"It's so hard to leave--until you leave. Then it's the easiest thing in the goddamned world." - Paper Towns, John GreenSame goes for me and quitting. When we're told as children all those lies about how winners never quit and quitters never try or whatever the hell it was, they're really just that--lies. The less simple truth is that there aren't hard and fast rules about quitting and the people who do it. It's not always about surrender. Sometimes, quitting is an act of self respect.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
the art of quitting
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
small world syndrome
You know how when crazy coincidences happen and people attribute it to 'small world?' I disagree with that. It's a huge world, so huge I sometimes fail to grasp, and--population wise--constantly growing.
We're the small ones. There's this feeling I get from staring out at the ocean that I can best describe as a glorious insignificance. It's like this beautiful realization that in the bigger picture, my life is pretty tiny. In my lifetime, I'll try not to consume more than I need and I'll hopefully help people ad do some good ad maybe it'll even out. Maybe all my positive contributes will cancel out what I take away. But looking at the human race broadly, my impact will be pretty small.
Some people may fall into a depression of sorts upon realizing this, feel lost in a sea of purposelessness. Like in a book called Nothing, where this group of seventh graders are faced with the idea that nothing matters and are not able to live with it. They go to incredible lengths to prove to themselves and each other that something in life has meaning.
What people fail to appreciate, in commenting that it's a small world, is how naturally interconnected we are I feel like one of the biggest failings of the human race is to put things in perspective. Like, if we just saw that throwing your toxic garbage in a landfill that leeches into the groundwater that goes to the rivers where the fish we eat swim, would we be this thoughtless?
So, to me, it's not that strange when it turns out that my dad and my friend's dad went to the same highschool in a small town on the other side of the country and other weird connections reveal themselves.
It's not a small world; sometimes it just feels like it.
We're the small ones. There's this feeling I get from staring out at the ocean that I can best describe as a glorious insignificance. It's like this beautiful realization that in the bigger picture, my life is pretty tiny. In my lifetime, I'll try not to consume more than I need and I'll hopefully help people ad do some good ad maybe it'll even out. Maybe all my positive contributes will cancel out what I take away. But looking at the human race broadly, my impact will be pretty small.
Some people may fall into a depression of sorts upon realizing this, feel lost in a sea of purposelessness. Like in a book called Nothing, where this group of seventh graders are faced with the idea that nothing matters and are not able to live with it. They go to incredible lengths to prove to themselves and each other that something in life has meaning.
What people fail to appreciate, in commenting that it's a small world, is how naturally interconnected we are I feel like one of the biggest failings of the human race is to put things in perspective. Like, if we just saw that throwing your toxic garbage in a landfill that leeches into the groundwater that goes to the rivers where the fish we eat swim, would we be this thoughtless?
So, to me, it's not that strange when it turns out that my dad and my friend's dad went to the same highschool in a small town on the other side of the country and other weird connections reveal themselves.
It's not a small world; sometimes it just feels like it.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
unapologetically consistent
I decided I was feeling bloggy today so I went to my url to see when I had last posted and it was October 22--the time before that, September 22. Weird, isn't it?
My last blog was about how I was doing nanowrimo. It seems somewhat fitting that this one should inform that I am not going to win nano. I'm glad I did it because I wrote 25,000 words that I wouldn't have otherwise but I decided that it would not suit me to write the other 25,000 words in the last 10 days. I'm not interested in the stress and, to be honest, it isn't fun anymore.
I like winning but it isn't worth it. Not that I'm going to stop writing; I'm not. I'm just not writing 2,500 words a day, that's all.
On another note, my head is swirling with a lot of half-formed thoughts. Someone's recently moon-walked into my life who is, in some indirect and not so indirect ways, shaking things up.
Gilmore Girls is calling. I will continue to be unapologetic for my amateur, yet consistent, blogging.
My last blog was about how I was doing nanowrimo. It seems somewhat fitting that this one should inform that I am not going to win nano. I'm glad I did it because I wrote 25,000 words that I wouldn't have otherwise but I decided that it would not suit me to write the other 25,000 words in the last 10 days. I'm not interested in the stress and, to be honest, it isn't fun anymore.
I like winning but it isn't worth it. Not that I'm going to stop writing; I'm not. I'm just not writing 2,500 words a day, that's all.
On another note, my head is swirling with a lot of half-formed thoughts. Someone's recently moon-walked into my life who is, in some indirect and not so indirect ways, shaking things up.
Gilmore Girls is calling. I will continue to be unapologetic for my amateur, yet consistent, blogging.
Friday, November 11, 2011
so this is going well...
I missed the second day of BEDA.
I was going to write it when I got home from being psychoanalyzed and having my blood taken for me for the purpose of pursuing greater truths but, like, it was 10 o'clock and I forgot.
This is after my mom and I were put in a room together with a video camera and told to talk about feels. Did I mention the blood pressure machines we had on? SCIENCE.
I was going to write it when I got home from being psychoanalyzed and having my blood taken for me for the purpose of pursuing greater truths but, like, it was 10 o'clock and I forgot.
This is after my mom and I were put in a room together with a video camera and told to talk about feels. Did I mention the blood pressure machines we had on? SCIENCE.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
I'm now going to talk about signed things, of which I have no shortage.
When John announced that he would be signing the entire first printing of The Fault in Our Stars, I probably had a moment of excitement. There's a faint hope that I'll get a special one, a hanklerfish, a note, a purple Sharpie one, etc. But for the most part, it doesn't mean that much to me.
The thing that I've come to learn about signed things is that they're about as special as the story behind them. Witness the Cassie Clare and Holly Black books above. My friends and I waited in line, a line winding between bookshelves throughout half of Chapters, so that we could go up and get those signed. We got to chat with the authors while they did it. My dad got the parental unit award of the night for staying in the mall for at least five hours during the q&a and signing. Those lines on those books are almost symbolic of that night.
Then there's the Twilight book. Picture, if you will, my naive Twilight loving, 13-year-old self, so excited to be sitting in the very last row of Benaroya Hall in Seattle that I am bouncing in my seat. Then imagine later on, standing in a complex line in the lobby, clutching this piece of shit book and dancing with my sisters to Mr. Brightside by The Killers. That night was so much fun, I can't even describe. And when I look at that scribbled SM, it reminds me of how silly and happy I was.
Now, there's two John Green signatures on here. I have never met John Green. I've met Hank Green and I probably got him to sign something but I'm sure where, or even what, it is (oh, now that I think about it, it's the poster from his last album). The first signature was given to me by my sister. When John was in the UK last year, doing a show with The Sons of Admirals in London, I told her she had to go. And she did. When she came home for Christmas that year, she gave it to me and though I was blasé when she first mentioned it, when I saw my name in John's handwriting I kind of freaked out. So when I glance towards where it hangs in my room, I don't just think about the fact that John Green once told me not to forget to be awesome, I think about the fact that my lovely sister went to this random concert she knew nothing about and then probably stood in line so that I could have this piece of paper. And I think that's pretty cool.
The second J Scribble is a copy of Will Grayson, Will Grayson that my mom brought home from work one day. She called me when she saw it and asked if I wanted it and I said, "Sure." When she handed it to me, I opened it, closed it and put it on my shelf. And maybe my abundance of opportunity to get things signed has made me a signature snob but this book just doesn't mean any more than the unsigned copy it sits next to on my shelf. It's kind of cool that one time John Green and David Levithan held this book and maybe some of their skin cells flaked off on it but aside from that, it's just faded Sharpie scribbles on a piece of paper.
This lengthy case study has been an indulgence of mine to show you that having a signature that is 1 in 150,000 is not that important to me. I would buy the book the day it comes out, anyway. It sounds freaking amazing. I would rather John be healthy and carpal tunnel-less than have another J Scribble in my room.
But, I don't know, I appreciate the effort John is giving to Nerdfighteria and I'm grateful for all the energy the Green brothers but in to this community.
When John announced that he would be signing the entire first printing of The Fault in Our Stars, I probably had a moment of excitement. There's a faint hope that I'll get a special one, a hanklerfish, a note, a purple Sharpie one, etc. But for the most part, it doesn't mean that much to me.
The thing that I've come to learn about signed things is that they're about as special as the story behind them. Witness the Cassie Clare and Holly Black books above. My friends and I waited in line, a line winding between bookshelves throughout half of Chapters, so that we could go up and get those signed. We got to chat with the authors while they did it. My dad got the parental unit award of the night for staying in the mall for at least five hours during the q&a and signing. Those lines on those books are almost symbolic of that night.
Then there's the Twilight book. Picture, if you will, my naive Twilight loving, 13-year-old self, so excited to be sitting in the very last row of Benaroya Hall in Seattle that I am bouncing in my seat. Then imagine later on, standing in a complex line in the lobby, clutching this piece of shit book and dancing with my sisters to Mr. Brightside by The Killers. That night was so much fun, I can't even describe. And when I look at that scribbled SM, it reminds me of how silly and happy I was.
Now, there's two John Green signatures on here. I have never met John Green. I've met Hank Green and I probably got him to sign something but I'm sure where, or even what, it is (oh, now that I think about it, it's the poster from his last album). The first signature was given to me by my sister. When John was in the UK last year, doing a show with The Sons of Admirals in London, I told her she had to go. And she did. When she came home for Christmas that year, she gave it to me and though I was blasé when she first mentioned it, when I saw my name in John's handwriting I kind of freaked out. So when I glance towards where it hangs in my room, I don't just think about the fact that John Green once told me not to forget to be awesome, I think about the fact that my lovely sister went to this random concert she knew nothing about and then probably stood in line so that I could have this piece of paper. And I think that's pretty cool.
The second J Scribble is a copy of Will Grayson, Will Grayson that my mom brought home from work one day. She called me when she saw it and asked if I wanted it and I said, "Sure." When she handed it to me, I opened it, closed it and put it on my shelf. And maybe my abundance of opportunity to get things signed has made me a signature snob but this book just doesn't mean any more than the unsigned copy it sits next to on my shelf. It's kind of cool that one time John Green and David Levithan held this book and maybe some of their skin cells flaked off on it but aside from that, it's just faded Sharpie scribbles on a piece of paper.
This lengthy case study has been an indulgence of mine to show you that having a signature that is 1 in 150,000 is not that important to me. I would buy the book the day it comes out, anyway. It sounds freaking amazing. I would rather John be healthy and carpal tunnel-less than have another J Scribble in my room.
But, I don't know, I appreciate the effort John is giving to Nerdfighteria and I'm grateful for all the energy the Green brothers but in to this community.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
nanowrimo
I've hesitated to say that I won't be doing NaNoWriMo this year, at least not in the traditional sense. I don't know why, but blogging the words has a sense of finality and though I'm not unsure about it, I guess I haven' wanted to carve it into the interwebs just yet. It wasn't a hard decision, though the more I think about it, the more love I feel for Nano. New stories are great. There's a rush of excitement and bursts of energy and I enjoy it. But, as author Susan Juby said today in a workshop at the Surrey Writers Conference, if you have too many affairs with other stories, it becomes a habit you can't break.
I want to finish my current story. Every time I hear advice on how plots are supposed to work I think of my novel and smile at how it all vaguely fits into the right places at the right times. Sure, I need more conflict and tension and my protagonist needs more goals and it's not quite there yet but it's a draft and I'm just happy that I feel it has potential. It's so nice to feel this story could really go somewhere--if I put the effort in.
So while I love that rush of falling in love with a new story and creating new characters and scenes and starting fresh on November 1st, it's not going to work for me this year. I need to stick with what I've got and hopefully I'll figure out how to use the motivational push of NaNo to my advantage in some other way. I'm still figuring out the logistics.
To all those attempting the challenge, I wish you luck. For writers who are not embarking on this sacred journey, is there any particular reason why not?
I want to finish my current story. Every time I hear advice on how plots are supposed to work I think of my novel and smile at how it all vaguely fits into the right places at the right times. Sure, I need more conflict and tension and my protagonist needs more goals and it's not quite there yet but it's a draft and I'm just happy that I feel it has potential. It's so nice to feel this story could really go somewhere--if I put the effort in.
So while I love that rush of falling in love with a new story and creating new characters and scenes and starting fresh on November 1st, it's not going to work for me this year. I need to stick with what I've got and hopefully I'll figure out how to use the motivational push of NaNo to my advantage in some other way. I'm still figuring out the logistics.
To all those attempting the challenge, I wish you luck. For writers who are not embarking on this sacred journey, is there any particular reason why not?
Thursday, September 22, 2011
question marks
I keep asking myself questions like
When?
When to everything, every promise we never made.
When will your name light up my phone, email, the corners of
my lips in anything but a whisper?
Or maybe better, when will your name cease to light up my
senses?
The thing is, I never asked you for much.
Not out loud, at least.
I wanted little more than romance at first,
something to smile
about as sleep reached for me,
something to sigh across pillowcases to my
friends.
When you said that word, friend, I wanted less,
downsized hopes and dreams.
Placed fantasies in neat boxes, alphabetized.
I wanted one thing, basically.
For you to keep being that
simple thing. A friend.
Which you did not.
That’s when questions like
When?
Get easily replaced by
Why?
And though the answers to
When?
are usually seen as linear,
Why?
is a universe of uncertainty and I can’t quite find the right solar system
without you.
Without you?
A last question that isn’t really a question.
What were we really but fleeting pen pals,
two people who
emailed for a month?
You're a memory with no answers.
But, hey, I like question marks.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
stories
I have a love affair with--you guessed it--stories. We're getting more tangled up in each other, too, as I realize how radically different my life would be without them. If I was dating stories, I would probably advise myself to cool off because this relationship may be just a tad unhealthy.
