from destination to destination and get everybody's unique take on the topic.
This Week's Topic:
What is the best book you read in December?

Undoubtedly and without conscious thought, one book is in my mind and this could be because I am one to love the book I'm with but it could also be that I've possibly never felt more alive whilst reading any other book.

Jellicoe Road by Melina Marchetta.

I know, I know. I talked about this on December 6th but, hey, I didn't ask the question, did I? No, no I didn't.

I'm just about finished reading Jellicoe Road for the third time this month--or ever for that matter. It's practically the only book I read this month, honestly. Nonetheless, it is also the best. Even, dare I say it, the best I've read this year. Or ever. I think it's a bit early to tell.

This is a book that gets you lost entirely within it's pages. I laughed, cried, stayed up way too late and was completely satisfied--almost too satisfied if that's possible. I even read it out loud to my sister within twenty four hours of finishing it the first time. And if you doubt this book's quality, ask yourself this, "What kind of book would inspire someone to sleep for only five hours and then be so desirable that its reader has a tangible need to share it with someone else and ends up reading the entire novel out loud in the next day?"

Several times during this third reading, I've actually had to close the book after certain parts, shut my eyes and smile to myself. And it's true that I feel more alive with it as my company.

Beautiful and haunting, I recommend Jellicoe Road unequivocally. It might ruin other books or your romantic encounters or life in general but it's unutterably worth it.

some books - On the Jellicoe Road

You have to finish reading them at 3 in the morning for two reasons. 1. There comes a point when you can't stop and you forget that you should be asleep and dreaming and that it's starting to get light outside. 2. When you're done and it's hours past midnight, you go to sleep. You know that's what you're supposed to do whereas when you finish at 4 o'clock in the afternoon, you can't close your eyes and wake up in four hours and start with a fresh new day. You have to sit on the couch with the closed book in your lap and stare at nothing because you can't even speak for half an hour after turning the last page.

So I don't regret only getting five hours of sleep in the space between Saturday and Sunday.

How could I not love that feeling? I feel like I was born to feel it with its all consuming reach as I am enveloped in someone else's story. Are readers born or made? I can't tell and I guess it doesn't matter but I am always wondering why more people don't take up reading for pleasure. What are video games and sports and needlework and shopping to letting words on a page swirl around you in a story until you don't even remember what's real anymore. I love books way too much. And they've ruined me. I guess I let them do that.

On the Jellicoe Road by Melina Machetta was extraordinary. Truly exquisite and so heartbreaking and profound that I don't really feel like I'm the same person that I was starting it. It's about hope and trust and love and abandonment and what happens when you feel like there's nothing left to hold on to.

This summary will seem completely inadequate but regardless: It follows Taylor Markham who was abandoned on the side of the Jellicoe Road when she was ten. She is now seventeen and leading her school in the territory wars between the Townies and the Cadets and she gets to find out that the leaders of the two groups are not soulless thugs but real people, tangible and alive. There's also Taylor finding out about five teenagers who lived in the area twenty years ago and how they relate to the territory war, her life and everything she really knows about herself.

Like I said, completely inadequate.

There's intensely great character development, supremely well woven plotlines and breathtaking romance. I could probably go on about how much I loved this book for a while longer but I'm not going to. All I will say is that if you like incredible books, read this one.
I will add that the beginning is confusing and you may get lost or feel dizzy with all the different characters and story lines spinning around you. To this I say, keep reading. Melina Marchetta is like Marcus Zusak in the way that it all makes sense at the end. It's one of those books where if you get past the first 30-50 pages, you will be undeniably happy you did when the story starts to untangle in a way that's so organic you can't even understand why you doubted it in the first place.

I hope that as I get older, I will keep this late night reading habit of mine. I wouldn't want to lose the feeling of being so far away that I ignore time, hunger and sleep to feel someone's else's life so deeply.

Q: Have you read any books lately that made you stay up too late to finish?

We need never be hopeless

"When adults say, "Teenagers think they are invincible" with that sly, stupid smile on their faces, they don't know how right they are. We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken. We think that we are invincible because we are. We cannot be born, and we cannot die. Like all energy, we can only change shapes and sizes and manifestations. They forget that when they get old. They get scared of losing and failing. But that part of us greater than the sum of our parts cannot begin and cannot end, and so it cannot fail." 
— John Green (Looking for Alaska)




Sometimes I feel lost. I think we all do.
I'm far from invincible. But I'm pretty tough.
And there are so many people to hold onto.
Maybe lost isn't such a bad thing.
I'm happy here.

Last Page

It's too cold to be September
My summer is gone, brutally unforgotten,
missing in action but by choice.
The rain has come.
Maybe to cleanse us,
convince us to change.
But I don't feel brand new.

I'm clinging to the last page of a novel,
resolute that it won't end yet.
It can't.
Endings mean beginnings, yes, but
I loved that story.
It was too good and
I refuse to wash it away,
simply because the seasons inflict their change.

This is my reality to create.
So I sit on the last page of this long forgotten memoir.
Waiting.

my fat head

When I write something I like, I really like it. I sometimes think it's so brilliant I need to share it with someone immediately or the world is going to implode. It's a pretty intense feeling.

Usually I do. Share it, that is. I force one of my sisters to read the awesomeness I've just controlled through my words and then I get their response. It can either be satisfactory (my sister sighing, staring out the window wistfully and telling me she's still the president of my fan club) or disappointing ("It's good."). Usually it's satisfactory, though.

Naturally, some of my novel is being shared with my sister, Maddy, as I write it. It started with the first chapter and I set a bad precedent for myself. Now she asks for me to email it to her like I have done three or four times and I must say no because it's Week Two and insecurity has set in. Only not really.

I'm one of those irritating people that thinks if you dislike something about my writing, there's probably something wrong with you. It's not that I can't take criticism; I think I can take it just fine. When I ask for it. But if I don't ask you to honestly tell me what you think is wrong with a piece, I don't want you to tell me. I want you to be my cheerleader. Not lie, or even exaggerate a ton but just don't tell me what you don't like. Because honestly, and this is even more intensely so during NaNoWriMo, I don't want to hear it.

When I ask for it, though, that's when I really want to hear what you think. No thoughts barred, tell me the good, the bad and what I should improve. But I digress.

A real life conversation with my real life sister:
Sister: Will you email me the latest chapter of your novel?
Me: No. I have writerly self esteem issues.
Sister: Please?
Me: No.
Sister: Please?
Me: Fine. But I don't want to hear it if there's anything you don't like or if you think it's awkward. And the scene doesn't really have any build up. It exists on its own. So you're going to have to deal with that.
Sister: Okay. Thank you.
Me: And don't tell me if you think it's bad. Actually, if you think it's bad, you can go to hell.
Sister: Okay then. *walks away*

In short, I think I'm pretty awesome and if you want to disagree with me on that point, you can go away now. I eventually apologized to my sister for being as abrupt as to tell her she could go to hell. Honestly, though, the sentiment kind of stands. I have a fat head.

nanowrimo excerpt

Chapter 8

“Evie?” His voice is warm but unsure, travelling up ahead of him to chart the territory—a brave scout. Under the covers of my bed, I cannot hear his footsteps, even a muffled version, but I imagine them. Tentatively bringing his big feet towards my closed door.

I bring my covers closer around me as a shell. I have no protection but this warm, dark cocoon. Tight fingers clutch my one reality to me, holding the blanket over my head. He knocks.

“Evie?” Rogue says again, “Can I come in?” I never imagined his voice that soft. I must have imagined every smirk I ever saw on his face because they could not have come from the same boy. Too many extremes.

“Please, Evie,” he says, quieter than before. I imagine him outside my bedroom, a hand against the door to measure any disturbance inside. There is none, only stillness and the evaporation of tears from my pillow. There’s almost no trace already. I smile at that, cheek muscles turning for no one’s benefit into to nearly suffocating blanket.

“Are you in there?” Why he asks, I don’t know. He knows I’m here. The girls saw me come up. After which time I closed the door quietly and slid down it, shaking the frame with my sobs. They told him. Unless I fashioned a rope out of my sheets and descended out the window, I am here. I’m not the rope tying type.