Yet I don't think about these facts until it's 11:30 at night after five sixths of a Star Wars marathon and I'm gesticulating wildly, telling the most epic tale of babysitting that I've ever told, to my third (and hopefully last) audience. I'm smiling and laughing and cringing and feeling everything and everyone is looking at me and we're so in the moment and I get so hopeful because storytelling is such a beautiful thing about being human and being alive and can't it just be like this all the time? Why can't everyone keep smiling because I'm saying the right thing?
I love making people laugh. There are these constant moments of doubt that I'm not actually as funny as people tell me because most of the time I haven't half a clue what I'm saying or where it's coming from. And sometimes my humour is mean which is a rather unfortunate side effect. It's so hard to create jokes that laugh with rather than at.
But I'm trying. With every word that I say, I'm improving my craft of this incredibly human activity. Every story, every blog, every chapter of my neglected novels has gotten me a little better at the thing that I love the most.
I don't consider myself exceptional at lying like John Green but I think I'm good at telling stories. And even if I'm not, I won't be stopping any time soon. I don't even think I know how.
Yet I don't think about these facts until it's 11:30 at night after five sixths of a Star Wars marathon and I'm gesticulating wildly, telling the most epic tale of babysitting that I've ever told, to my third (and hopefully last) audience. I'm smiling and laughing and cringing and feeling everything and everyone is looking at me and we're so in the moment and I get so hopeful because storytelling is such a beautiful thing about being human and being alive and can't it just be like this all the time? Why can't everyone keep smiling because I'm saying the right thing?
I love making people laugh. There are these constant moments of doubt that I'm not actually as funny as people tell me because most of the time I haven't half a clue what I'm saying or where it's coming from. And sometimes my humour is mean which is a rather unfortunate side effect. It's so hard to create jokes that laugh with rather than at.
But I'm trying. With every word that I say, I'm improving my craft of this incredibly human activity. Every story, every blog, every chapter of my neglected novels has gotten me a little better at the thing that I love the most.
I don't consider myself exceptional at lying like John Green but I think I'm good at telling stories. And even if I'm not, I won't be stopping any time soon. I don't even think I know how.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
sick people should go to bed
I always forget how much I hate being ill. I mean, I remember the fact that it wasn't a good time, but it's not until my nose won't stop dripping and my eye is twitching and my throat aches that I realize how sucky it is to be sick.
This blog post has no point.
This blog post has no point.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
"and I'm only me when I'm with you"
Taylor Swift inspires the most thought provoking Saturday afternoon dish washing moments of all other songwriters. Honestly.
So I'm standing there scrubbing away at a cup measure this afternoon and reevaluating my distaste of the song "I'm Only Me When I'm With You." See My Relationship Progression With This Song:
So I'm standing there scrubbing away at a cup measure this afternoon and reevaluating my distaste of the song "I'm Only Me When I'm With You." See My Relationship Progression With This Song:
- Bobbing along. Oooh, this is kind of catchy.
- Furrowed brow. Wait a second, this is a dependency song.
- Slow nodding. Okay, she's talking about her best friend. That's cool, right?
- Head scratching. Hold on, why is it okay to only be yourself around your best friend but not around a guy?
- Quizzical expression. Shame! I know EXACTLY what she's talking about. I'm dependent!
- Squinty look. But then it is about a guy?
- Head-desk. I'm so confused. What is my stance?
It recently occurred to me that I don't have to have a ideological "stance" to every song on my iPod but still, I think about these things. And I've made it clear in the past that I don't support the intricacies of Taylor Swift's tendency towards passivity and pining. But this song has shaken it all up by the mere fact that I associate with it so closely.
I know what it's like to feel so close to a person that your empathy transcends almost everything. I've felt like I couldn't be myself when I wasn't around this person/people. I've been a part of something that feels greater than myself, been half of a whole.
What does that say about me and does it even matter? And when you start to realize that a lot of what you thought was silly or wrong or cynical or close-minded, is that called maturity or just life? Seriously, what are the chances I'll look back on this point in time, everything I stand for and believe in, and think, "Wow, I can't believe I thought that. I was so... *insert adjective here*"
*gasp* Am I actually growing as a person?
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
BTAWIA
It's called a goal, people, just because my blogs have gone down to monthly since April does not mean I cannot handle a challenge.
So yes, I will be blogging thrice* a week in August. Let's do this.
With the preliminaries out of the way, I must say: I really want to get into Pottermore. At first, with the vagueness, I wasn't that into it. But I feel like the hype has caught up to me, along with a feverish desire to be a part of it.
The problem, of course, is that I'm working every day from 8:30-3:30 and the next clue get's dropped anytime from 6am-10pm PST, according to Mugglenet. Yes, that's a couple hours of possibility but I really don't want to get up at 6 and then have to leave/get ready before the clue is out.
And now I'm whining. Greeeeaaat. First day of BTAWIA and I've already resorted to self pity. I'm just going to stop myself. Right now.
*Twice at RP, once here.
So yes, I will be blogging thrice* a week in August. Let's do this.
With the preliminaries out of the way, I must say: I really want to get into Pottermore. At first, with the vagueness, I wasn't that into it. But I feel like the hype has caught up to me, along with a feverish desire to be a part of it.
The problem, of course, is that I'm working every day from 8:30-3:30 and the next clue get's dropped anytime from 6am-10pm PST, according to Mugglenet. Yes, that's a couple hours of possibility but I really don't want to get up at 6 and then have to leave/get ready before the clue is out.
And now I'm whining. Greeeeaaat. First day of BTAWIA and I've already resorted to self pity. I'm just going to stop myself. Right now.
*Twice at RP, once here.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
feeling good
Yesterday was kind of a low day for me...
...a silent alarm just went off in my head that screeched 'Warning! This is not your journal!' Thank you, Consciousness. You are too cool...
But seriously, last week was intense and all the detail I'm going into is this: yesterday, I kind of broke down a little. It all caught up to me and I totally let it out.
So I woke up today with this fresh feeling of being alive again and excited and it's been incredible. Everything seems to have this new layer over it that I can't describe but you should just know that it's great. I'm rejuvenated and only tired in the best way.
I guess I just wanted to share that feeling. Today feels like a breakthrough and what is an unblogged about breakthrough? Surely, not a breakthrough at all. It just all lined up and I did what I felt like and learned about bees and talked to amazing people and acknowledged that sometimes I feel fucked up and that is totally fine.
Totally fine.
I'm going to sleep now and dream about tomorrow because it's going to be better. I mean, Harry freaking Potter, to say the least. !!!!!! I'm stoked.
And it's totally awesome.
...a silent alarm just went off in my head that screeched 'Warning! This is not your journal!' Thank you, Consciousness. You are too cool...
But seriously, last week was intense and all the detail I'm going into is this: yesterday, I kind of broke down a little. It all caught up to me and I totally let it out.
So I woke up today with this fresh feeling of being alive again and excited and it's been incredible. Everything seems to have this new layer over it that I can't describe but you should just know that it's great. I'm rejuvenated and only tired in the best way.
I guess I just wanted to share that feeling. Today feels like a breakthrough and what is an unblogged about breakthrough? Surely, not a breakthrough at all. It just all lined up and I did what I felt like and learned about bees and talked to amazing people and acknowledged that sometimes I feel fucked up and that is totally fine.
Totally fine.
I'm going to sleep now and dream about tomorrow because it's going to be better. I mean, Harry freaking Potter, to say the least. !!!!!! I'm stoked.
And it's totally awesome.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Dear Rachel
It's been a whole month since I blogged here. In the archive to the right, there's no May, like it never happened and that makes me a little more than uncomfortable. April apparently took a lot out of me, leaving May with hardly any energy for reflection. In hindsight, that is unfortunate, seeing as how I turned 17 and got my license and have been emailing this really cool boy and some bloggable retrospect would have been nice, but it's also irrevocable so we might as well move on.
Sorry if my end of our phone conversation was lame yesterday. I wanted to say so much but I'm holding back. I think a part of me is saving myself for seeing you in person. There are some things waiting on my tongue that are easier to whisper across a pillow than speak into the microphone of a device that's not really connected to anything but my hand. Is that okay, if we just keep our communications low key for the next two weeks? I want to spill it all, burst open with stories and excitement and everything I have but I want you there for it, for real.
Can you just hurry up and come home?
I'll tell you one thing now, something I know is silly. I'm a little worried. Worried that when you finally get here, implant yourself back into our lives, things will be... I don't know, different? Of course they'll be different, I know that, but I want us all to fit again. Not to pretend the last six months didn't happen, that we don't know what it's like to live without one another--I'm not asking for perfection, whatever the fuck that is. I just want it to work.
The louder part of me knows it will, that everything will befine great fantastic. That our separate experiences will make our joint ones stronger. That everything we've learned without each other will make us better at being people. I know you're still Rachel, I saw my proof in March and get it constantly through your beautiful blogs and emails and voice. But are you still my Rachel?
How do you feel about this situation?
Fuck, I'm crying. I did a lot of that today but only because I was reading Melina Marchetta's latest novel. Mom gave up on it after one hundred pages but I am a sucker for the way that author rips out my heart and then hands it back to me on a platter. She has taught me so much, about love and depression and friendship and loss and hope and writing. Oh, how she makes me want to be a better writer, I can't even tell you.
Speaking of which, I'm feeling so good about my novel right now, Rachel. After Freewrite, I knew what I had to do and my story has such potential and I'm ready to do the work. I think. I just want to affect people. I want to be a great storyteller and for someone else to think and laugh and cry and feel less alone when they read about my characters. I want to be someone's John Green or Melina Marchetta. Maybe that's asking for too much but I'm not one to tone down my desires because they're getting a touch unreasonable.
I also want to go to Australia/Europe and work on an organic lavender farm, not necessarily inclusively or in that order. Presently, though, those are my dreams. Novel that changes/helps people. Australia/Europe. Lavender farm. I'm excited again and I love it. What are your current dreams?
I think I covered it all. I know this whole 'coming home' thing is probably bittersweet for you, as it means leaving the family you've had for the past half year of your life. Therefore, I hope it doesn't sound too insensitive of me when I say 15 days, 10 hours, 16 minutes--as I write this.
Infinity love + 1,
Alex
p.s. Is it okay that I, like, posted this on my blog? I'm really starving for topics these days but I can take it down if you like. :) Oh my god, I love you so much.
Sorry if my end of our phone conversation was lame yesterday. I wanted to say so much but I'm holding back. I think a part of me is saving myself for seeing you in person. There are some things waiting on my tongue that are easier to whisper across a pillow than speak into the microphone of a device that's not really connected to anything but my hand. Is that okay, if we just keep our communications low key for the next two weeks? I want to spill it all, burst open with stories and excitement and everything I have but I want you there for it, for real.
Can you just hurry up and come home?
I'll tell you one thing now, something I know is silly. I'm a little worried. Worried that when you finally get here, implant yourself back into our lives, things will be... I don't know, different? Of course they'll be different, I know that, but I want us all to fit again. Not to pretend the last six months didn't happen, that we don't know what it's like to live without one another--I'm not asking for perfection, whatever the fuck that is. I just want it to work.
The louder part of me knows it will, that everything will be
How do you feel about this situation?
Fuck, I'm crying. I did a lot of that today but only because I was reading Melina Marchetta's latest novel. Mom gave up on it after one hundred pages but I am a sucker for the way that author rips out my heart and then hands it back to me on a platter. She has taught me so much, about love and depression and friendship and loss and hope and writing. Oh, how she makes me want to be a better writer, I can't even tell you.
Speaking of which, I'm feeling so good about my novel right now, Rachel. After Freewrite, I knew what I had to do and my story has such potential and I'm ready to do the work. I think. I just want to affect people. I want to be a great storyteller and for someone else to think and laugh and cry and feel less alone when they read about my characters. I want to be someone's John Green or Melina Marchetta. Maybe that's asking for too much but I'm not one to tone down my desires because they're getting a touch unreasonable.
I also want to go to Australia/Europe and work on an organic lavender farm, not necessarily inclusively or in that order. Presently, though, those are my dreams. Novel that changes/helps people. Australia/Europe. Lavender farm. I'm excited again and I love it. What are your current dreams?
I think I covered it all. I know this whole 'coming home' thing is probably bittersweet for you, as it means leaving the family you've had for the past half year of your life. Therefore, I hope it doesn't sound too insensitive of me when I say 15 days, 10 hours, 16 minutes--as I write this.
Infinity love + 1,
Alex
p.s. Is it okay that I, like, posted this on my blog? I'm really starving for topics these days but I can take it down if you like. :) Oh my god, I love you so much.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
the point (and thank you)
I'm going to be honest; I haven't quite decided what to blog about. There's simultaneously so much and nothing new for me to write. This'll be my twenty-eighth blog of the month. It's possible I've exhausted all topics. Possible but not probable.
At the moment, my mind is somewhat blank and my eyes are tired. I'm only half paying attention to this post, the other half of my lucid mind is watching Harry Potter 6, simply because I haven't in a while. Feet aching from my day of walking, standing and working, I'm remembering a couple of hours ago, on my way home, at the bus stop. The sun had disappeared behind the line of trees but it was still bright and the sky smelled like the space between rain and sun. Spring.
These days, I've been living pretty short term. A day or two at a time is not my usual style but I've still managed to feel a bit refreshed, despite apparent exhaustion. I'm ready for a new month, a new birthday, the same me. I've ready to abandon blogging every day, or at least that's my official statement.