What does he want? I’m so tired I can’t think of an answer to this question. It seems too easy. There must be something he’s looking for. Something he will never find with me.

I draw the covers from my face to say, “Come in.” I don’t quite know why but I can’t stand the image of him standing outside the door. It would be better if he’d leave, down the stairs and out the door, taking all this sadness with him, but he won’t for now.  And if he won’t leave and I won’t have him waiting on the other end of my closed door, he must come in.

I sit up slowly, careful not to rush my head, as I can’t stand the idea of him sitting awkwardly on the edge of my bed as I am in my cocoon. My cocoon, however wonderful and warm, is not something he should see.

Blinking, I adjust my position and observe him in my room. He doesn’t fit here but he tries. My pale green walls are at odds with his dark clothing, eyes and hair. He smiles and I forget that he doesn’t belong. That smile belongs on toothpaste commercials and the sides of buses. It belongs pressed against me, infusing its magical drug into my body. My eyes open wider to accommodate it but you can’t take his smile in all at once. My toes curl in on themselves until I smile back. I can’t control it. His mouth has taken control of mine, forcing me to mirror his glee. I don’t know whether to feel elated or manipulated. I choose neither, letting the smile sink deeper into me.

“Are you okay?” His voice gently brushes the hair out of my eyes. He bothered to ask this question, despite my mimicking smile. He takes a seat on the chair by my window. Too far away, his smile loses hold on mine. It slips off my mouth like Jell-O thrown at a wall. I’m left with nothing but a sticky residue and an echo but my face remembers the motions.

He stares at me some more and I can’t excuse his rudeness until I realize he asked me a question.

“Yes,” I say, only louder than a whisper. “I’m alright.” It’s almost the truth.

“Good.” It would appear that he doesn’t know what to say next. Did he come into this room with a mission of ascertaining my ‘okay-ness’? If so, he can leave now. I’ve given him the answer he wanted. My obligation is fulfilled.

I'll be the first to admit that we don’t have a connection--verbally at least. It’s not enough for us to be in the same room and automatically have some banter going on, a simple exchange of words to ease ourselves into comfort. We have no cushiness, no clouds in the room to ease this silence. I wish I had it that easy.

All we have is physical. Strings binding us. It’s not enough to have us in this room, trapped in quiet, we also have to want each other. To want this to work too much. Too much for safety. I’m not even sure if I’m alone in this feeling. I want to like him, to be around him, for us to mesh and move, revolving around each other like it’s that simple. Like gravity is with us, not against us. I want to smile automatically on my own, not because he somehow charmed it out of me.

“How are you?” I say casually, taking a step towards cushy clouds. I’m opening the window and hoping they’ll be here in seconds, slipping us into the conversation that I crave. I’m waiting.

He pauses before responding, “I’m good.” I try not to be distracted by the grammar but a second is spent on puzzling.

“Good?”

“Good.”

I like you, my mind mumbles, my mouth following along but making no sound. I wonder for a second if maybe he can hear me, my thoughts zipping through this calm air into his. Would that make this situation easier or stranger? Probably the latter, despite my wishes. If you can hear me, give me a sign, I say to no one, waiting from him to look up and blink or keep staring around my room. I can’t decide what I want.

When his disposition doesn’t change, I take up his occupation, staring around my room like I am the outsider. I see my clothes in a pile on my desk. I notice that I never changed my calendar from September. I see the socks scattered around in different places, under his chair, in the corners. I see the jewellery on the windowsill—I haven’t worn any of it in weeks. The closet door is a crack open, stuck on one of my favourite shoes. My dresser drawers aren’t closed either which means Jac hasn’t been in here for a while. She tidies every so often and I only notice because I can’t find anything as quickly.

Since I can see no use in getting up to hide any of this from Rogue, I stay where I am, wrapping the flower patterned sheets around my cross legged frame. Eventually, his eyes have taken in all they can and he finds me again, trapping me in these blankets.

“I like your calendar,” he says, gesturing to the wall. He noticed that, too.

“Thanks.” My response to compliments is automatic. I no longer stop to wonder if that was actually a compliment to me but accept it and say thanks. “Ash gave it to me.”

He nods. “It seems like her.” How does he know what seems like her? How many hours has he spent knowing her? Listening to her quiet observations? Watching her careful kindness. I’m exhausted with thinking about it.

My jealousy absorbs me. I’m not conscious of the silence or my failure to respond to his latest comment. My cheeks are overwhelmed with the redness and my whole body is too warm for comfort. I pull the duvet tighter around me regardless.

He reaches for something on my desk and then freezes momentarily. Finger closing curiously around my picture frame, he takes it in. He doesn’t comment other than to tilt his head. It’s back on my desk in an instant.

He knows me too well. I would be touched but it’s not fair. It’s not fair that he has a window—my sisters—into this simple version of me that is out there. All I want is some reciprocation. A crack of light to be shed on the boy who I am so attracted to that I will let him sit in my room on my chair as I am wrapped in my blankets. Despite our lack of conversation, I sense a radiant comfort that I hadn’t realized. This isn’t normal.

“Tell me something about you,” I say frankly, asking, for once, what I actually want.

“I never know what to say when someone asks that. What do you want to know?”

I settle for the basic to start. “Favourite colour?”

I think he’s about to laugh but he doesn’t. Nothing but surprises from Rogue. He seems to seriously consider the question and then says, “Orange.”

“Orange,” I repeat, surprised at the answer.

“Anything else?” He seems amused but he didn’t laugh. I feel like he’s humouring me for a second, laughing with the crazy girl so she won’t stab you sort of thing, but I choose to believe he’s enjoying this.

“Where do you live?” Am I bordering on invasive? He isn’t bothered.

“A townhouse complex on 24^th Ave,” he says, pointing in the general direction, “It’s called insert cool, witty, pathetic, cheesy, lame townhouse complex name here.”

I try to picture the place but can’t bring it up in my mind. I can imagine it, though. Regulation houses, all either mimicking or mirroring each other. A garage under each house. Front doors that no one uses, instead favouring the automatic garage opener entrance with zero neighbour contact.

He seems to know my next question. He answers before my prompt. “I live with my mom and stepdad.”

“Do you—” I stop myself after two words. My next question is too invasive, I know it right away. I don’t want him to be uncomfortable around me and, after only two questions, I’m tired of being the interrogator.

“What?” he pounces, not letting my words slip under the carpet as I’d hoped. He won’t forget them. He’s leaning forward in his chair.

“Never mind,” I say, not because I want him to force the question out of me but because I want him to forget it. There are easier things than forgetting.

He sits back in the chair; I guess not wanting to freak me out with his intensity.

“You can ask me, if you want,” he says, less forceful than before. “You can ask me anything.”

I knew that. Of course I knew I could ask him anything. I have speech on my side, plenty of nouns and adjectives to convey what I’m curious about. The problem is not that I can’t ask, it’s that I don’t want to. I’m not one to step over that fragile line of what’s socially acceptable. I stop myself at the questions with answers I wouldn’t open up with.

“Okay,” I say but don’t start voicing my question again. Maybe someday but I’m not spending more breath on it today.

“Now it’s awkward,” he jokes. I can feel that easy banter. He brought the clouds of cushiness in with three words. I’m impressed and I want to fall back into them. I crack a smile. 

I met Suzanne Collins (kind of)

First of all, I think The Hunger Games trilogy is distinctly awesome. The writing, pacing, plot, themes, characters and their reactions together make it this amazing look at the human condition and spirit while being a wonderful story. Tragic, depressing at times, but so incredible to read.

I really love those books.

My first experience with their writer, Suzanne Collins, was when I was in a library book club at age twelve. I read three out of five of her Underland Chronicles and completely loved them. They were really great. Then, last summer, a friend was telling me about The Hunger Games--twenty four youth thrown into an arena to fight to the death. I read it out of curiosity but I was so unbelievably thrilled and surprised with what I got in return: an epic story of fighting for your life against all odds while trying to keep your humanity intact. Romance. A story of love and strategy and rebellion. A protagonist who I loved and feared.* This girl on fire who could think for herself and fend for herself and was mature beyond her age.