The two days I missed blogging have catapulted me into this critical stage of examining BEDA and its point or maybe the other way around. The evolution of ideas is pretty fascinating to me and I can't stop contemplating how a viral plot of Maureen Johnson's could prompt me to take on this project a third time, two years later. What was mj's goal with this whole thing? Why did people attach themselves to the idea? How did such a vibrant community spring up and then dissipate? What about this idea is worth clinging to?
I can't pin it down. I guess I'm still searching for the community that I found and loved for that one month in 2009. I'm looking to recreate the friendships and connections. I'm in want of an excuse to challenge myself while also sharing my life, opinions and voice with the world. This is another outlet for telling my story.
I'm not sure if any future BEDAs will live up to my first one. I'm holding out hope that mj will rally the bloggers and be our dynamic leading force once more, holding us together for another month of community powered blogging. Some day. As for today, I'm happy to hit PUBLISH POST to nowhere. To you. To anyone. I'm not sure what the point is, per se, but I'm enjoying the journey and that's enough.
Thanks for sharing the month with me, dear reader. You are precious to me. But not in a creepy way.
At the moment, my mind is somewhat blank and my eyes are tired. I'm only half paying attention to this post, the other half of my lucid mind is watching Harry Potter 6, simply because I haven't in a while. Feet aching from my day of walking, standing and working, I'm remembering a couple of hours ago, on my way home, at the bus stop. The sun had disappeared behind the line of trees but it was still bright and the sky smelled like the space between rain and sun. Spring.
These days, I've been living pretty short term. A day or two at a time is not my usual style but I've still managed to feel a bit refreshed, despite apparent exhaustion. I'm ready for a new month, a new birthday, the same me. I've ready to abandon blogging every day, or at least that's my official statement.
The two days I missed blogging have catapulted me into this critical stage of examining BEDA and its point or maybe the other way around. The evolution of ideas is pretty fascinating to me and I can't stop contemplating how a viral plot of Maureen Johnson's could prompt me to take on this project a third time, two years later. What was mj's goal with this whole thing? Why did people attach themselves to the idea? How did such a vibrant community spring up and then dissipate? What about this idea is worth clinging to?
I can't pin it down. I guess I'm still searching for the community that I found and loved for that one month in 2009. I'm looking to recreate the friendships and connections. I'm in want of an excuse to challenge myself while also sharing my life, opinions and voice with the world. This is another outlet for telling my story.
I'm not sure if any future BEDAs will live up to my first one. I'm holding out hope that mj will rally the bloggers and be our dynamic leading force once more, holding us together for another month of community powered blogging. Some day. As for today, I'm happy to hit PUBLISH POST to nowhere. To you. To anyone. I'm not sure what the point is, per se, but I'm enjoying the journey and that's enough.
Thanks for sharing the month with me, dear reader. You are precious to me. But not in a creepy way.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
more time speculation
A lot of the conversations I have with people that I feel like I want to continue get cut off by the car ride being over and me being dropped off. That thing I wanted to talk about that didn't get brought up until the very last minute because of the mundanities of polite conversation--it gets the short end of the trip. There's that choice of hovering awkwardly while the car idles at the curb or shutting the door and probably never having the chance at that same conversation again.
Today it was about my month. I've had this crazy April. I'm trying to trace my footsteps back, recall how I got to today but there are some blatantly empty spaces. What have I been doing for the past twenty seven days? Other than blogging, I mean.
The end of April also means my birthday is coming up. This only brings my crazy nostalgia issue into further magnification. I'm only sixteen and I'm clinging to my youth. I don't want these days to end. It's not fear about the future so much as a realization about the inevitability of my demise. I don't know if that's even it. On some levels, death is like, yeah, bring it on (only not immediately, of course). But, I'll just--*thinks*--miss this.
I'll miss being naive and cast off and stereotyped. I'll miss people saying I'm mature for my age (notice that no one says that about adults). I'll miss this moment of the future being this beautiful haze of possibility and mystery and the past being nothing but an unfocused jumble of mostly happy memories that I probably misremember due to the strangeness of my human mind.
In less than two weeks, I'll be the age that Edward is forever, the age at which Harry Potter defeated Voldemort (for good), the age that seems to be the final stretch of teenagerdom. These fictional happenings that I live my life by bring into sharp contrast how much or little I've done with these nearly seventeen orbits of the sun. What's my mark?
With the somewhat arbitrary symbol of a new year before me, it's time to straighten out some priorities. You know what that means? Every morning after breakfast, I will be working my novel out. And it will be fantastic.
Today it was about my month. I've had this crazy April. I'm trying to trace my footsteps back, recall how I got to today but there are some blatantly empty spaces. What have I been doing for the past twenty seven days? Other than blogging, I mean.
The end of April also means my birthday is coming up. This only brings my crazy nostalgia issue into further magnification. I'm only sixteen and I'm clinging to my youth. I don't want these days to end. It's not fear about the future so much as a realization about the inevitability of my demise. I don't know if that's even it. On some levels, death is like, yeah, bring it on (only not immediately, of course). But, I'll just--*thinks*--miss this.
I'll miss being naive and cast off and stereotyped. I'll miss people saying I'm mature for my age (notice that no one says that about adults). I'll miss this moment of the future being this beautiful haze of possibility and mystery and the past being nothing but an unfocused jumble of mostly happy memories that I probably misremember due to the strangeness of my human mind.
In less than two weeks, I'll be the age that Edward is forever, the age at which Harry Potter defeated Voldemort (for good), the age that seems to be the final stretch of teenagerdom. These fictional happenings that I live my life by bring into sharp contrast how much or little I've done with these nearly seventeen orbits of the sun. What's my mark?
With the somewhat arbitrary symbol of a new year before me, it's time to straighten out some priorities. You know what that means? Every morning after breakfast, I will be working my novel out. And it will be fantastic.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
a blog about not blogging
The fact that I didn't blog yesterday was decisive and I wanted you to know that. There's this switch in my house, a power bar that controls the wireless router, and about twenty four hours ago, I hovered over it with my finger poses to flick. I remembered that I hadn't blogged and so I took a few steps away, intending to grab my computer from my sister and write something quickly. Then I remembered this post I read of Kayley Hyde's about the downfalls of things like BEDA (and NaNoWrimo, etc.). Contemplating a potential 'this was my day'* post, I hesitated a few seconds longer--in the dark, I will add for a sense of realism--before flicking the power off.
Why? You may ask. You've done BEDA before, as well as NaNo and even ScriptFrenzy. Why break your twenty-four day streak? You could have done it. Well, part of my brain that speaks in italics, I can't say for sure. Maybe the quantity versus quality debate started getting to me. Maybe I was just really tired. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, it wasn't worth it to me. (If this was a test, I would say it is safe to circle D - All of the above.)
As I was walking home from the library day--when I wasn't street reading my new Nietzche book, that is--I really pondered this whole project. What is the point of disciplined creativity? Is it effective? Is it misleading? Does it help people? I don't have answers but I think it's still good to think about these things, especially those of us who are committing a chunk of time every day to spend on these projects. Obviously, I find some merit in it because this is my third blogging every month endeavor. But, I don't know, why am I really doing this?
Strangely, I don't feel disappointed. It's not like I failed BEDA. I just extended the definition of 'every day.'
*if you're disappointed by the lack of post, here is a sample of what could have been: Today I got up before 8am for the third morning in a row and learned some First Aid. After the course, I got into a semi-argument with the instructor about how she was sexist and possibly a Luddite. Fun times. Sad you missed it? I thought so.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
RE: Burqa Ban
I watched this Dan Brown video last week and though I had some wispy opinions on it, I held back from responding. I didn't feel like pretending I had enough information on the subject to make an informed comment. I also didn't (and still don't) want to be preachy or judgmental when it comes to anyone's religion. But now that he's posted his response, I feel like I can say something here. Again, my intelligence on this subject is limited but hopefully this doesn't contribute to perceived insolence.
France has had an open dialog about Islamic head coverings since, as far as I can tell, the 1990's. In 2003, they banned burqas and other head coverings from public schools, stating that it was a religious expression and inappropriate for the secular school forum (crosses and other religious symbols also being prohibited). Now in effect is France's ban on face coverings in public, specifically the burqa.
Last October, I went to a session at the Vancouver Readers and Writers Festival with Sharon E. McKay. She talked gave a presentation on her book, Thunder Over Kandahar, and the research she did for it--some of which involved the burqa. She even had one there if anyone wanted to see what it was like to wear one.
Her opinion on the burqa was pretty transparently negative and since this was my first experience with the garment, it might have shaded any future opinion on the subject. Burqas limit the sight and safety of their wearers. They restrict movement, identity and the wearer's voice. And isn't the fact that only women that traditionally wear them signify some inherent male control?
For me, the issue is not a question of personal, cultural or religious expression though it would be uninformed to ignore that side of things. If there are women out there who, of their own volition, want to wear head scarves, burqas, hijabs, high heels or earrings, that is fine with me. But I'm going to continue to doubt where that choice is coming from. Cultural pressure to conform is serious and can be damaging. I'm not just talking about Muslim culture, either.
So the French president has an idea that I can believe in. He thinks that in a country with the freedom and liberties of France, it's wrong to allow male dominant culture to dictate what women wear. In his words:
That's about it.
France has had an open dialog about Islamic head coverings since, as far as I can tell, the 1990's. In 2003, they banned burqas and other head coverings from public schools, stating that it was a religious expression and inappropriate for the secular school forum (crosses and other religious symbols also being prohibited). Now in effect is France's ban on face coverings in public, specifically the burqa.
Last October, I went to a session at the Vancouver Readers and Writers Festival with Sharon E. McKay. She talked gave a presentation on her book, Thunder Over Kandahar, and the research she did for it--some of which involved the burqa. She even had one there if anyone wanted to see what it was like to wear one.
Her opinion on the burqa was pretty transparently negative and since this was my first experience with the garment, it might have shaded any future opinion on the subject. Burqas limit the sight and safety of their wearers. They restrict movement, identity and the wearer's voice. And isn't the fact that only women that traditionally wear them signify some inherent male control?
For me, the issue is not a question of personal, cultural or religious expression though it would be uninformed to ignore that side of things. If there are women out there who, of their own volition, want to wear head scarves, burqas, hijabs, high heels or earrings, that is fine with me. But I'm going to continue to doubt where that choice is coming from. Cultural pressure to conform is serious and can be damaging. I'm not just talking about Muslim culture, either.
So the French president has an idea that I can believe in. He thinks that in a country with the freedom and liberties of France, it's wrong to allow male dominant culture to dictate what women wear. In his words:
"In our country, we cannot accept that women be prisoners behind a screen, cut off from all social life, deprived of all identity..."I feel like judging these admittedly extreme actions on a surface level is kind of ignorant. Yes, it is kind of ironic that his attempt to free women from oppression involves stripping away rights and liberties, but I think it's a worthy goal. Maybe it's a misguided approach but this definitely isn't a shallow issue. You can't just analyze one side and call it a day. There's so many layers and I'm still torn on whether I agree with France's legislation.
That's about it.
Friday, April 22, 2011
contagion
I mostly find that good art (like voting?) is contagious. You listen to that song/read that book/stare at that photo for the millionth time and it makes you want to create something, anything. It's like creativity is running through your veins, this need to make your mark, express this feeling, signal your sense of being so alive that everything is magnified.
I love that feeling. I'll probably spend the rest of my life hunting it down with a stick. Is that inspiration? Vitality? Genius? I don't know but I can't wait to find it again, bottle it up, soak in its beautifying glow.*
Today was a fantastic day. I drew some lines on the sidewalk--possibly illegally--was told off by The Church, had a free tea at Starbucks and listened to some amazing music. I plotted my Oh Wells cover band (The Oh Dears) and drove around (which, if I do say so myself, I'm getting pretty good at).
Okay, so maybe the driving around on Earth Day isn't my proudest moment. But I hardly drive around on any other day so, in the grand scheme of things, that has to even out, right?
I thought about things spreading, not HIV, but ideas. All I wanted was to draw some attention to the fact that only 37% of 18-25 year old Canadians voted in the last election or more broadly that the overall voter turnout in 2008 was the lowest in Canadian history. So I wrote some things on the sidewalk, drew some lines to the advanced polling station and hoped that maybe someone would notice. Maybe someone would catch hold of this idea that I was flinging onto street corners and change their behaviors. Maybe I would inspire someone to ditch apathy and vote.
That's all I really want to do, I guess. I'll add it to my 'To Do with My Life' List. (1. Be happy (with people who contribute to aforementioned happiness). 2. Write stuff (books, blogs, songs, poetry). 3. Garden. 4. Learn (to garden, etc.). 5. Inspire). I want someone to hear a poem or song I've written and feel that bubbling creative contagion inside of them. I want to be a catalyst.
What do you want to do with your wild and precious life?
*Am I being a tad over the top?
I love that feeling. I'll probably spend the rest of my life hunting it down with a stick. Is that inspiration? Vitality? Genius? I don't know but I can't wait to find it again, bottle it up, soak in its beautifying glow.*
Today was a fantastic day. I drew some lines on the sidewalk--possibly illegally--was told off by The Church, had a free tea at Starbucks and listened to some amazing music. I plotted my Oh Wells cover band (The Oh Dears) and drove around (which, if I do say so myself, I'm getting pretty good at).
Okay, so maybe the driving around on Earth Day isn't my proudest moment. But I hardly drive around on any other day so, in the grand scheme of things, that has to even out, right?
I thought about things spreading, not HIV, but ideas. All I wanted was to draw some attention to the fact that only 37% of 18-25 year old Canadians voted in the last election or more broadly that the overall voter turnout in 2008 was the lowest in Canadian history. So I wrote some things on the sidewalk, drew some lines to the advanced polling station and hoped that maybe someone would notice. Maybe someone would catch hold of this idea that I was flinging onto street corners and change their behaviors. Maybe I would inspire someone to ditch apathy and vote.
That's all I really want to do, I guess. I'll add it to my 'To Do with My Life' List. (1. Be happy (with people who contribute to aforementioned happiness). 2. Write stuff (books, blogs, songs, poetry). 3. Garden. 4. Learn (to garden, etc.). 5. Inspire). I want someone to hear a poem or song I've written and feel that bubbling creative contagion inside of them. I want to be a catalyst.
What do you want to do with your wild and precious life?
*Am I being a tad over the top?
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
tension
A while ago, she says vaguely, I realized my writing had a problem and that problem was tension, or lack thereof. Sure, I can do some banter but, mostly, my characters agree with each other. If you're not gasping in horror, perhaps you should be.
I've heard speaker after speaker at conference after conference* say that writing is about tension. People aren't interested in books where everything goes along smoothly and beautifully. We want to escape the mundane. We want conflict. Plot is conflict and conflict is tense. Well, I'm trying. But the problem with inserting tension is that it's hard. It's not a one time vaccine that's quick and easy. Done poorly, it feels contrived and unnecessary. Conflict for conflict's sake? That's not what books are about. I must be missing something.
So I've been trying to figure out conflict and I've come to this insanely simple conclusion that probably isn't worth mentioning because it's one of those anticlimactic truths that, after you say it, makes you feel like an imbecile for needing to speak the words out loud. Here it is anyway: times of conflict are when people grow.
Simple, right? At the time it was pretty groundbreaking. See, for me, novels aren't about conflict. Stories aren't about the battle for good and evil or impossible situations. They're about people and reactions and decisions and personal progress.
Which means that, yes, stories revolve around issues but only because that's when people change. Conflict for the sake of it is lame but reasonable adversity facilitates growth. Whoa, intelligent speak.
Yay for revelations. Now I just need to reinstate writing every morning and all will be grande.
The tension in my life right now is manifesting in my shoulders. Let me tell you something: back pain sucks. It doesn't help that I'm perpetuating the problem by trying to knit a hat by Friday. Ah well. On a side note, in less than four weeks, I will hopefully be licensed to drive without a supervisor in the car. How's that for progress? As for more progress, I'm posting this before dinner. And I'm fully awake. Fancy that.
*well, actually it's the same conference, different years.
I've heard speaker after speaker at conference after conference* say that writing is about tension. People aren't interested in books where everything goes along smoothly and beautifully. We want to escape the mundane. We want conflict. Plot is conflict and conflict is tense. Well, I'm trying. But the problem with inserting tension is that it's hard. It's not a one time vaccine that's quick and easy. Done poorly, it feels contrived and unnecessary. Conflict for conflict's sake? That's not what books are about. I must be missing something.
So I've been trying to figure out conflict and I've come to this insanely simple conclusion that probably isn't worth mentioning because it's one of those anticlimactic truths that, after you say it, makes you feel like an imbecile for needing to speak the words out loud. Here it is anyway: times of conflict are when people grow.
Simple, right? At the time it was pretty groundbreaking. See, for me, novels aren't about conflict. Stories aren't about the battle for good and evil or impossible situations. They're about people and reactions and decisions and personal progress.
Which means that, yes, stories revolve around issues but only because that's when people change. Conflict for the sake of it is lame but reasonable adversity facilitates growth. Whoa, intelligent speak.
Yay for revelations. Now I just need to reinstate writing every morning and all will be grande.
The tension in my life right now is manifesting in my shoulders. Let me tell you something: back pain sucks. It doesn't help that I'm perpetuating the problem by trying to knit a hat by Friday. Ah well. On a side note, in less than four weeks, I will hopefully be licensed to drive without a supervisor in the car. How's that for progress? As for more progress, I'm posting this before dinner. And I'm fully awake. Fancy that.
*well, actually it's the same conference, different years.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
shattering the illusion: the Mortal Instruments... add ons
On April 5th, YA author Cassandra Clare released the fourth book in her... trilogy? And though I went to the bookstore that day and finished it by the following, it took me a few days after that to realize that I was less than impressed. Before I start off on a rampage that I won't be able to control, I just want to say that I don't mean to come off as a book purist. On second thought, I don't actually care how I come across.
I enjoyed the Mortal Instruments. The trilogy really made me look twice at fantasy which up until that point, excluding Harry Potter, I'd been pretty quick to write off. The characters were compelling and witty, the plot moved along at a nice place and the tension seemed ideal. The ending to the three books was so great; I can't even describe it. Everything seemed to be tied off, most things neatly and it was just satisfying overall.
When she announced in August that she was going to be publishing three more books in the series, I was astonishingly disappointed. Really? I remember thinking. But everything ended so wonderfully.*
Well, my initial reaction still holds. I wish she had just left it how it was. As it is, more conflict has been dragged in front of the characters who, if you thought had developed or progressed in the previous books, you were wrong about. There were pages and pages in each chapter of pure infodumping and everything plot related happen in the last quarter of the book. Previous to the climax, everyone just stood around and talked, whined and angsted. It was just so contrived.
Before I met the author, the words 'money grab' would have rebounded in my head but Cassie Clare seemed too genuine and passionate about her characters. So I've changed my diagnosis. I think she's having trouble letting go. Which is fine. I love[d] the characters, too [until she came out with this new book that tainted every positive thought I've ever had towards them.]. She is perfectly entitled to cling to them endlessly, put them through the same conflict and simulate the exact same character development. I don't have to read the books. But I've learned something from this and for that I am thankful. Don't extend a series unless you have a really, really, really good reason for doing so. Hot make out scenes are not one such good reason, nor is separation anxiety.
I'm not sure at this point if I'm going to read the next two as they come out or try to forget their existence. I'll get to that when the time comes. *sigh* *head shaking* I have to go think about something else now.
*After reading the book, I feel like City of Bullshit would have been more appropriate. But now I'm starting to sound unduly mean.
 |
| The Mortal Instruments, as originally conceived. |
When she announced in August that she was going to be publishing three more books in the series, I was astonishingly disappointed. Really? I remember thinking. But everything ended so wonderfully.*
Well, my initial reaction still holds. I wish she had just left it how it was. As it is, more conflict has been dragged in front of the characters who, if you thought had developed or progressed in the previous books, you were wrong about. There were pages and pages in each chapter of pure infodumping and everything plot related happen in the last quarter of the book. Previous to the climax, everyone just stood around and talked, whined and angsted. It was just so contrived.
Before I met the author, the words 'money grab' would have rebounded in my head but Cassie Clare seemed too genuine and passionate about her characters. So I've changed my diagnosis. I think she's having trouble letting go. Which is fine. I love[d] the characters, too [until she came out with this new book that tainted every positive thought I've ever had towards them.]. She is perfectly entitled to cling to them endlessly, put them through the same conflict and simulate the exact same character development. I don't have to read the books. But I've learned something from this and for that I am thankful. Don't extend a series unless you have a really, really, really good reason for doing so. Hot make out scenes are not one such good reason, nor is separation anxiety.
I'm not sure at this point if I'm going to read the next two as they come out or try to forget their existence. I'll get to that when the time comes. *sigh* *head shaking* I have to go think about something else now.
*After reading the book, I feel like City of Bullshit would have been more appropriate. But now I'm starting to sound unduly mean.
Monday, April 18, 2011
author signings and disillusionment
This blog comes to you in two parts but never fear, they are related. You should, of course, fear, because I am keeping up with my 18 day trend and writing this blog post when I want to be sleeping. BEDA is officially being reclassified as a sleeping disorder. Ah well, sleeping is for the... people who can come up with ends to their own goshdamn sentences because they got enough sleep last night.
Part One - Author signings
The reason I am home and blogging so late is that I was at Holly Black and Cassie Clare's Vancouver book signing tonight. (If you do not know who those people are, they are YA fantasy writers. More on Cassandra Clare in Part Two.) And there was a lot of people there. I didn't see/hear most of the talking and reading part but it was still worth it. It took a long time to leave, too, largely because the authors were personalizing two books per person and signing everything place in front of them. Plus a lot of talking to readers. We didn't leave until 10:30pm and we weren't even close to the end of the line.
But that's not the point. The point is that meeting the people who's books you have read and loved is almost a little anticlimactic. When you see that they're not superhero gods with magical writing powers but just people whose names and pen names grace many covers, it's kind of a weirdly personal moment. On one hand, you're somewhat starstruck and on the other, you feel like it's not a huge deal because they're just people with ideas that you happened to have enjoyed.
This wasn't the first book signing I've been to and it probably won't be the last but the novelty is still there. I hope the next one involves John, of the Green variety. Every live show I watch of his reinstates that I need to meet him. And I will. Someday.
Part Two - Disillusionment
I changed my mind. Part Two will come to you tomorrow, as your regular scheduled blog post. Sorry if this is reminiscent of the Breaking Dawn final battle but I literally cannot think anymore. I promise to write during the day tomorrow.
Part One - Author signings
The reason I am home and blogging so late is that I was at Holly Black and Cassie Clare's Vancouver book signing tonight. (If you do not know who those people are, they are YA fantasy writers. More on Cassandra Clare in Part Two.) And there was a lot of people there. I didn't see/hear most of the talking and reading part but it was still worth it. It took a long time to leave, too, largely because the authors were personalizing two books per person and signing everything place in front of them. Plus a lot of talking to readers. We didn't leave until 10:30pm and we weren't even close to the end of the line.
But that's not the point. The point is that meeting the people who's books you have read and loved is almost a little anticlimactic. When you see that they're not superhero gods with magical writing powers but just people whose names and pen names grace many covers, it's kind of a weirdly personal moment. On one hand, you're somewhat starstruck and on the other, you feel like it's not a huge deal because they're just people with ideas that you happened to have enjoyed.
This wasn't the first book signing I've been to and it probably won't be the last but the novelty is still there. I hope the next one involves John, of the Green variety. Every live show I watch of his reinstates that I need to meet him. And I will. Someday.
Part Two - Disillusionment
I changed my mind. Part Two will come to you tomorrow, as your regular scheduled blog post. Sorry if this is reminiscent of the Breaking Dawn final battle but I literally cannot think anymore. I promise to write during the day tomorrow.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Harry Potter, chocolate hazelnut tea and 67 minute phone calls
I love goat cheese. Random statements aside, today has been a good day. It started with wine coolers and dancing with a television as audience and is about to end with Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - part 1.
I've been thinking a lot about my somber blog tone in the past twenty four hours. I have to admit that it's getting to me. I think I'm officially overthinking this. Yeah. Is that called irony?
Whoa. My head kind of hurts. And cookies and tea are the best. And the quality of this post is seriously disintegrating. So goodbye.
I've been thinking a lot about my somber blog tone in the past twenty four hours. I have to admit that it's getting to me. I think I'm officially overthinking this. Yeah. Is that called irony?
Whoa. My head kind of hurts. And cookies and tea are the best. And the quality of this post is seriously disintegrating. So goodbye.
Friday, April 15, 2011
BEDA feedback
I've asked two, reasonably trustworthy* people for comments on my blog since the start of April and I've come to some conclusions:
a) I have a palpable theme going on
b) that theme quite possibly involves depression,
c) no wait, maybe it's just depressing,
d) but if that's your writing style, then great.
So yeah, I'm depressed or depressing. I prefer the term thoughtful. And I do notice a theme, too. I've been somewhat sedate lately. I guess that equals apparent depression. My blogs aren't quite as funny any more, if they ever were.
Stop--don't tell me I'm actually progressing as a person... I have been feeling a bit angsty lately. Well, if you can be simultaneously happy-go-lucky and angst ridden. Is this maturity? Evolution? Self improvement? I don't believe it.
I'll just call it my emo phase.
***
A shout out goes to Caitlyn, my dear sister, who was been around the sun twenty-one times as of today. That's a lot of travelling. If you're reading this, I love you, most ardently. Happy birthday. If you're not reading this, I don't love you quite as much. But we can still be friends.
*you know what you did.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
silver lining
Tonight, I was at the Philosopher's Cafe, even though I might have been needed elsewhere. And usually, the demographic is pretty heavily 55+ but today I wasn't the only young person in attendance.
So I met this guy. I can taste what you're thinking but shut up. It's not like that, unless 'that' is two philosophically interested people* talking about stuff. It was so great, though, and I still can't seem to be rid of the smile on my face. Doesn't it say a lot about a person that they have a degree in philosophy? It was just so lovely to chat with someone who I felt like I was on the same page as. I'm still radiating giddiness at having talked to another young person who seemed socially conscious and philosophically aware. It's a high, I will tell you.
I didn't realize it until I was standing on the sidewalk outside the library in the dark, shivering, with a boy of reasonable intellect asking me if I related to my peers, that I've been staving for this type of dialog. I don't mean to make everyone else in my life sound insufficient because my friends are great and I have incredible conversations with my parents about all kinds of stuff. But, I don't know, I've become a bit cynical about my generation's supposed apathy and it was so refreshing to talk to someone who personified, in a way, the hope I've been looking for.
Is that too much to put on one person? Probably. In unrelated news, I used a lot of commas in this post, didn't I? Ah well, at least I know what a comma is.
I'll catch you on the flip side.