Instant favourite.

On Tuesday morning, I went with my sisters and mother's to see Suzanne Collins, who I hugely admire, give a talk on her books and stamp them afterwards (pictured above). She spoke about the origin of the books and  how interested she is with war. She drew parallels with reality TV and the ancient gladiators, some of which I had noticed, some were new. She talked about names for her characters, using names with Roman origins for people from the Capitol and District 2 (Cinna, Plutarch, Cato, Caesar, Portia, Brutus) and names for tributes from other districts that reflected their district's job (Cashmere is from the luxury district, Wiress is from the electronic disctrict, etc.). She talked about how desensitized to violence we are with all the graphic news coverage and violent action movies out there which I completely agree with. It was really fascinating.

What was really cool, though, was after her talk when she stamped our books with the Mockingjay tour stamp thing (she can't sign them due to wrist strain). We were at the back of the line which mean no pressure to move on from the table so I asked her what, in her opinion, was Peeta's tragic flaw, a question that has sparked a couple debates between myself, my sisters and my friends.** I stood there for quite a while as she thought about it and she did seem to really think hard. I don't know if that's because she had never thought about it before or because she wanted to give a really decisive answer. Eventually, she told me it was his trusting nature. In their world, seeing the good in people more than the bad can be a vulnerability. And though that is the flaw I had used myself to defend Peeta in the eyes of other's, I was a tad disappointed. Maybe he is unrealistically flawless. I kind of wanted her to give me something substantially bad that couldn't be seen in any way as a good thing, like being too trusting can. I want to believe that Peeta isn't too good to be true. Whatever, I still love him.

As a result of meeting her, I'm rereading Mockingjay. I started yesterday with the end and had tears streaming down my face which doesn't sound good but I love when writing is powerful enough to make my eyes water. Once more, I will say that I love those books so, so much. I can't imagine why more people don't read.

*It was a nice touch to be able to feel a bit more socially and emotionally intelligent than a girl who could shoot a squirrel through its eye with a bow and arrow.
**People seem to think he's too perfect to be realistic. I, personally, disagree.

and so I write

Hanging out at the Surrey International Writers' Conference this past weekend gave me a lot to think about. I was a volunteer most of the time and an attendee for one day so I got to see a lot and meet a ton of different people. I loved it. Spending time with a hotel of writers is something every writer should do if they get the chance.

There's a weird connection there, like a unity where you feel with everyone else. You belong. You all have something in common. It's comforting.

For a second it felt like everyone in the world was a writer. Like everyone looks at the world and how absurd it is and notes the unique things about people. Like everyone feels a desperate need to scrawl themselves down on napkins and notebooks, just to get across that vital message we all need to share.

But when you're at a writers' conference, you have a skewed perspective.

I spent a lot of time on the bus, going back and forth from home to hotel and back. That's a lot of time for staring out the window and thinking. Thinking about writers and why there aren't more people who look critically at the world and choose to dutifully (and hopefully honestly) pen it down. Thinking about why I write.
Big question. Why do I [need to] write?

It's not that I'm an overly creative person. I don't have ultra unique ideas that pop into my head out of nowhere. I'm sure most of my stories come from pieces of everywhere I look--books, movies, friends, family. But I still need to tell them. Why?

I don't know how this will sound to you exactly but my life isn't that exciting. I mean, it is but it isn't. And I love it. I love my life, how a spend my time, the contentedness I have. I have things to look forward to. There's always something exciting to blog about. But it's not Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet, dancing like there's no one else in the room. It's not Joe and Lennie, drinking wine on the porch and making the whole world explode. It's not Katsa finding an almost equal fighting partner in Po. It's just this. And this is great and I'm so grateful to have this but it's not that, you know?

And so I write. I write because I'm a hopeless romantic and I daydream, okay? I imagine boys who talk about more than who is the "fucking hottest girl in [their] grade." I imagine teenagers not being afraid to talk to each other, not stuck in their timid shells. I imagine romance and witty things to say and so much more than probably exists in reality.

Because reality isn't always enough.

Lack of costume

I've dressed up in a lot of great costumes in all my sixteen years.

There was that time my whole family recreated The Wizard of Oz (I was Dorothy, of course). Or that other time when I was Little Red Riding Hood with that awesome cape. I've been a fairy, an angel, a princess. I don't think I've ever been a witch, vampire, ghost or anything else that is considered scary. No, I prefer the pretty costumes that involve dresses, flouncy if possible, and a touch of hairspray.

But this year, I have no ideas. Nothing at all. Obviously I have some check points, otherwise I could just dress up as a zombie and be done with it. What do I want in a costume? I will tell you.

1. There must be a dress.
2. It must involve wearing high heels.
3. It must be pretty (hence the 'no zombies' rule).
4. It must not be ridiculously overdone.
5. If possible, it should be nerdy.

So tell me, what are my options?

White Cat (review)

I've been posting quite a bit of my writing lately (other than that post about my mother's habit for bringing random furniture into our home) so, to switch it up, I'm going to post a review today. I read White Cat by Holly Black a week or two ago and really enjoyed it. It kind of reminded me of Graceling and Inception, both of which I enjoyed. Brief overview? Okay:

Cassel (I say it Cuh-sel whereas my sisters pronounce it like castle) lives in an alternate reality that is mostly like ours only there are supernaturally gifted people walking around who are referred to as 'curse workers'.* These people range from luck workers to physical workers to memory workers and everything in between. Cassel's entire family are workers. All except for him.

All his life, he's been attempting to be normal. He goes to boarding school and had a girlfriend (who he apparently wasn't a good enough conman to keep) and a reputation as the school bookie. Then one night he wakes up after a dream in which a cat stole his tongue and he is on top of his dorm building in his boxers. The school thinks he was trying to kill himself and so they suspend him. Because of this, he has to go stay with his grandfather and clean out his parent's house because it's a mess (his dad is dead and his mom's in jail). The novel goes from there.

It was kind of a mystery, contemporary only alternate reality and the blurbs on the back said romance but that was just one big disappointment. I liked Cassel. He had some problems (trust issues, mostly) but he evolved a bit and he was charming and entertaining. The were some seemingly random plot threads (what was with the girlfriend bit?) but the characters were endearing (and frightening) and it was a pretty good book. I liked the writing. At the end, though, I felt like something was missing, like it wasn't finished or something. I can't describe it exactly but it felt wrong. It was completely captivating and I recommend it if you're wanting to stay up until 1am reading. If not, try The Bell Jar. That's pretty good, too.

*See the Graceling similarity? That's basically the only one.

morning

part I
I shut my door to the light and crawl back to my soft single bed. My hand over my ear, I press my head into the pillow because if my head is lodged deep in my mattress, maybe I won't be able to hear anything except the blood pumping through the palm of my hand. If I can't hear them, they don't exist.

My mind struggles for darkness, a sleep that will not come because, once awake in the morning, I can never fall back to sleep. Stubborn, I try harder, counting backwards from one thousand in my head, as if the numbers could erase this indecent attempt at morning.

If I could fall asleep, I could wake up again. The sun could crack through my blinds like a hesitant child. My eyelashes could part, revealing the room, blurry and unformed with no glasses for aid. I could glance at my watch and smile because nothing worth crying over had happened yet today. I could reach for my glasses as my feet hit the floor and stumble to the window as I fit them onto my face. My fingers could part the crack between the blinds farther, my eye fitted to that opening like it belonged there. Like it belongs anywhere. I could smile at the rain and turn to reach for the door.
To reach for breakfast.
To reach for the day.
To reach for infinity.

But I don't get a do over. There's only one chance to wake up on the right side of the bed. It's gone.


part II
You walk in, a towel draped around your body. You're dripping with cleanliness and a sense of freshness. I ask if I should leave. You respond with indifference. I turn away to grant you the small amount of privacy that I can give.

I keep writing, my words scrawling out on the page like baby sea turtles dashing for the ocean, desperate and awkward. My hands is cramping. I ignore it. I'm good at that.

Light fades into the room, like it's the end of the movie. I can never escape that ever present light for long. I can imagine your fingers twisting and twirling the plastic wand to restore the sun's reign to this room.