*who happen to be of opposite sexes
So I met this guy. I can taste what you're thinking but shut up. It's not like that, unless 'that' is two philosophically interested people* talking about stuff. It was so great, though, and I still can't seem to be rid of the smile on my face. Doesn't it say a lot about a person that they have a degree in philosophy? It was just so lovely to chat with someone who I felt like I was on the same page as. I'm still radiating giddiness at having talked to another young person who seemed socially conscious and philosophically aware. It's a high, I will tell you.
I didn't realize it until I was standing on the sidewalk outside the library in the dark, shivering, with a boy of reasonable intellect asking me if I related to my peers, that I've been staving for this type of dialog. I don't mean to make everyone else in my life sound insufficient because my friends are great and I have incredible conversations with my parents about all kinds of stuff. But, I don't know, I've become a bit cynical about my generation's supposed apathy and it was so refreshing to talk to someone who personified, in a way, the hope I've been looking for.
Is that too much to put on one person? Probably. In unrelated news, I used a lot of commas in this post, didn't I? Ah well, at least I know what a comma is.
I'll catch you on the flip side.
*who happen to be of opposite sexes
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
productivity is up
Some days (i.e. yesterday) you get nothing on your to-do list done. Actually, your to-do list never enters existence. Sure, there are high ideals and grand schemes that play around the borders of your mind but when it comes down to it, you spend your time knitting, reading and watching Gilmore Girls episodes and YouTube videos (while knitting). You're a bit disappointed with yourself but also content and you go to sleep with dreams of a productive tomorrow.
Other days (i.e. today) you drag yourself out of bed and write down your daily goals. Then you do them. You still have time to read and eat but somehow it all happens. There's housework and schoolwork and driving practice and ukulele playing and even a chai tea latte with your mom. You get home from work and see that you've done every item on your list. You're amazed and triumphant and jubilant and a million other glorious things.
And that, as they say, is life.
I'm not sure why I slipped into second person for that but it's nearly midnight so I'll leave it. Must brush teeth. Must sleep. Must read Linger. Wrong order.
Other days (i.e. today) you drag yourself out of bed and write down your daily goals. Then you do them. You still have time to read and eat but somehow it all happens. There's housework and schoolwork and driving practice and ukulele playing and even a chai tea latte with your mom. You get home from work and see that you've done every item on your list. You're amazed and triumphant and jubilant and a million other glorious things.
And that, as they say, is life.
I'm not sure why I slipped into second person for that but it's nearly midnight so I'll leave it. Must brush teeth. Must sleep. Must read Linger. Wrong order.
Monday, April 11, 2011
procrastination & politics
In between knitting on the bus and holding a sign in front of a host of news cameras and, oh yes, knitting while watching YouTube videos today, I procrastinated writing this blog. You see, I wanted to write about Elizabeth May being excluded from the televised debate tomorrow, how undemocratic and unfair that is. For some reason though, I couldn't figure out what I wanted to say.
Yes, the "media consortium"* is effectively censoring the flavour of the debate by barring May's visionary opinions.
Yes, she, along with the Green Party, represents nearly 1 million Canadian voters.
Yes, 81% of Canadians (according to a CBC poll) want to see her included in the debate.
I started writing this blog post that tried to describe what was going on, the rally I went to today and why Elizabeth May, the voice for democracy, deserves a place at that debate but it didn't come out right. In short, here's all I can say:
The media should not have the power to decide who is allowed to attend political debates, nor should party leaders. If they don't want to debate Elizabeth May for whatever reason, they don't have to attend. Political debates should be about the people. They should be informative and representative. Media executives, probably responding to party pressure, should not be entitled to silence the voice that represents a million Canadians.
This decision is undemocratic and unfair. Canadians want to see May in the debate. Not all of the above 81 percent are voting Green but they can agree that she has something to bring to the table. And that something is not anything that should be silenced by a group of powerful suits. Canadians want to hear Elizabeth May.
Whatever happened to democracy?
*who Elizabeth May compared to the Star Chamber.
Yes, the "media consortium"* is effectively censoring the flavour of the debate by barring May's visionary opinions.
Yes, she, along with the Green Party, represents nearly 1 million Canadian voters.
Yes, 81% of Canadians (according to a CBC poll) want to see her included in the debate.
I started writing this blog post that tried to describe what was going on, the rally I went to today and why Elizabeth May, the voice for democracy, deserves a place at that debate but it didn't come out right. In short, here's all I can say:
The media should not have the power to decide who is allowed to attend political debates, nor should party leaders. If they don't want to debate Elizabeth May for whatever reason, they don't have to attend. Political debates should be about the people. They should be informative and representative. Media executives, probably responding to party pressure, should not be entitled to silence the voice that represents a million Canadians.
This decision is undemocratic and unfair. Canadians want to see May in the debate. Not all of the above 81 percent are voting Green but they can agree that she has something to bring to the table. And that something is not anything that should be silenced by a group of powerful suits. Canadians want to hear Elizabeth May.
Whatever happened to democracy?
*who Elizabeth May compared to the Star Chamber.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
this is not a blog
It kills me that I have next to nothing to say right now. Sure, I could talk about my weirdness some more, lament about how people are absurd and irrational or rant about one of many annoying facets of the state of the world today. I could talk about how it kind of kills my soul whenever I have to pack someone's groceries in plastic bags and how hard it is to keep myself from yelling, "Bring a cloth bag you insolent malefactor! I don't want to inherit your plastic wasteland!" I could squee about Harry Potter and the DH pt. 1 coming out on DVD in less than a week or my seventeeth birthday which is to take place in 31 days or freak out a bit about my road test that's happening seven days after that. But honestly, I'm too tired.
What I will say, however, is that I'm almost finished reading Libba Bray's new book, Beauty Queens, and I'm really enjoying it.
After that my reading list looks like this:
Plus, I'm really excited for John Green's book to come out in, like, a year.
p.s. If you weren't aware of why I forced myself to write this rather than, um, sleep, it's because I never mentioned I was doing BEDA. For you observant, in the know readers, I don't need to explain. For anyone else, I'm blogging every day in April. I'll be here five days a week and over at RP on Thursdays and Sundays.
What I will say, however, is that I'm almost finished reading Libba Bray's new book, Beauty Queens, and I'm really enjoying it.
After that my reading list looks like this:
- The Forest of Hands and Teeth by Carrie Ryan
- Linger by Maggie Stiefvater
- Fishtailing by Wendy Phillups
- Incarceron by Catherine Fisher
- The Piper's Son by Melina Marchetta
Plus, I'm really excited for John Green's book to come out in, like, a year.
p.s. If you weren't aware of why I forced myself to write this rather than, um, sleep, it's because I never mentioned I was doing BEDA. For you observant, in the know readers, I don't need to explain. For anyone else, I'm blogging every day in April. I'll be here five days a week and over at RP on Thursdays and Sundays.
Friday, April 8, 2011
not normal
I know I've expounded on the fact of my weirdness before, probably more than is necessary. At this point, am I further alienating you, the reader, or just depicting a more realistic, rounded, relatable* version of myself? Either way, I'm going for accuracy and also, my 11 o'clock-at-night-I-want-to-be-in-bed brain isn't up to anything more profound or creative.
Sometimes when I'm at events where the age differential between me and everyone else in the room is no less than thirty years, I am asked about a youth perspective on different topics. "Why do you think the majority of young people don't vote?" "How do you feel about this or that issue, seeing as how you're the one who is going to be living on this planet in forty years?" "What do the young people have to say?"
And what do the young people have to say? I think I'm the wrong person to answer that question. I am not normal. I don't go to school. I hang out at social justice film festivals and philosophers' cafes. My idea of a party is to invite friends over to watch Harry Potter movies. Two summers ago, I was part of a Jane Austen book club. I'm hardly the person whose opinion would match the "average young person.**"
You see, my Friday night--after an hour of selling Girl Guide cookies--was spent knitting and playing Scrabble. I use words like expounded and existential. I never go anywhere without my notebook and a pen. I shop at thrift stores and I forget to brush my hair. I hate plastic bags and SUVs and apathy. I am not average and normalcy is a foreign language to me.
The strangest bit, perhaps, is how okay I am with all of it. I mostly like who I am, or at least the idea of myself I keep stored in my mind. Maybe I can't explain my generation to anyone or give a general opinion from the perspective of today's youth, because I can't understand us myself***. But I have my own opinion. It comes from my own corner of existence and through my own slants and perspectives but I've thought about it and it's there, if you want to hear it. I can't speak for the teenagers of the world but I can speak for myself. And maybe that's enough.
*in different, niche ways.
**whatever the hell that is.
***maybe no one can.
Sometimes when I'm at events where the age differential between me and everyone else in the room is no less than thirty years, I am asked about a youth perspective on different topics. "Why do you think the majority of young people don't vote?" "How do you feel about this or that issue, seeing as how you're the one who is going to be living on this planet in forty years?" "What do the young people have to say?"
And what do the young people have to say? I think I'm the wrong person to answer that question. I am not normal. I don't go to school. I hang out at social justice film festivals and philosophers' cafes. My idea of a party is to invite friends over to watch Harry Potter movies. Two summers ago, I was part of a Jane Austen book club. I'm hardly the person whose opinion would match the "average young person.**"
You see, my Friday night--after an hour of selling Girl Guide cookies--was spent knitting and playing Scrabble. I use words like expounded and existential. I never go anywhere without my notebook and a pen. I shop at thrift stores and I forget to brush my hair. I hate plastic bags and SUVs and apathy. I am not average and normalcy is a foreign language to me.
The strangest bit, perhaps, is how okay I am with all of it. I mostly like who I am, or at least the idea of myself I keep stored in my mind. Maybe I can't explain my generation to anyone or give a general opinion from the perspective of today's youth, because I can't understand us myself***. But I have my own opinion. It comes from my own corner of existence and through my own slants and perspectives but I've thought about it and it's there, if you want to hear it. I can't speak for the teenagers of the world but I can speak for myself. And maybe that's enough.
*in different, niche ways.
**whatever the hell that is.
***maybe no one can.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
pondering time
I'm so young to spend so much time thinking about the human invention of time but so be it. What I've actually been dwelling on lately is my use of it which I guess is somewhat reasonable. We should all be looking critically at the ways in which we spend our time, the amount of which is remarkably undetermined and indeterminable.
Right?
I was thinking about how I pass my days in relation to how I feel like I should pass my days. And I've been thinking about how I should stop resenting the different between those two things. Let's look at my today for a case study.
9:01am
But what about everything else? What about my English course which I'm interested in? What about Media Savvy (another course)? What about my novel which, I am sorry to say, I have not touched in two weeks?
Do we spend time on things that are important to us naturally or do we need to push forward what's most valuable? And how does one decide what's most valuable?
I hate thinking 'I'll do it tomorrow.' I hate feeling like there's not enough time in the day. I'm sixteen! I'm supposed to be living, not thinking about how I should be living.
I guess I'll try that out tomorrow. Or today.
Right?
I was thinking about how I pass my days in relation to how I feel like I should pass my days. And I've been thinking about how I should stop resenting the different between those two things. Let's look at my today for a case study.
9:01am
- Woke up and started reading City of Fallen Angels by Cassandra Clare (henceforth referred to as CoFA).
- Got out of bed for the sole purpose of putting a bagel in the toaster and pouring a smoothie.
- Went back to bed with bagel, smoothie and book. Read for a few hours.
1:11pm
- Left bedroom to commune with family.
- Drank tea. Talked about future house mate possibilities.
- Went back to my room to finish my book.
2:00pm
- Got tired of CoFA. Played ukulele.
- Ate lunch (pizza pretzel and salad).
- Thought about the possibility of doing schoolwork.
- Did not do schoolwork.
3:30pm
- Finished CoFA. Updated Goodreads.
- Sorted through emails.
- Started a blog post.
- Thought about working on my novel.
- Did not work on my novel.
5:00pm
- Thought, What? It's 5 o'clock? Where did the afternoon go?
- Got ready for Guides. Ate dinner. Ran out the door.
- Had fifteen minutes of "quality time" with my dad on the way to Guides.
6:00-8:30pm
- Volunteered as junior leader at Girl Guide meeting (i.e. helped 9-12 year old girls needle felt purses and make headbands for our accessory show--proceeds going to a charity that is currently unannounced).
9:00pm
- Hit up the end of a campaign meeting.
- Tried to think of a question that represented the entirety of Canada's youth to ask at an all-candidates meeting.
10:30pm
- Got home and set about to finishing a blog post.
According to the above, I spent most of my day reading which makes perfect sense. I love reading. I also volunteered and went to a political planning meeting. I practiced ukulele. More sense. These are things I'm passionate about. This is all good, right? *sigh*
But what about everything else? What about my English course which I'm interested in? What about Media Savvy (another course)? What about my novel which, I am sorry to say, I have not touched in two weeks?
Do we spend time on things that are important to us naturally or do we need to push forward what's most valuable? And how does one decide what's most valuable?
I hate thinking 'I'll do it tomorrow.' I hate feeling like there's not enough time in the day. I'm sixteen! I'm supposed to be living, not thinking about how I should be living.
I guess I'll try that out tomorrow. Or today.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
sometimes, I pretend I am an idiot
My self esteem is fine. Really fine. I, of course, have self conscious moments and probably a lot of issues buried deep that I don't think about but, on surface level, I think I'm a pretty cool person. Sometimes though... sometimes I am very good at *acting* the part of an idiot. This is going to take a tiny bit of backstory.
I'm a Girl Guide. We sell cookies. One of our sales methods is to stand outside retail locations, sometimes in the rain, and ask shoppers if they would like to spend a measly four dollars on our endlessly worthy cookies. There are contracts with the stores that we sell in front of and the considerable task of matching up some 200 girls in my district with time slots. In short, that is my task.