What if I wanted to go back to sleep, I ask.
Close your eyes, you say softly.

I do. Slowly, savoring every moment of coming darkness, my windshield wiper eyelids close on my portal to this world. Loss of sight does not equate to loss of memory, however. I can still remember this morning. My eyelids cannot erase it. They try.

Then I realize. I don't need to erase it, to start over, start fresh. Escaping this morning would be wrong, a crime. It's tempting but impossible so I reach for that doorknob a second time today, hoping that take two will exceed the first. Not a do over but a glimmer of hope that second tries can work out, too. I grasp the doorknob, turn and pull because I still have ten minutes left of this morning.
Ten minutes that are mine to create.

My Mother's Habits/Being Watched

My mother has some habits. They aren't bad habits, there's no heavy drinking or other potentially harmful things. It's just sometimes these habits can be--what's the word?--annoying.

What I'm trying to get at is her thing about picking stuff up from the side of the road. My mom loves to get furniture from the side of the road. Chairs, futon couches, desks, tables, etc.

Today, she saw a sewing table. At ten o'clock, driving home from a friend's birthday party, we (unknowingly, at the time) went to pick it up. Now, it wasn't far from my house, probably about five houses down, but when my mom drove past our curb and pulled up a few driveways down I was wondering if she had forgotten where we lived. Or maybe she was kidnapping us. Either way, when she told two of us to get out of the car and carry that sewing table home, I was resigned enough to get out of the car, no complaints and no hesitation. Sometimes it's just best to do as your mother bids you.

But that thing was heavy.

Rachel and I awkwardly tried to pick it up and got about twenty feet away, waddling every step. Even with my grocery store muscles, it was a weird thing to carry. No grip, no handles, heavier at one side. We took a break a few driveways from our house until Rachel told me there was someone in the window of the house we loitered in front of, staring at us. Reactively, I whipped around, only to see the dark figure drop back the curtain and step away from the window. But I could still see them. And it was creepy.

"Don't look at them," she said and I turned back to see her in the dark, hypocritically staring at the window.
"Let's go," I said, wanting to get home and out of the view of dark creepy figures.

Our fingers struggling to grip the sides of the table, we waddled away, extremely aware that when I had stopped gazing at the window, the dark silhouette had returned. After every couple steps I asked Rachel if they were still watching. She always answered that yes, yes they were. I tried to move faster, but very conscious of the idiotic manner in which I walked and thinking that the speed probably didn't help. If I were that person in the window, I probably would have stared, too.

Our mom came back and helped us. Luckily, this sped up the pace. Still, there's nothing quite like shuffling down the street in the dark of night like a criminal, carrying a sewing table with a free sign on it so your mother can bring more roadside furniture into your already cramped house.

At least now we have a place for sewing.

Poems from the (Knitting) Needles

Your eyes stay resolutely on that spot,
as your needles meet and exchange secrets.
Their language of clinking and clanging
is foreign to my naive ears.
I'm sure they are weaving truths
between the yarn in your fingers
and the air in mine

But I don't hear, or if I do,
I cannot comprehend.
The truth, in its form
of clinking and chinking
will never be mine.
Those needles don't teach their language
You know it or you don't.
I don't.

But maybe if I wait,
I will be the one to see
that truth is not a language,
but an afghan, knitted stitch by stitch.
Sometimes, there are errors,
dropped stitches, inconsistency
when needles
change hands.
Truth is slow work that is never finished.

The afghan long and full of mistakes,
It wraps around me,
A comforting blanket of unfinished reality.

fyi

I don't think I should be allowed to read about writing and publishing and such things until I actually start writing regularly. It's silly to read so much about how to write well when I don't actually put these things that I read about into action so I'm stopping that now.
My addiction to YA Highway now is put on the backburner and my addiction to my novel turned up full blast.

I needed to tell that to someone.

A Message To Trevor

I wanted to tell you. But the thing is, I don't want to be that girl anymore, Trevor. I'm tired of you asking "What's happening?", so passive you could be a suit of armour, and me telling you the colour of my breakfast cereal. Did you know I wrote a novel in a month? I can do better than this. I can do better than you.

What happened to make the only thing I write lately these inane updates and my Vampire Diaries fan fiction? Why do you make me feel like the only written word I have to offer the world is about whether I'm going to order a vanilla latte or a London fog? And what the hell is up with you and your obsession with following people? No longer will I pretend that I am not creeped out.

Once about a time, I was naive enough to think it was important to tell you these things, that you were listening. I've realized now that I've been talking to empty space. All this time, I've felt limited but really I've been limiting myself. My toleration is over. I won't accept another restriction on the amount of information I can express. Because I'm not confining my life to you anymore, Trevor. I'm through filling the blank white box between us, with you counting down to how much is too much. These empty characters will remain unspoken.

We're through.

BEDA recap

I didn't finish BEDA. More than a week into August, I came to terms with my inability to blog every day of the month, there being no internet at sea, and resolved to do my best.

But I didn't do that either.

I could have done the last three days of BEDA. I could have done it but I didn't. And, like I said in my last blog, I feel like August has slipped through my lazy fingers and, with it, BEDA.

I haven't read and commented on enough blogs. It's going to take me a little while to catch up on what I've missed. And I'm sad about that. But what can I do?

It was a good journey. Enjoyable, though short lived and not as great as last April. Oh, how I miss last April.

Thanks for joining me. Eyes are falling shut. Must leave computer.

Stolen August

I know it isn't exactly justified for me to feel robbed of my August, but I do, nonetheless. I know summer's not over for another three weeks and I don't have to go back to school, technically, but I love August. August is an amazing month of possibilities and adventures. I don't know what makes it so much better than July, but it is.

For some reason, I can't wrap my mind around the idea that it's over. I won't see it again for almost a year and I better move on quickly because if I don't awake from this nostalgic slumber, I'm going to miss September, too.

The goals of my summer are relatively untouched. This is not to say that it was a bad summer at all but I didn't read an overwhelming amount, I didn't write nearly enough and things are all but still on the boy front.

And yet there's something so incredibly satisfying about beginnings and September always seems like a whopper. I'm still sad that my season of short shorts is over (Alex wears short shorts?) and it's going to start raining more frequently (move on already, people, it's Vancouver) and that my friends are returning to prison school so I won't have full access to their company anymore. But I'm also happy. Undeniably excited and alive.

I still want a little August back, though.

The Pretend World of Harry Potter

Feel free to be aware of how much I say 'cool', 'neat' and 'awesome' in this blog. 

I liked Harry Potter World. I liked walking under the gates into Hogsmeade, with the Hogwarts Express right there and the snow covered village all sparkly (and boiling hot and filled with Muggles). I liked seeing the Hog's Head and the Three Broomsticks and, best of all, the Hogwarts castle.

It was pretty freaking cool. Breaking it down...

Architecture and buildings: It looks really sweet. Apart from the fact that the fake snow (really? It's Florida.) and the fact that when you actually go up and touch it, it feels like plastic, it's completely believable. They put a lot of effort into the store displays and building decor and it turned out well. So as long as you don't physically touch it, you can keep up with the illusion that it's been around for hundreds of years.

Food: I didn't actually eat anything there because the line ups were ridiculous and they didn't actually have themed food* but I did get a butterbeer. How could I not, really? I can pretty much say that I didn't that beverage. It wasn't disgusting and it was kind of like a weird root beer float but I don't think I'll ever get another one. I'm glad I did, though. I also got a pumpkin juice, even though it was overpriced, but I haven't opened it yet because I plan to take it home to my family.**

Rides: The line ups were better on some than others, but, in general, I would say the rides were good. The main ride, which is called The Forbidden Journey, was an hour wait but mostly worth it. They have you walk through the castle and you get to see a bunch of cool replicas (like the door to Dumbledore's office! So sweet. Plus all the portraits that move.). Then for the actual ride, you sit in a seat with shoulder straps and they take you through a mixture of a 3D looking movie, freaky spiders than descend and spit on you and creepy Dementors/wind machines. It's actually kind of scary.

The other rides were nice. The Hippogriff one was a long wait for a short, somewhat boring ride. The dragon one was fast, loopy and scary. And that was basically it.