I create spreadsheets using Google Docs that list the locations and one hour time increments, forward the spreadsheets our to Guiders who get the girls to sign up. There's meetings every night of the week where girls need the spreadsheets and so every afternoon I email out the latest updated sheet in .PDF format so the leaders can print them and get them to the meeting place. But apparently I don't do this on Tuesday.
You see, I work on Tuesdays. To top it off, today I was off practicing driving for a large chunk of time with my mother. I forgot. Everybody makes mistakes.* But the worst part is that I did the same thing last Tuesday. Hence the acting like an idiot. Who makes the same mistake two Tuesdays in a row? That would be me.
Why?!?!
Now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to brush my teeth and immerse myself in City of Fallen Angels. Only then, I'm sure, will I be able to escape the tragic fail that is currently haunting me.**
*Everybody has those days. Everybody knows what, what I'm talking 'bout. Everybody gets that way. Yeah!
**Did I go over the top just a little there?
I'm a Girl Guide. We sell cookies. One of our sales methods is to stand outside retail locations, sometimes in the rain, and ask shoppers if they would like to spend a measly four dollars on our endlessly worthy cookies. There are contracts with the stores that we sell in front of and the considerable task of matching up some 200 girls in my district with time slots. In short, that is my task.
I create spreadsheets using Google Docs that list the locations and one hour time increments, forward the spreadsheets our to Guiders who get the girls to sign up. There's meetings every night of the week where girls need the spreadsheets and so every afternoon I email out the latest updated sheet in .PDF format so the leaders can print them and get them to the meeting place. But apparently I don't do this on Tuesday.
You see, I work on Tuesdays. To top it off, today I was off practicing driving for a large chunk of time with my mother. I forgot. Everybody makes mistakes.* But the worst part is that I did the same thing last Tuesday. Hence the acting like an idiot. Who makes the same mistake two Tuesdays in a row? That would be me.
Why?!?!
Now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to brush my teeth and immerse myself in City of Fallen Angels. Only then, I'm sure, will I be able to escape the tragic fail that is currently haunting me.**
*Everybody has those days. Everybody knows what, what I'm talking 'bout. Everybody gets that way. Yeah!
**Did I go over the top just a little there?
Monday, April 4, 2011
slapdash poetry
As of late--and by late I mean in the past calendar year or so--I've been writing poems for fun. I'm not sure what clicked in my life and I can't nail down the exact moment that I decided to turn a journal entry from prose to poetry but it happened. And I have to say, it's kind of addicting.
Maybe it was after reading The Sky is Everywhere, Jandy Nelson's brilliant novel debut. Maybe I fell in love with the concept of scrawling half formed thoughts down on anything to scatter across my world, haphazard messages to the unknown receiver. Maybe I was feeling a bit pretentious or purely poetic.* Regardless, sometime in the last twelve months, I've taken to scribbling things down in verse and I like it.
But why is it that when I actually want to write a poem about something specific, when I need the words to be poignant and inspired and true, it just doesn't happen? How come I can doodle something beautiful and simple in the margins of my notebook when I should be paying attention to something else, yet when it really matters, I can't fit things together? Why can't I even force my thoughts into coherency?
So I'm trying to write this poem.
And it's important. It really means something. I'm trying to say something, do something, be something. But it won't fit. That's the thing about poetry, it's tricky. It's not just words slipped onto a page, casual and lazy. It's line after line massaged out of nothing and it kind of hurts sometimes. It's hard and it's work. But I'm not giving up.
--- because you stuck around until now, here is one such poem. just a meandering thought, no real editing or filter. enjoy. --
Some people expect apologies
like snow in the winter
But climate change should seriously
be messing with your expectations
How can words dragged
fighting off my lips
even faintly be something
you'd desire?
It's like tricking someone
into saying 'I love
you,'
then sighing and swooning
for those three little words
*Why do those words come together so often in my mind?
Maybe it was after reading The Sky is Everywhere, Jandy Nelson's brilliant novel debut. Maybe I fell in love with the concept of scrawling half formed thoughts down on anything to scatter across my world, haphazard messages to the unknown receiver. Maybe I was feeling a bit pretentious or purely poetic.* Regardless, sometime in the last twelve months, I've taken to scribbling things down in verse and I like it.
But why is it that when I actually want to write a poem about something specific, when I need the words to be poignant and inspired and true, it just doesn't happen? How come I can doodle something beautiful and simple in the margins of my notebook when I should be paying attention to something else, yet when it really matters, I can't fit things together? Why can't I even force my thoughts into coherency?
So I'm trying to write this poem.
And it's important. It really means something. I'm trying to say something, do something, be something. But it won't fit. That's the thing about poetry, it's tricky. It's not just words slipped onto a page, casual and lazy. It's line after line massaged out of nothing and it kind of hurts sometimes. It's hard and it's work. But I'm not giving up.
--- because you stuck around until now, here is one such poem. just a meandering thought, no real editing or filter. enjoy. --
Some people expect apologies
like snow in the winter
But climate change should seriously
be messing with your expectations
How can words dragged
fighting off my lips
even faintly be something
you'd desire?
It's like tricking someone
into saying 'I love
you,'
then sighing and swooning
for those three little words
*Why do those words come together so often in my mind?
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Saving Francesca (a book review)
Today: Awoke. Ate a bagel. Sold Girl Guide cookies at Sears for two/too hours/long. Dropped home on the way to work. Made an egg sandwich. Rushed to work while eating aforementioned sandwich. Packed groceries for two [long] hours (x3 = 6 hours). Got home. Poured smoothie. Sat on couch with computer, drinking aforementioned smoothie.
That was a beautiful smoothie. But onto my obsession with Melina Marchetta. *sigh*
I love Melina Marchetta's books. They are the food for my soul that I didn't know that I needed. And that is a bearable cliche because it's also the truth. Her books make me feel whole and broken at the same time, in the best ways. All I do is inhale and exhale the words and yet they make me want to be better. A better person. A better writer. A better daughter. A better sister. A better friend.
I don't know how she does that.
A summary
Francesca is starting her second term at a school that was just for boys until recently when they opened their doors to girls. She misses the consistency and complacency of her old school and her old friends and to add to the unease, her mother won't get out of bed.
The novel chronicles Francesca's struggles to slide, struggle free, through school and keep herself from falling apart. It's about love, romantic and otherwise, and friendship and being saved but mostly it's about saving yourself.
A couple comments
-- The voice of the book is so genuine and honest that you can barely set it down. Francesca's words have a cynical resilience that is remarkable and relatable, to me at least. Marchetta has such a way with sentences and paragraphs that I honestly feel as if I could survive on these beautiful words. Almost.
-- The characters are unique and plucky and whole. They're people you want to know, want to believe exist. The community and support and love and friendship are just something you want to experience. These are friends I'm jealous of.
-- I love Francesca. I love her and I feel like she's a piece of me, or I'm a piece of her. I don't know if I've ever really felt so similar to a character in so many ways. And sometimes so different. Francesca is like my dark side, I think.
-- Will Trombol.
A recommendation
Read this book. I did, twice in one week. It's worth it, so ridiculously worth it.
Saving Francesca is officially on the favourites list. And it's getting to be a long list.
That was a beautiful smoothie. But onto my obsession with Melina Marchetta. *sigh*
I love Melina Marchetta's books. They are the food for my soul that I didn't know that I needed. And that is a bearable cliche because it's also the truth. Her books make me feel whole and broken at the same time, in the best ways. All I do is inhale and exhale the words and yet they make me want to be better. A better person. A better writer. A better daughter. A better sister. A better friend.
I don't know how she does that.
A summary
Francesca is starting her second term at a school that was just for boys until recently when they opened their doors to girls. She misses the consistency and complacency of her old school and her old friends and to add to the unease, her mother won't get out of bed.
The novel chronicles Francesca's struggles to slide, struggle free, through school and keep herself from falling apart. It's about love, romantic and otherwise, and friendship and being saved but mostly it's about saving yourself.
A couple comments
-- The voice of the book is so genuine and honest that you can barely set it down. Francesca's words have a cynical resilience that is remarkable and relatable, to me at least. Marchetta has such a way with sentences and paragraphs that I honestly feel as if I could survive on these beautiful words. Almost.
-- The characters are unique and plucky and whole. They're people you want to know, want to believe exist. The community and support and love and friendship are just something you want to experience. These are friends I'm jealous of.
-- I love Francesca. I love her and I feel like she's a piece of me, or I'm a piece of her. I don't know if I've ever really felt so similar to a character in so many ways. And sometimes so different. Francesca is like my dark side, I think.
-- Will Trombol.
-- The dialog. I am such a huge dialog fan that it's ridiculous and Melina Marchetta does not disappoint.
-- The story is just so believable. It's not like 'mother with depression' is a new concept for a book but it works here on so many levels. There's the gleam of romance. The trials and doubts and happinesses of friendship. The angst of teenagerdom. The reality is both unhappy and hopeful. Depicting not depression so much as the effect it has on the people it touches, the truth of this story is just so real. This story feels like something you could live in, even if you wouldn't want to all the time.A recommendation
Read this book. I did, twice in one week. It's worth it, so ridiculously worth it.
Saving Francesca is officially on the favourites list. And it's getting to be a long list.
Friday, April 1, 2011
how to lose and cry trying (too much?)
I'm not sure exactly when BEDA hit my consciousness this year but it was realistically in the last 48 hours. BEDA? A voice in my head seemed to say. Right, that thing that sparked this huge part of my life avalanching off in its own uncontrollable direction. It's April tomorrow. I guess it's time to blog every day for thirty days.
And now here we are. I almost forgot you BEDA, after getting home from a raucous night of partying with the Social Justice Film Society members, eating tiramisu and playing checkers that ceased to resemble the game of checkers. Ah, nine-year-olds, you have taught me so much about losing.
You see, I was always a competitive child. I tried to hide it, stifle its shameful urges for gloating and a generally bad attitude. Coupled with my competitive nature was a sensitivity that has seen me leave many movie theaters with tear stained cheeks. I'm a middle child and an emotional one at that.
Which brings me to Monopoly*. I have played many games of Monopoly that have ended in tears from myself and every other game of Monopoly I played ended in me winning (at least, until recently when I did not win Monopoly and also didn't cry**. Personal progress for the win.). Thinking about it as deeply as I can bear to, it wasn't so much that I was sad not to be winning so much as despair at the general unfairness.
Like, I didn't ask to be the one to roll last and have to land on everyone else's property before being about to purchase one of my own and a railroad at that***. I didn't ask for my little sister to shove a hundred dollar bill at me in charity. That's pitiful. That's sad. Who wants to be a charity case?
But tonight, I was able to set it all aside. I was able to shove away my ego and play checkers with someone who had different rules than I did. I was able to lose gracefully (and sometimes purposefully) and though it wasn't the most thrilling time of my life, it was a good moment. I mean, yes, I was playing with a nine-year-old girl and yes, I didn't exactly fight to the death to win but I was able to see it for what it was. A game.
And life... goes on.
*Monopoly, in case you did not know, can be traced back to the original creator Elizabeth J. Magie Phillips who created a Monopoly like game called The Landlord's Game to demonstrate the pitfalls of capitalism.
**I almost cried of *happiness* when I finally landed on the one property that I really wanted. But those would have been tears of *happiness*.
***I have contempt for railroads. After you have them all, there is no building potential. Unless someone is already significantly downtrodden, you cannot win a game and bankrupt another person with a railroad. And all I think about is bankrupting my friends.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
job benefits
My mother works in a bookstore. This pile of ARCs (short for advanced reader/review copy, a proof of a soon to be released book for reviewing) is a side effect of that. A wondrous, delightful side effect.A couple weeks ago, I was practicing driving with my mom and sister and one of our stops was the bookstore to look at a bunch of ARCs that the book buyer of the store had set aside for us. And this stack is only about a third of them.
Seriously, I'm going to be reading these books for months. Maddy told me not to let her use her library card before we have so many books to read, the library is practically moot.
I. love. my. life.
In any case, if you notice a trend of reviews on this blog, do not be alarmed. I feel almost obligated to write about these books due to the fact that they were, um, free. I've already read Delirium (which was so-so) and Red Glove (which was brilliant) but that's about it. Next on my list are Shine, Forgotten and Forbidden.*
And if you're wondering if I'm writing this blog post with the sole purpose of making you jealous, well, um, you're probably right. I don't know, there's something about having a large quantity of not-yet-released books in your possession that makes you feel like you're in on some big secret and big secrets beg blog posts. Alliteration not intended.
*Is anyone else noticing a trend of one word titles in YA right now?
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Nothing (a book review, or something like it)
This past weekend, I was rereading The Hunger Games trilogy, or at least the first two parts. I won't go off on a tangent about those books though I very easily could. What I'm writing about is the book I picked up to console myself from the fact that my dad has been in possession of my copy of Mockingjay for the past few months and I couldn't immediately pick it up after Catching Fire. I wanted a distraction.
And I got it. Oh god, I got it.
I don't know what I was expecting from Janne Teller's first book for young adults. I'd read the summaries. John Green said he thought it would win the Printz. My friend warned me off reading it, saying it was disturbing*. I reserved it from the library, it sat on my desk for a week and I finally picked it up the first night I'm housesitting and it was dark and I was alone and all I wanted to do is read Mockingjay, even though I've read it three times already.