Shops: Unfortunately, I only went into Honeydukes and Zonko's. The line for Ollivander's was the longest and completely in the sun so we didn't go there, not that I really wanted a wand. As cool as it would be, I don't know if I want an expensive souvenir sitting around my room for the rest of my life. There was also the post office but again, that had a long line standing in the sun. I did buy some postcards from the cart outside. So we went into Honeydukes where there was all the candy, overpriced but neat. And then to Zonko's which was less cool and just had a couple of things from the books and then some yo-yos and slinkies.

All in all, it was nice. I wasn't dying to go when I heard about it, but I'm glad I got the chance. It wasn't exactly what I expected and I wish it was a whole lot bigger but it's good for what it is. And the idea is a nice one, but the money grabbing aspect will always bug me. Anyway, if you don't get to go, I will say that it's not a huge deal. I mean, it's cool being there but it didn't change anything for me and I wasn't exactly blown away. (Though maybe if I wasn't such a cynic I would have been.)

I gotta go. The cruise starts tomorrow. So we'll see if there's internet at all. If not, I'll see you next Sunday. Not literally see you, but... you know.

*It was basically the same things you find in the other restaurants, only you get to sit in The Three Broomsticks.

**Because I'm the awesomest, nicest sister/daughter in the world.

Five People, One Bathroom (+Harry Potter World)

It's tricky in the morning. No one here is a vicious bathroom hog but in the mornings, if we want to leave the hotel room at 8:30, we have to start getting up a long time before that. And as I wait now for my partner-in-crime/fake sister to get out of the shower, I am consumed by hunger. I don't know what's for breakfast (the word bagel has been tossed around a bit), but I'm ready to start eating it.

We're going to Harry Potter World today. That's actually not what it's called. It's the Wizarding World of Harry Potter and I suppose they had to clarify the wizarding part for all the non-Harry Potter nerds. I'm almost not looking forward to it because as awesome as it sounds, the lines will not be pleasant. I wish I could have one day there, all to myself to wander the empty streets of Hogsmeade. But we know that's not going to happen.

***

I've now been to Harry Potter World. And I'm forever changed.

When I heard about the whole world thing, I was excited but in a 'That's really cool but, in all honesty, I'm never going to go because I'd have to fly to Florida and it seems pointless and I'm sure it'll be great but it could also be kind of a money grabbing tourist trap.' I didn't have a strong urge to pack my trunks and get on the train to Orlando.

But then something magical happened. Cheesy: I didn't seek out Harry Potter World; it found me and worked its wait into my heart.

Just kidding.

I'm not going to review the park right now. I'm tired and I need to sleep on it until my mind is fully formed. Strange expressions are strange. But I will say the following:

I wish there was a day for Harry Potter fans only. Where everyone else has to stay out and the rest of us could have it all to ourselves. Granted, I did not wear a costume to go to the park but that was more due to lack of foresight than lack of enthusiasm.

There could be a Harry Potter IQ test at the entrance. If you passed a certain number of questions, you can come in. If not, you can go spend your day in the rest of the park, on X-Men rides and Jurassic Park stuff. Maybe I'm being an elitist but wouldn't that HP nerd unity be completely awesome? (Not to mention shorter wait times.) I'm not saying you have to be the hugest fan in the world to get in, but it would be nice if the people who came to HP Nerd Day (as I'm calling it) had actually read the books, rather than just seen the movies.

And then the other six days a week, it could be a free for all.

Please, Universal?

Missing you

If you are reading this, I did not get a chance to write a blog today. That is largely due to the fact that I spent most of my day in an unknown place with no internet. Possibly Harry Potter World.

You see, yesterday, I woke up at 6am, had a shower, drove to Seattle, flew to San Fransico, flew to Orlando and then fell into a deep and restful sleep. Today, I probably woke up and immediately embarked on some grand adventure and didn't come back until late. Or I came back to no internet. Hotels... (Read: I hate you, Westin!)

And so I didn't have time to blog. But this is me, from the past, and you have no idea how odd it was to write past tense about the future. Really strange.

There's this part of a movie/tv show where one character says something along the lines of the following:
"You know that John Lennon song? 'You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not.'"
"You mean, 'But I'm not the only one.'"
"No, I don't."
"That's the line."
"Maybe you're thinking of a different song."

Anyway, I can't remember where this is from and how it got into my mind but if you could tell me, that would be fantastic. Please please tell me. kthnxbai.

Airport!

I'm in the airport! And I'm sitting here at the gate in San Fransico waiting to board and go to Florida. It's rather exciting to be on your computer in the airport because you get to type and generally look cool doing unknown cool people things.

Maybe that's just how I feel personally. Finally though, I'm in on something. Maybe no one else cares. That's a distinct possibility. The thing is that I care. And that's what matters, she said, with her hands over her heart and a faraway look in her eye.

Sometimes I feel the need to narrate my speech to make things clear. I'm not talking about only blogs, as witnessed above. I mean, a lot of the time I just want tom make dramatic clarifications after I've said something. Such as this:

I don't really like airplanes, she said thoughtfully.

It's not so much the close quarters or the tiny aisles or recycled air. I can just never get comfortable. And then after an hour and a half my butt starts to hurt and there's only so much maneuovering around you can do in economy class.

We're boarding. I leave you. I'll try to write tomorrow but everything is so unsure.

Where BEDA ends

This, technically, is the last day of BEDA for me. Well, not really technically, because really technically I didn't publish a blog on August 11th but I did write one and I did publish it eventually. I suppose, also, that I will be back in the internets sometime over the next two weeks and definitely on the 31st. But it's all pretty unsure.

What is sure?

Sure is that I don't have a favourite colour. Except for yellow.
Sure is that I am having pizza for dinner. Mushrooms. Om nom.

I'm sure of a lot of things. Mostly. Not really. I guess I'm not sure of anything. But I did have pizza for dinner. Sorry for the change in tense there but there was a hiatus in between this paragraph and the last.

That's two nights of pizza in a row. One of which pizzas I made. Really though, the answer is always pizza. I don't know why my mother even bothers asking what I'd prefer for dinner anymore. Maybe she is forgetful. Maybe she is hoping I am forgetful. But I will never forget the joy that pizza has brought me. And I will never stop wanting to eat it. In theory. As I said, I'm not really sure of anything.

That was a weird paragraph. I suppose I'm in a weird mood. You know that feeling where you know you've forgotten something but you don't know what it is? I don't have that.

No, the feeling I have is more of a 'Okay, so logically, I've probably forgotten to pack something but I cannot think of one thing I own that is not in my suitcase and, wow, that's a big suitcase.' The 'one thing I own' part is, of course, hyperbole but I have to tell you that lately I've been in a rather hyperbole-ish mood. Not sure what that's about but I'm sure my therapist will be interested in knowing that I'm finally stepping up to the plate of being dramatic and attention seeking.

Just kidding #1: I wouldn't tell anything that revealing to my psychiatrist.
Just kidding # 2: I don't have a psychiatrist. (Are you reading this Dr. McCoy? Go get a part in Star Trek for Spock's sake*)

Yeah, I'm aware that this blog took an odd turn. What're you gonna do about it?

*I'm really not qualified to make Star Trek references but I don't let things like qualifications get in my way. Ever. (Which is how come, if I want to, I'll be able to go to college/university without a high school degree. In theory.)

Paper

I know you're all tired of me going on about my coming vacation and how much I have to do and all that (wait, it's just me that gets irritated when people talk about their vacations constantly? Weird.) but I'm going to continue with a related thread.

By Thursday morning, I'll be in Orlando. Setting of John Green's third novel and Margo Roth Spiegelman's paper town. Home of Disney World as well as The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Orlando. (does anyone else remember being in love with Orlando Bloom? That was just me? Okay, good to know.)

I made this video yesterday, part of it being an open letter to John Green. I didn't say much but I did say something. Important. To me. I figured I'd have more to say about here that but I don't. It's all in the video. Apparently I said the word 'awesome' quite a few times. That happens when I'm speaking directly to people I look up to, whether or not they'll ever see it. Plus, if I could only use one word to describe John Green, it would be awesome.

I'm so cryptic today. It's been a long day and it went a bit smoother than I assumed it would. Pessimist, realist, Miss Negativity. Choose your term. I'm not *always* like this. Just sometimes.

Phone conversation with my dad
Me: Hey.
Dad: Hello.
Me: Hello yourself.
Dad: Who is this?
Me: Your favourite.
Dad: How'd you get back from England so quickly, Caitlyn?
Me: Yeah, dad. Nice. You're really funny.
Dad: Sorry, Rachel. Couldn't resist.
Me: Did you call for a reason? Because I'm about to hang up.
Dad: What size are your feet?

(that's not the end of the conversation but I felt it was a sufficiently awkward note to end it on.)

The contacts aggravate me. First, there was the woman telling me over and over to "Readjust the lens and try again," and then my eyes was red and now I have a headache. I'm not sure if the headache is related but still, the first go at contact lenses was not a startling success for a couple reasons:

1. They're hard to put in. I know this should get easier with time, but right now it's frustrating and I'm impatient.
2. My face is so bare without glasses. I'm aware I could probably get used to that too, but I'm not a huge fan of the naked feeling. Plus, glasses contribute to my general nerdiness.

I'm sleepy now. Why do all my blogs end with me being sleepy? Probably because I'm usually too sleepy at the end of my blogs to think of anything else to write.

If anyone was curious (*cough* Vita), my new job is working at a grocery store. I'll be stocking shelves and bagging groceries and showing shoppers where the ketchup is. That's how cool working is. Dress pants

I know I don't make sense. Also, I'm weird. Don't worry, people, I have a little sister to tell me these things.

Natural craziness

Sometimes I get a tad crazy. Maybe more than a tad. What is a tad? Sorry. The point is...
I don't do drugs. Why is it 'do' drugs? That doesn't make sense.
I don't drink alcohol. Much. Kidding. I'm not a fan. Wine, beer, etc. all kind of tastes gross to me.
I'm a pretty low key, indoor-type individual. You know how I'm blogging every day* this month? That's proof.
And yet... sometimes I can be crazy. Really odd, walking down the street and laughing like a mental person crazy. Maybe this is because I sometimes eat large quantities of brownies. Maybe it's because I am, in fact, mentally ill. But regardless, it's pretty darn entertaining at the time.

When was the last time you had a conversation with you sister about how if you were owls you'd both be dead**? Never? You don't have a sister? Whatever, that proves my point.

I was actually walking down the street today laughing at my sister and had a guy start laughing at me. I mean, what kind of person gets laughed at for laughing?

Usually there's a crashing point but not today. Today, I think my craziness was a result of exhaustion and post-needle-in-arm syndrome which means rather than progressing from hyper to melancholy I've just descended into exhausted zombie.
(In case you were wondering, I did not cry, hyperventilate or pass out at the vaccine clinic so I'd say that's a huge step up from Last Time. Maybe my not-quite-needle-phobia has passed.)

Why do I get like this? How do I find myself so incredibly amusing? Would I have stolen my owl sister's glasses, survival of the fittest style? Why is Zellers closed? Why are we here? Why has John Green been made aware of my awful failed attempt at video blogging by my sister who means well? Why did my sister who has not read any John Green books get to meet John Green and I did not?

Urg. I need to go to sleep. What? It isn't 8 o'clock yet? Too bad. Sleep.

*There could be some complications later on, as I've mentioned. We'll see.
**Now we endearingly call each other Handicapped Owl. Who's nerdy?

Contact Lenses, Shoe Shopping and More

This is going to take me longer than 10 minutes which is the amount of battery time I have left on my computer. Rats.


*rummages for power adapter*


There you are. Okay. Behold my week:

1. Fix bathing suit. The bottoms are a little loose and rather than buy news ones (I abhor bathing suit shopping) I'm going to take the ring out and try to sew them together. It would be easier if I could show you but just imagine some minor alterations.
2. Buy black dress pants. 'Cause that's what employed people must wear. No more leather miniskirts. :(
3. Find and purchase adorably comfortable sandals. This quest failed last time around but the second attempt will prevail!
4. Have a contact lens fitting and learn how to place foreign objects onto my eye. I know that's going to be a fun appointment. I can just tell with these things.
5. Select books and wardrobe for vacation. Note how books come first.
6. Refresh on the Spanish language. Tengo que recordar cómo se dicen algunas cosas.
7. Get immunized against Hepatitis A. I have to use words like 'immunized' or else I'd have to say something like 'Get a needle stuck in arm that will inject dead pathogens into my bloodstream in an attempt to make me stronger.'
8. Go to orientation. Learn stuffs.
9. Fly to Florida, possibly go to Harry Potter World and then embark on Caribbean cruise.

My life is kind of crazy right now. Also, I am a dummy at math.

Infinity and Beyond

Last night I slept in a field. This blog is late because there was no internet in the field. Go figure.

There's something magical about the stars. That's obvious. The night sky is fascinating. And so big. Last night as I was thinking of what I would write in this blog post, I thought the following:
I am in a field. I am sandwiched between two tarps and this is nice. That star is big. That star is moving. That's not a star. Why does that look like a UFO? Aliens! 
Wow. I'm so small. I'm so unbelievably, ridiculously tiny. Why am I here? How did this universe happen? Whoa. Deep. Do I even matter? What's the point? That thought sounds suicidal but it's so true. How can anything in my life have any relevance at all when there are places so far away in a universe so big I can't even fathom it?
Why here and now? What's going on? Whoa. I feel so small.


Because I am slightly obsessive, I had my sister start this blog yesterday, knowing that it would look like I had published it yesterday even though I hadn't because that's how Blogger does things. This turned out to be unnecessary because with the new Blogger you can schedule your blogs and how they appear.

Someday, maybe, I'll be looking through my blog archive and I'll have forgotten that on August 11 of Blog Every Day August, I technically did not blog. Technically. Then I'll read this and remember and we'll have come full circle and--oh my God--deja vu!

There's a distinct possibility that for a week this month I will not be able to blog. I have accepted this and though it saddens me, I'm beginning to be okay with it. Mostly. There may be posts if I can schedule them to be posted on the different days and if I decide I want to do that. I'm not sure if that defeats the point of BEDA but is there a point to BEDA? Is there a point to anything?

Having some major, Colin Singleton-esque issues right now. There will be another blog soon.

Unnecessary Information

First day I almost forgot to blog. And it's 10:30 and I'm tired so this is going to be a boring, Welcome To My Day Blog. Not that my day was boring, it wasn't, but it might be for you. I do not blame you if you stop reading this now. Honestly, I think I've done pretty well with the topics so far from school to Harry Potter to writing to book addictions so I totally deserve this My Day Blog.

7:08am Woke up. Late. scrambled into clothes, brushed hair briefly and looked in the mirror for a fraction of a second.
7:16am Left the house, sans breakfast. Got in the car and drove for around ten minutes.
7:29am Arrived at the parking lot before everyone including, but not limited to, the Japanese students, the other TAs, the bus and the homestay program coordinator. I wanted to be there early.
7:45am Most students were there. I avoided the eyes of my own group for fear that I would start to cry prematurely.
8:01am The bus drove away, the students crying inside and on their way to Vancouver for the day.
8:30am London Fog for breakfast. Yummy.
10:30am Worked out in the fields of the farm which is only a farm in my imagination and is more aptly described as a wild, slightly tamed garden. Picked blackberries. Got prickled by evil blackberry bushes.
11:44am Union scheduled tea break!
12:30pm More blackberries to be picked.
2:34pm Lunch of bun and butter and blackberries. Alliteration for the win.
3:39pm Used Google Calendars to synchronize social life with friends. There are no more secrets!
5:30pm Dinner of Indian food. Om nom.
6:07pm Sat around. What's next?
6:31pm Let's go to Tim Horton's (Timmy Ho's? T Ho's?)
7:01pm Loitered in Tim Horton's with nothing but a triple chocolate cookie and our dignity.
7:45pm Browsed through Shoppers Drugmart. Because we could.
8:22pm Went through my wardrobe with my unpaid intern fashion consultants (i.e. friends and sister) to pick out cruise clothes. My bed is now covered with clothes. Yay for being a girl?
9:15pm Friends left. Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince starts.
10:30pm Blog gets written.
10:50pm BED!