Reflecting back on the book, I don't think it's something you can like or dislike. Maybe some people can but not me. I appreciate it and I read it in one hazy blur which must indicate some kind of merit yet it's not a book that you can enjoy. Do I think this book is incredible? Yes. Did I like it? I'm not really sure but probably not.
A summary, I think, is in order: One day, a seventh grader, Pierre Anthon, in a fictional Danish town stands up in class and declares that, "Nothing matters... So nothing is worth doing..." He then leaves the classroom and climbs a plum tree, where he stays during the day for months, pelting his peers with plums and screaming his discoveries of the meaninglessness of life at them as they pass by. Wanting to believe that there actually is a meaning to life, the students realize that they have to get Pierre Anthon out of the tree in order to prove him wrong. They start this task by pelting him with stones and then decide to create a "heap of meaing" in order to convince Pierre and each other that something matters. All the students in the seventh grade class are to contribute something of ultimate value and as the students decide what the others must sacrifice, the heap of meaning quickly takes a sinister turn.
As I said, it's not that I enjoyed the book, it's just that I couldn't stop reading it. Not in the way of The Hunger Games in that I need to know what happened next. Nothing's chapters aren't left dangling off a cliff the way most of Suzanne Collins's are. I guess I just needed to find out if they could convince Pierre Anthon of some kind of meaning which I partially knew they couldn't. I needed to see if they could even convince themselves that their heap of meaning mattered. I also needed to know how far it would go, how much these kids could force each other to give up. It really scared me what they did. Just when I thought things went a bit too far, the next request was even more demanding.
A new word I learned last week is 'visceral' which, in relation to writing, means something that made you feel physically. Yes, I'm talking about butterflies in your stomache and when your heartrate quickens from reading something.
This was the first time since I learned what the word meant that I thought about it in relation to a book I was reading. The writing of Nothing really was visceral to me. Not in a swooning, Peeta is so amazing *sigh* way, but in a gasping, shocked, hand to my mouth, horrified way. I actually clenched my fist and gritted my teeth at several points in the novel. There was a moment when I felt slightly nauseous. And though I'm not condoning the behavior of the characters in any way, I have to admit that reading something that actually makes you feel physically sick is pretty impressive.
The book is about much more than these kids and the way in which they decide to prove that something, anything, matters in life. It existential in that it deals with how people react when introduced to the possibility that there is no meaning to anything. It's about the cruelty of human nature and what horrors a group will force on its members but it's also about a personal struggle of what happens when nothing matters and how hard individuals and groups will struggle against that.
I'm still reacting and processing and I'm not sure exactly what I think but it's safe to say that I was impressed by this book. Horrifyed and jarred but ultimately better off. Nothing has a lot to offer and though it is disturbing at times, as John Green says: "So is life."
*Does it mean I have issues if I say that the disturbing comment made me want to read it more?
**Which should be noted was translated by Martin Aitkin from Danish. Though I don't speak/read Danish I can't judge whether the translation was accurate or not but I do think it was beautiful.
And I got it. Oh god, I got it.
 |
| And it did win a Printz honour. |
Time must have passed while I lay on the couch with a blanket, turning pages rapidly and inhaling the language** but I didn't really notice. Afterwards, I stumbled upstairs to bed in a kind of daze and fell asleep to dreams that I don't remember.
A summary, I think, is in order: One day, a seventh grader, Pierre Anthon, in a fictional Danish town stands up in class and declares that, "Nothing matters... So nothing is worth doing..." He then leaves the classroom and climbs a plum tree, where he stays during the day for months, pelting his peers with plums and screaming his discoveries of the meaninglessness of life at them as they pass by. Wanting to believe that there actually is a meaning to life, the students realize that they have to get Pierre Anthon out of the tree in order to prove him wrong. They start this task by pelting him with stones and then decide to create a "heap of meaing" in order to convince Pierre and each other that something matters. All the students in the seventh grade class are to contribute something of ultimate value and as the students decide what the others must sacrifice, the heap of meaning quickly takes a sinister turn.
As I said, it's not that I enjoyed the book, it's just that I couldn't stop reading it. Not in the way of The Hunger Games in that I need to know what happened next. Nothing's chapters aren't left dangling off a cliff the way most of Suzanne Collins's are. I guess I just needed to find out if they could convince Pierre Anthon of some kind of meaning which I partially knew they couldn't. I needed to see if they could even convince themselves that their heap of meaning mattered. I also needed to know how far it would go, how much these kids could force each other to give up. It really scared me what they did. Just when I thought things went a bit too far, the next request was even more demanding.
A new word I learned last week is 'visceral' which, in relation to writing, means something that made you feel physically. Yes, I'm talking about butterflies in your stomache and when your heartrate quickens from reading something.
This was the first time since I learned what the word meant that I thought about it in relation to a book I was reading. The writing of Nothing really was visceral to me. Not in a swooning, Peeta is so amazing *sigh* way, but in a gasping, shocked, hand to my mouth, horrified way. I actually clenched my fist and gritted my teeth at several points in the novel. There was a moment when I felt slightly nauseous. And though I'm not condoning the behavior of the characters in any way, I have to admit that reading something that actually makes you feel physically sick is pretty impressive.
The book is about much more than these kids and the way in which they decide to prove that something, anything, matters in life. It existential in that it deals with how people react when introduced to the possibility that there is no meaning to anything. It's about the cruelty of human nature and what horrors a group will force on its members but it's also about a personal struggle of what happens when nothing matters and how hard individuals and groups will struggle against that.
I'm still reacting and processing and I'm not sure exactly what I think but it's safe to say that I was impressed by this book. Horrifyed and jarred but ultimately better off. Nothing has a lot to offer and though it is disturbing at times, as John Green says: "So is life."
*Does it mean I have issues if I say that the disturbing comment made me want to read it more?
**Which should be noted was translated by Martin Aitkin from Danish. Though I don't speak/read Danish I can't judge whether the translation was accurate or not but I do think it was beautiful.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
the startling truth of my writing history
I'm not going to make you read this whole post to figure out what the title means so, favouring directness over mystery, the truth is:
I didn't always want to write stories, or at least, not fiction.
And this is interesting--to me--because I find that whenever writers are asked theclassic clichéd question of when they started writing stories, the answer is usually as soon as they were old enough to wield a pen.
When I look back at my writing start, though, I was definitely writing at a young age but I wasn't creating stories of magical lands or dreaming of larger than life characters. The only stories I ever wrote were all about me. What I wrote was journals about myself, telling anecdotes of my life in my somewhat self important writing voice. Looking back, what I think is funny about my writing is how funny and clever I thought I was. Just the tone of my journals is enough to give you an idea of why I was writing, to capture my youth for future recollection. It was so self reverential that it's hilarious--or at least I think so.
A reoccurring theme in my journals was how I was looking forward to reading the entries in the future and smiling at how I used to be. But let's say, for arguments sake, that I didn't change. What if all I did was transfer to a different medium--blogging--and continue writing about myself and what I thought of the world? What if I still wonder what I'll think when I read these posts in the future? What if I'm still the number one person in my mind?
That wasn't much of any argument, more of a tangent, but there you go. Do people change?
I find it interesting to go back to my writing roots because it is abundantly apparent that I wasn't making things up. I even say now that I'm mostly not a creative person, writing-wise. I write what I know, set in places I've been with people I feel as if I've met. Okay, so maybe I imagine the characters and maybe not everything that happens in my novels has happened to me. That might get boring. Still, it's pretty obvious that I write stories about facets of me, or about things that I would like to happen to me, with my own personal reflections and insights and opinions and values and epiphanies weaved in. The journey's of my characters are things that I have gone through or am going through right now. I don't know how it's going to turn out for me. I'm not an adult reflecting back on my teen years and using that experience to fuel my writing. This is my present reality, completely legit.
Does that scare anyone else? Like, what happens when I'm not a teenager anymore? Do I still get to write Young Adult? Well, I mean, of course I do, but will it still have the same impact? Scary thoughts.
That's the truth, anyway. I wasn't writing short stories about unicorn fairy princesses or life in space or rabbits or cats or tiny people who live in shoeboxes as a kid. I was just writing about myself and my life. The first (mostly) fictitious story I wrote that wasn't a school assignment was my first novel for NaNoWriMo 2009.
Does anyone else think that's remarkable weird?
I didn't always want to write stories, or at least, not fiction.
And this is interesting--to me--because I find that whenever writers are asked the
When I look back at my writing start, though, I was definitely writing at a young age but I wasn't creating stories of magical lands or dreaming of larger than life characters. The only stories I ever wrote were all about me. What I wrote was journals about myself, telling anecdotes of my life in my somewhat self important writing voice. Looking back, what I think is funny about my writing is how funny and clever I thought I was. Just the tone of my journals is enough to give you an idea of why I was writing, to capture my youth for future recollection. It was so self reverential that it's hilarious--or at least I think so.
A reoccurring theme in my journals was how I was looking forward to reading the entries in the future and smiling at how I used to be. But let's say, for arguments sake, that I didn't change. What if all I did was transfer to a different medium--blogging--and continue writing about myself and what I thought of the world? What if I still wonder what I'll think when I read these posts in the future? What if I'm still the number one person in my mind?
That wasn't much of any argument, more of a tangent, but there you go. Do people change?
I find it interesting to go back to my writing roots because it is abundantly apparent that I wasn't making things up. I even say now that I'm mostly not a creative person, writing-wise. I write what I know, set in places I've been with people I feel as if I've met. Okay, so maybe I imagine the characters and maybe not everything that happens in my novels has happened to me. That might get boring. Still, it's pretty obvious that I write stories about facets of me, or about things that I would like to happen to me, with my own personal reflections and insights and opinions and values and epiphanies weaved in. The journey's of my characters are things that I have gone through or am going through right now. I don't know how it's going to turn out for me. I'm not an adult reflecting back on my teen years and using that experience to fuel my writing. This is my present reality, completely legit.
Does that scare anyone else? Like, what happens when I'm not a teenager anymore? Do I still get to write Young Adult? Well, I mean, of course I do, but will it still have the same impact? Scary thoughts.
That's the truth, anyway. I wasn't writing short stories about unicorn fairy princesses or life in space or rabbits or cats or tiny people who live in shoeboxes as a kid. I was just writing about myself and my life. The first (mostly) fictitious story I wrote that wasn't a school assignment was my first novel for NaNoWriMo 2009.
Does anyone else think that's remarkable weird?
Saturday, February 19, 2011
The Flying Troutmans (a book review)
Recommended to me by my Media Savvy mentor*, I picked up The Flying Troutmans by Miriam Toews with very few expectations. I'd read the summary which involved a road trip taken by an aunt with her niece and nephew to find the kids' absentee father. A road trip? Missing parent? Canadian writer? Count me in.
This feels like the first adult book I've read. No I don't mean "adult" in a sex way. It's not extremely mature, I mean it is, but not like that. There is some "course language" but nothing overly shocking. Realistic.
Jeez, I'm doing a really good job at this so far. Sarcasm, as Stephenie Meyer would write. How about we get on with it?
Good books rock my world. Daily.
It didn't make me rethink reality or the complexness of people or love or loss. Never mind, of course it did all of those things (a little, anyway). It didn't shift my perspective on the whole world and things might still be the same. But maybe they won't ever be.
Maybe in the end, it wasn't just a slew of quirky** characters and offbeat dialog and simply priceless scenarios or brutally beautiful realness. Maybe it was nothing but figuring out what love is and what your responsibilities are to your family and how to deal with things***. But maybe it was more. Great metaphors, gorgeous writing, a lovely, conflicted narrator/protagonist that I felt very similar to. General hilarity.
Maybe it was everything. Gah, I love life.
I recommend this to anyone who likes books that are a bit unorthadox but full of lovely, real, fun, flawed, witty, humous dynamic characters and spontaneous road trips and (in my opinion, of course) fantastic writing. You think you have adjectives? *I* have adjectives.
Good
*that's not, like, code. She's the legit mentor of my Media Savvy course.
**and I mean quirky. You think you know what the word means until you read this book. Thebes = win.
***let me tell you, these things could not be more appropriate in my life right now.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
the owners of stories and the meaning of life
It's always a bit surprising to me when a television show can spark some kind of deep intellectual discussion or reflection. I don't know if that's due to my cynicism about the quality of television or something else entirely but regardless, sometimes it's nice to be surprised when Glee relights a distant train of thought such as the question of who stories belong to.
John Green was the first to introduce me to the idea that books belong to their readers. Due to that resilient idea, writers like Lemony Snicket and J.D. Salinger amaze me.* To stay completely detached from your readers, letting your only medium be your works of writing, seems very brave to me. Especially these days, when readers are only 140 characters, a blog comment or an email away from a lot of the authors who inspire them. But a short conversation after watching Glee last night was all it took to cement my belief that books do belong to their readers, just as songs belong to their listeners and words belong to their interpreters.
Something that's recently irked me about Taylor Swift is how she posts something of a story behind each of her songs on her website. For whatever reason, I'm guiltily addicted to them. Sometimes it's nice to hear that there's meaning behind the catchy lyrics that I'm always singing along to while I wash dishes.
At the same time, though, it takes me away from the song. Rather than being allowed to feel connected and related to someone else, I feel like I'm listening to Taylor Swift's story, like every part of every song is intrinsically hers. It's not very comfortable to be detached that way, with the words no longer having any relation to me but only to a girl that I don't even know. So rather than singing along and feeling like I'm anonymously part of something, like the words belong to me, I feel like I'm peering into Taylor's psyche which, however interesting, is less fulfilling. Personal connection and meaning are much more satisfying to me.