Story of my Life

I don't know why I feel like writing this today, but here is a brief retelling of the events in my life that have led up to the exciting events of today. Maybe I just wanted an excuse to talk to third person about myself.

Once upon a time there was a third child in a family of six, living in Ontario. She had a lot of middle child issues--a desire to strike out on her own and be unique, a talent for mediating conflict and a sensitivity that is upset by anyone's strong emotions. But she also possessed a lot of other traits that broke the middle child mold.


From age 2-8 she lived in a community of townhouses. It was a childhood of waiting at the entrance of said townhouse complex for the school bus so that she could play with her friends who went to school and staying out in the playground and later the whole complex until dark, playing grounders as well as cops and robbers.


It was a good time. A time of bicycle wheels and scooters (my scooter was a big one with tires instead of those tiny wheels and so it was never cool, even though, looking back, mine was awesomer and more efficient). And then it ended because one thing led to another and suddenly we were sitting in the Daisy Kingdom (my room in the basement) with my mom saying how we were moving to British Columbia and I'd make new friends and have new adventures and it would be fantastic. I don't think I believed her but I was too young to have formed my mind on that yet.


We left Ontario in February 2003, travelling in our angry white minivan (it had a weird eyebrow-like thing on the hood) with out tent trailer behind us. We fled South to the purported warmth and then West through Texan beaches and New Mexican sand dunes. We went to alien museums in Roswell and ghost towns in Arizona. We had adventures, like my mom had promised. In every picture from back then, I am doing some absurd pose like an eight year old's portfolio for America's Next Top Model, not that that information is strictly crucial to this story.


Settling into our lives in BC, we moved around a bit until we found our current home. Girl Guides gave us friends and Surrey Connect gave us homeschooling horror stories. It was good. We weren't nomads anymore, however enjoyable that had been. The band broke up after a surreal and hilarious scene and it was okay, parents finding themselves residing in two different places. Not as emotionally crippling as some movies would have you believe.


Teenagerdom came. Harry Potter 7 was released. Books became life. Blogging became a norm. Travelling was a lot of fun. Life went on.


That girl, no longer eight and beginning to understand the shortcomings of her middle childness, did not know that the summer she was sixteen years old (learning to drive with a ton of psychos out there) a friend would invite her on a trip to Florida to go on a cruise of the Caribbean. She didn't know that she'd sit there not really reacting because it didn't seem real and did these things really happen in real life? Like, what?

Yeah, that is correct. I'm heading out to sea in two weeks. (This can't be real. Inception is getting to me and I'm dreaming and in a second Leonardo is going to walk into my room and I'll know this isn't real... or not.)

Sleepy dreams are sleepy

After seeing Inception tonight, I'm almost weary of going to sleep. Like, I know that in all likelihood some guy that looks vaguely like Jack from Titanic is not going to invade my dreams and point a gun in my face but some part of me is mildly worried that is exactly what is going happen*.

I feel like my dreams should be different after watching it. Like I'll start seeing the people in my dreams as projections and everything will start to be as clear as a movie. But I know it probably won't.

I won't know for sure until tonight, if I can remember my dreams at all. I can only speak for myself, but the way I usually dream is like a fuzzy room that only makes sense one piece at a time. I have to focus on each part to understand and remembering that dream in the morning is the same only harder. It's like I'm not discovering the dream but creating it as I go along and then discovering it, if that makes sense. My dreams aren't as clear as a movie, like the ones Ellen Page painted in Inception. They're blurry and disjointed, almost like a random sequence of events taking place in an as yet undefined world.

I can't help thinking that if I can remember my dreams tomorrow morning, they'll be somewhat different, influenced by this undeniably influential film.

It's really too late for me to go into a deep self discussion about the movie and it's reaching ideas and thought provoking concepts. Really, I think the movie gives us more questions than answers and that, I believe, is the sign of a truly amazing work of fiction. The thing about Inception was that there was quite a bit of action and gunshot and those kind of special effects but it didn't seem like there was because there was more than that. It wasn't just the gravityless effect that you were admiring (though that was intensely cool) but it was the combination of that with the suspense but also the intellectual side of things.

I guess there was something for everyone, especially those who love the crazy deep questions such as myself. And there's so much value in a movie that questions our deepest beliefs with concepts as immense as "What is real?" Maybe we'll never know the answers but it really is fun to think on.

*Not that I really have any secrets worth breaking into my subconscious for.

August 6ths of Random

This blog consists of many parts brought together by the beautiful magic of numbered lists. So enjoy:

1. I always get the most response when I talk about school. This happens to support my idea that the top two topics for everyday conversation are school and the weather. Both things we supposedly all have in common. Is this normal?
2. Today is the anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima in 1945. I don't know much about this and I wouldn't even have known it was today if I hadn't been spending the week with a bunch of Japanese students. But, um, yeah. Sad events are sad.
3. Tomorrow is Saturday. Why am I telling you this? Thought you ought to know. (In all likelihood, though, you're reading this on Saturday or some day after it so this whole part is useless but I'm not deleting it because at this point we going for filler, hence this amazing run on sentence.)
4. John Green amazes me. Constantly.
5. Today, I got as close to 7th grade as I think I ever will. I can't explain exactly, but think, 'my friend wanted me to tell you that she likes you. Also, truth or dare!'

That's all. I hope you enjoyed the unity and consistency of this blog post. (Have you ever tried to explain sarcasm to someone who's trying to learn English?)

kthnxbaigoawaynow ;)

Book Addict

You know that book? The one that you can't seem to put down, and not in the clichéd definition of that phrase that us book nerds hear far too often, but in an actual: SLEEP or FOOD or BOOK? (the answer is usually book)

I find it so hard to define what it is about a book that has you forgetting that there are such a thing as chapter breaks and starting to think that if you just ignore everyone around you, you can finish before bed. Why are some books gripping? And not even in an intense action scene, what's going to happen way. I actually dislike action scenes. No, it's something else. There's something about fantastic writing that feels so good to read you don't ever want to stop.

There doesn't have to be characters you adore or a mysterious plot. There's just something about reading a compelling book that is so addictive. Maybe it's a skill that one can acquire, writing books that need to be devoured in one piece.* I hope so.

I'm reading Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson. I don't know exactly what to say about it. It's not charming or quirky. There's no breath catching romance going on. I feel really frustrated with the characters for not dealing with what's going on in the way I think I would deal with it. But it's none of that. It's not about that.

It's just good, okay? It's pretentious in the best of ways. It doesn't speak down to its readers, instead crediting them with intelligence and compassion. It's literary fiction for teens and every sentence is as delicious as they come.

Read it. And maybe you'll start to find, like I have, that being addicted to a book isn't such a bad thing. Who ever said it was anyway?

*That kind of made it sound like I constantly rush through reading which is far from the truth. I savour every tiny piece of the books that I admire. Every word, sentence, paragraph and chapter.

In which Harry teaches us yet another lesson

As I sit here and watch Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, I can help but realize the important lessons in this movie. And they're not lesson lessons--the kind that, when you read a book or watch a movie, feel like swallowing gravel because seriously, YA writers, we don't want you to condescend to teach us a lesson, we want to read a well written story that has meaning. Gah.

No, these lessons are simply, unintentional ones, like 'Don't spend too much time making a cake if a house elf is just going to splatter it all over your guests later' and 'Twelve year olds should not drive to school and if they do, they should wear their seat belts.' (really Harry? You're a mugglefreaking idiot)

The other lessons are equally not thrust in your face although somewhat less relevant to today's teenager. Here are a couple more lessons in list format, for those of you who aren't interested in reading between the scenes:

• If you consistently bleach your hair or wear a long, extremely blond wig, you will became a flaming racist.
• If you receive a red envelope that screams hate mail, take it outside before you open it. That way, your face won't match your hair when it's finished screaming at you.
• Never let a man who has won a smile contest play doctor with your arm (this includes not only Gilderoy Lockhart but Carly Cullen, too).
• When you start hearing voices in your head saying 'Kill', see the Hogwarts Psychiatrist, aka, Dobby.

Aside from that though, a couple weeks ago, a certain person commented on how juvenile the initial Harry Potter books are and I am now ready to respond to this. Here it is:

Of course they're juvenile. They were written for children. That does not take away their applicability. It also does not mean they're not incredibly written and executed and generally well plotted.

But back to the movies, these kids are just too unbelievably adorable. I know there are people who think that present day Dan Radcliffe is repulsive (I respectfully disagree), but you have to admit he was pretty darn adorable in 2002. Same goes for the rest of the cast, though something should have been done about Hermione's hair. I guess it fits the description and all but what human being should have to go through having that captured for their entire life?

All this was put into perspective for me today as I heard at least four Japanese teenagers tell me they like Harry Potter because it is exciting. Apparently, learning English is fun.

The Writing Process

One of my famous lists. The first of BEDA.

I find it noteworthy whenever an author answers the question "What is your writing process like?" It kind of reveals a lot about the person. Do they write at night or early in the morning? Do they type ten sentences an hour or 2,000 words a day? Are they alone in their basement or listening to other people's conversations in a coffee shop.

So this is my preparation. It's worth saying that it all varies. I like to write when I'm home alone but that quiet house does not happen into existence* every day. I have to roll with it all and fit my life into my writing however I can, sometimes at the detriment of my formal 'schoolwork'.

1. Ascertain my computer. Lately, I find it necessary to write on my computer because I have specific scenes to write and they are outlined in a Excel sheet that I fear I cannot live without. Other times I've been able to use my notebook or, *gasp*, normal paper.
2. Music. Right now it's The Beatles but I have a number of different playlists that I find helpful to my muse**.
3. Twitter. It's always a nice way to make sure you don't get enough written. Plus, I'm sure my followers all love my constant updates during writing time. How can your life be complete until you've read that a fly just landed on my Backspace key and now I can't correct my typos for fear of disturbing it?
4. Pajamas. I really don't feel prepared until I'm wearing my PJs. It's just not right to leave them out of this.
5. Open the Word doc and Excel sheet. Once I've figured out what scenes I have to write, I stare at the blinking vertical bar which I'm not sure the name of. It's almost therapeutic.
6. Make tea. Once the kettle is on I have a dance party.
7. Burn fingers with boiling tea while trying drink it. This is always a fun step.
8. Commence pouring soul into keys. Kidding, I'm not that cliche. Or am I?

That's about it. I have to start onto this list now because, surprise surprise, I've got the whole house for the next hour and a half!

How do YOU write?

*Does anyone else remember when I obsessively thought that exist had an 'h' in it? That was cute.

**And I use that word ironically. Muses are for Disney movies, silly.

Epic HTML Success!

Ever get that feeling where you're trying to revamp your blog but you can't figure out how the hell HTML works and then you work really hard and read a lot of 'How To' blogs and you still can't get it, so you give up for a short while and then you go back and figure it out and you're so freaking proud of yourself that you can't even speak?

No? It's just me that gets that way? Weird.

Well, whatever. It's a great feeling. I was trying to get that header to be centered and it wasn't cooperating and even though I basically read a blog that said 'paste this code here' and I did it, I'm still totally proud. I pasted that code there and now it's beautiful and pretty.

So what do you think? Like the new layout? Did I sell my soul to Blogger? Comment with your opinion and HTML horror stories. We HTMLosers have to stick together. Also, when was the last time you were undeniably proud of yourself?

Writerly insecurity

So I'm writing this novel. It doesn't have a title because I haven't come up with anything that makes me leap with happiness yet. It has, however, had a series of working titles.*

Writing a a novel, like coming up with a title for that novel, is hard. Nanowrimo flies/drags/insert your own verb by and you're so incredibly pleased because you've got 50,000 words of something and though you realize that something isn't exactly a Brilliant Masterpiece as the Word doc title suggests, you're still pretty proud. And you think that after some hardship, you'll be able to whip it into shape. Your misconceptions of the editing process have led you to believe various things (for example that if you cut some chapters and write some new ones you'll be good to go or worse, that once you've fixed the grammar and spelling errors, you're done). And then you set out to realize that this shit it difficult and your novel sucks, plus you've already showed it to at least five people who will never unread that first draft**. Damnit.

It's been only six months since I wrote those first 52,000 words but it feels like longer. And I've gone through so many phases of thoughts toward my novel that it's almost unreal. But lately what I've been feeling mainly is insecurity. And excitement.

I'm a little worried. I don't want it to be fluffy. I don't want to write chick lit even though there's nothing inherently wrong with chick lit other than the name and stigma. I told this to my mom, saying I didn't want to be another Meg Cabot (even though Meg Cabot is clearly great) and my mom said why not? I'm young. I can make mistakes. Also, as a side note, I think Meg is doing pretty well for herself. I'd be lucky to be that lucky. And maybe she's right but I don't see the point. And maybe I'm pushing myself too much to say that I want to be like John Green but when I think about it, I don't want to be John Green or Meg Cabot. But I do want to impact people.

In defense of Meg Cabot: I love Meg's books. The Mediator series is one of my favourites and Avalon High was charming. I was also deeply in love with All American Girl and its sequel.

But however much I related to the characters or wished that I would get to fall in love with a hot guy named Jesse, there wasn't anything else. I would turn the last page and close the book but I wouldn't feel anything else except maybe, "Well, that was good." They're just stories to me and they don't mean much beyond that. To me.

And I'm not saying everyone has to be deeply moving and crazily thought provoking. But I am saying that I'm trying to be. So I hope that isn't offensive to Meg Cabot or her fans. I completely respect her as a writer. She's so amazing and inspiring. That's just not what I want to be.

I want people to read the last page of my book and be changed in some way, even if it's just some tiny thing. I want there to be a purpose, some sort of resonance and even if it's only a tiny ripple, I want my book to mean something to its readers, like John's books mean something to me.

But I'm not trying to be John Green, either. Whatever they say about imitation, I want to do something new. Or as new as one can in the publishing world, where every story has been written multiple times.

I think I'll settle for a debut novel like Jandy Nelson's, The Sky is Everywhere. And that might even be reaching a little high. But I've got time to grow and that's what is important. Cheesy? Yeah, that's fine with me.

*In chronological order they are Brilliance Masterpiece, The Secret of Lemons and Recreational Stalking.

** The lesson here is to not listen to the pressures of your friends when they tell you to share your novel. They can wait until it's published. *knocks on wood*

It's Wednesday. It's Wednesday and I'm tired of writing and I have a crick in my neck and discomfort in my back and my eyes are staring to commit suicide from having stared at this screen for so long and my butt is numb. In short, my body is revolting. Needless to say, it's time to get away from the computer and yet I sit here still, blogging the pain away. Only I can't blog the pain away because I'm not *that* good of a blogger.

Apparently Wednesdays aren't a lot of fun. Nothing exciting ever happens on a Wednesday. No RP blog. No livingroomninjas vlog. No weekend. No 'T'. It's a little upsetting.

But let's not be sad, okay? No, let's do some pilates and some yoga and meditate until you feel better. That's what you get, kay? Pretend everything is cool.

I have no idea where I've gone with this but I'm going now due to the fact that I think my body will actually hate me if I continue any longer with this machine on my lap and these fingers at these keys.

Meh.

Weirdly Named Bookstore Anecdotes

I was in Indigo the other day and, though I originally had some contempt for the seemingly randomly named bookstore (that's not really a bookstore-bookstore because they also sell stuff like candles and gardening tools and pillows), I've grown to like it there. Even though the table of "Hot Teen Reads" is 100% paranormal romance-type stuff (that is, until I threw John Green into the mix*) when not every teen who reads is completely obsessed with that stuff, it's big, you can buy bargain books for $2 and the stuff in near the cashiers is sufficiently amusing while not being sane enough for me to actually purchase.

I don't know exactly where this is going but I bought a time-turner, so that's neat.

*No one technically tells you that you're not allowed to alter the store displays and so, yes, I may have put a copy or two of Paper Towns on top of the newly recovered Eclipse. What are you going to do about it?