Which is probably why, when I reread books that I adore, I hardly ever think of what the author is trying to say. I don't think of the message or the themes, undertones or symbolism. Instead, I dwell on what the story means to me, what the narrator is saying to me personally and obviously that meaning is different for everyone. It's also different every time I reread a book and there's something distinctly magical about that. I love the evolution of what books and stories mean to me as I evolve as a person. It's probably one of my favourite parts of reading.
In regards to the Glee episode, I don't know what Katy Perry (or her lyricist) was thinking when she wrote or brainstormed Firework. I also don't care. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter much what the song means to Katy Perry. I don't know Katy Perry and I have no inclination to know her and we are so far apart in so many ways but through this song, we are somewhat connected and that is a rather beautiful thing. What I have attempted to say with all of this is that finding meaning matters but meaning to one person is not always meaning to another person and definitions are only as solid as the people that believe in them.
Books belong to their readers and finding meaning in life is not something another person can do for you. It's a personal quest.
p.s. This is, of course, my own opinion and you are entitled to completely, or partially, reject it.
*Yes, I just categorized Salinger and Snicket together. Feel free to react to that.
John Green was the first to introduce me to the idea that books belong to their readers. Due to that resilient idea, writers like Lemony Snicket and J.D. Salinger amaze me.* To stay completely detached from your readers, letting your only medium be your works of writing, seems very brave to me. Especially these days, when readers are only 140 characters, a blog comment or an email away from a lot of the authors who inspire them. But a short conversation after watching Glee last night was all it took to cement my belief that books do belong to their readers, just as songs belong to their listeners and words belong to their interpreters.
Something that's recently irked me about Taylor Swift is how she posts something of a story behind each of her songs on her website. For whatever reason, I'm guiltily addicted to them. Sometimes it's nice to hear that there's meaning behind the catchy lyrics that I'm always singing along to while I wash dishes.
At the same time, though, it takes me away from the song. Rather than being allowed to feel connected and related to someone else, I feel like I'm listening to Taylor Swift's story, like every part of every song is intrinsically hers. It's not very comfortable to be detached that way, with the words no longer having any relation to me but only to a girl that I don't even know. So rather than singing along and feeling like I'm anonymously part of something, like the words belong to me, I feel like I'm peering into Taylor's psyche which, however interesting, is less fulfilling. Personal connection and meaning are much more satisfying to me.
Which is probably why, when I reread books that I adore, I hardly ever think of what the author is trying to say. I don't think of the message or the themes, undertones or symbolism. Instead, I dwell on what the story means to me, what the narrator is saying to me personally and obviously that meaning is different for everyone. It's also different every time I reread a book and there's something distinctly magical about that. I love the evolution of what books and stories mean to me as I evolve as a person. It's probably one of my favourite parts of reading.
In regards to the Glee episode, I don't know what Katy Perry (or her lyricist) was thinking when she wrote or brainstormed Firework. I also don't care. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter much what the song means to Katy Perry. I don't know Katy Perry and I have no inclination to know her and we are so far apart in so many ways but through this song, we are somewhat connected and that is a rather beautiful thing. What I have attempted to say with all of this is that finding meaning matters but meaning to one person is not always meaning to another person and definitions are only as solid as the people that believe in them.
Books belong to their readers and finding meaning in life is not something another person can do for you. It's a personal quest.
p.s. This is, of course, my own opinion and you are entitled to completely, or partially, reject it.
*Yes, I just categorized Salinger and Snicket together. Feel free to react to that.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
labels
For the record, I don't like being called a twig.
Or a stick.
Or a pencil.
Or skinny.
I have never called anyone a pear or an hourglass or a rectangle or a cardboard box or any other bullshit way of describing a woman's shape. Let me tell you something: it doesn't work that way.
This is me telling you that it is not okay to label my body with extraneous metaphors. I'm officially taking away the permission you never had to make comments about my figure.
I am not a stick; I am a living, breathing, beautiful, curvy* girl. And I'm 99.99999% positive that I know better than you on this one.
DON'T OBJECTIFY ME.
*my way of defining curves may be slightly different than yours or your mother's or the images represented by pop culture, but trust me, I have them. Read Looking For Alaska.
Or a stick.
Or a pencil.
Or skinny.
I have never called anyone a pear or an hourglass or a rectangle or a cardboard box or any other bullshit way of describing a woman's shape. Let me tell you something: it doesn't work that way.
This is me telling you that it is not okay to label my body with extraneous metaphors. I'm officially taking away the permission you never had to make comments about my figure.
I am not a stick; I am a living, breathing, beautiful, curvy* girl. And I'm 99.99999% positive that I know better than you on this one.
DON'T OBJECTIFY ME.
*my way of defining curves may be slightly different than yours or your mother's or the images represented by pop culture, but trust me, I have them. Read Looking For Alaska.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Girl Saves Boy (a book review)
As a preface to this review, I've been wanting to read this book since before it came out in Australia and New Zealand. I was introduced to Steph Bowe through a NaNoWriMo* forum, something about teens writing and being interested in publishing. I think she started the discussion, introduced herself and her upcoming debut and I was somewhat enchanted. A home schooled, teenage writer with her first book coming out? It sounded like a idealistic depiction of myself in the future (substituting home schooler for unschooler, of course).
For over a year, I've been wanting to read her book, knowing very little about the actual premise. I was eager to support a fellow teen writer and I waited as patiently as I could for the Canadian release. Yet it still hasn't been released in Canada and I actually got my copy from a friend of my mom who bought me a copy in New Zealand and brought it back for me, as arranged as a Christmas gift from my ever lovely sister.
To get to the point, my feelings on this book are kind of jumbled up. I don't know if I really liked it or if I'm being a bit more forgiving based on the context. Unfortunately--or maybe not--I cannot eliminate my personal bias but nonetheless, here is my review.
Girl Saves Boy is a dual point of view novel following Sacha Thomas and Jewel Valentine. It starts when Jewel saves Sacha from drowning and alternates between their two stories as their lives intertwine.
I liked the two main characters. They could be a little whiny at times but their lives kind of sucked and most teenagers are at least a bit whiny so it made sense. They had neat voices and it was incredibly easy to get swept along in their waves of thought and got enveloped in their emotions--mostly. The secondary characters were neat, too. Quirky, as promised by what felt like a bazillion sources, but fresh and flawed and believable. They were people who I wanted to believe existed, who I wished I could be friends with.
Sometimes I was a bit perplexed at the characters reactions. Highlight for spoiler: Who runs away after the girl they really like and wanted to kiss all night leans over and kisses them? a) It was what you wanted!! b) Stop being so self absorbed with your 'I don't deserve her' and think about how much it would suck to be rejected like that.** I do like being able to think about what choices I would have made differently but I almost felt alienated at times due to the characters absurd decisions. It's interesting to see who different characters react to different situations but I would have liked to see those reactions a little more fleshed out.
There were moments where I could have forgotten to breathe and passages that made me want to go back and reread. I didn't shed tears but I got a lump in my throat once and I did feel deeply for the characters on more than one occasion.
Two different points of view can be tricky for a writer to pull off but I thought Steph Bowe did it beautiful. Each of the narrators were distinctive enough that I wasn't confused about who was speaking but they also had a similar cadence that it didn't feel disjointed or jumpy. One problem I found with this was finishing one chapter, wanting to know what happened next and being thrown into the other character's story. It kept me reading but I was, at times, a bit frustrated.
It was a nice, real***, lovely, wonderfully told story. It wasn't the best book I read in January but there was harsh competition. Also, I'm starting to think I have a thing for Australian books. There's something just so off beat and fresh and evocative and beautiful about them. Or at least what I've read which, I'll admit, isn't a lot. Still, Aussie writers = cool.
Now I have been inspired to go back and work on my own novel so I'm going to do that and maybe one day someone will have a minor crush on me and they will be inspired by me as I have been by Steph. First, though, I must finish my novel.
Stay gold.
*This was my first NaNo, 2009.
**Yeah, sure, teenagers can be self absorbed but come now, how idiotically hurtful could you be?
***Not a boring real but an "I wish this was real because it feels like it could be" real.
For over a year, I've been wanting to read her book, knowing very little about the actual premise. I was eager to support a fellow teen writer and I waited as patiently as I could for the Canadian release. Yet it still hasn't been released in Canada and I actually got my copy from a friend of my mom who bought me a copy in New Zealand and brought it back for me, as arranged as a Christmas gift from my ever lovely sister.
To get to the point, my feelings on this book are kind of jumbled up. I don't know if I really liked it or if I'm being a bit more forgiving based on the context. Unfortunately--or maybe not--I cannot eliminate my personal bias but nonetheless, here is my review.
Girl Saves Boy is a dual point of view novel following Sacha Thomas and Jewel Valentine. It starts when Jewel saves Sacha from drowning and alternates between their two stories as their lives intertwine.
I liked the two main characters. They could be a little whiny at times but their lives kind of sucked and most teenagers are at least a bit whiny so it made sense. They had neat voices and it was incredibly easy to get swept along in their waves of thought and got enveloped in their emotions--mostly. The secondary characters were neat, too. Quirky, as promised by what felt like a bazillion sources, but fresh and flawed and believable. They were people who I wanted to believe existed, who I wished I could be friends with.
Sometimes I was a bit perplexed at the characters reactions. Highlight for spoiler: Who runs away after the girl they really like and wanted to kiss all night leans over and kisses them? a) It was what you wanted!! b) Stop being so self absorbed with your 'I don't deserve her' and think about how much it would suck to be rejected like that.** I do like being able to think about what choices I would have made differently but I almost felt alienated at times due to the characters absurd decisions. It's interesting to see who different characters react to different situations but I would have liked to see those reactions a little more fleshed out.
There were moments where I could have forgotten to breathe and passages that made me want to go back and reread. I didn't shed tears but I got a lump in my throat once and I did feel deeply for the characters on more than one occasion.
Two different points of view can be tricky for a writer to pull off but I thought Steph Bowe did it beautiful. Each of the narrators were distinctive enough that I wasn't confused about who was speaking but they also had a similar cadence that it didn't feel disjointed or jumpy. One problem I found with this was finishing one chapter, wanting to know what happened next and being thrown into the other character's story. It kept me reading but I was, at times, a bit frustrated.
It was a nice, real***, lovely, wonderfully told story. It wasn't the best book I read in January but there was harsh competition. Also, I'm starting to think I have a thing for Australian books. There's something just so off beat and fresh and evocative and beautiful about them. Or at least what I've read which, I'll admit, isn't a lot. Still, Aussie writers = cool.
Now I have been inspired to go back and work on my own novel so I'm going to do that and maybe one day someone will have a minor crush on me and they will be inspired by me as I have been by Steph. First, though, I must finish my novel.
Stay gold.
*This was my first NaNo, 2009.
**Yeah, sure, teenagers can be self absorbed but come now, how idiotically hurtful could you be?
***Not a boring real but an "I wish this was real because it feels like it could be" real.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
do we have a world view and is it time for a new one?
I've brought my world view philosophizing here to my blog. Enjoy!
First of all, to try and narrow down some of the wordings to follow (a difficult and yet important step for any philosopher), here are a couple definitions I found for the word or phrase 'world view':
"A set of commonly held values, ideas, and images concerning the nature of reality and the role of humanity within it." -environment.nelson.com/0176169040/glossary.html
"A comprehensive meaning system, providing a frame of reference (often unconscious) for interpreting the world" -school.sufferingfools.net/Archive/RELS_357_01/Apocalyptic%20terms.doc
"A framework of ideals and values through which to interpret the world."
I frequent a Philosophers' Cafe put on by Simon Fraser University that's held at my library once a month. The topics range from all different types of philosophy. I've been going about six months now and really enjoy it.
The latest topic was phrased, "Is it time for a new world view?" and though I was curious to see how the presenter (we have a different one every month) would define that, I was somewhat disappointed by the actual event. At the beginning we had something of a visualization of the future and the woman who led the cafe started right in on what kind of values she thought our new world view should harness (empathy, environmental awareness, respect, love). Meanwhile, I was stuck back on the question of whether we needed a different world view. While everyone else seemed to be venturing idealistically further into what humanity needs to change about the world, I still had some different questions in the back of my mind.
The demographic at this cafe is mostly older, educated men and women. I'm the youngest person there by a couple decades at least (as of yet) so I think it's interesting to see how perspectives can change from generation to generation. Personally, I can be a bit jaded so when it comes to looking at the world. I try not to let pressing issues make me bitter but sometimes everything looks pretty bleak. So as I was listening to everyone agreeing with each other about how important empathy is, I was asking myself if such a thing as a world view even exists.
I don't know if there's any possible way for everyone on this planet to see anything the same way. Yes, everyone in the room that night could agree that empathy was important but could they agree on a finite definition of the word? And could they draw a line of empathy, deciding who was worthy and who wasn't? I'm skeptical that they could and they're all living in the same town. Think of what would happen if you (hypothetically) brought the entire world into a room and asked them to agree on values.
I got frustrated that everyone was speaking about dreams of the future when what I, as a young person, want to see is action. What use is it to talk about the importance of love if you do nothing to change the state of our world? And before you get excited about what our future world view looks like, can you please tell me what a world view even is and what our current world view looks like?
So I put a few questions out to you, whoever is reading this. Think about it. Respond if you like. Either way, thanks for reading this.
1. What is your definition of the term 'world view'?
2. How do you quantify a world view? (i.e. should we be looking towards our government, our marginalized people, our teachers and mentors, our youth or anyone else to tell us how we look at the world? Should we be examining our actions and reactions, our treatment of each other, the way our mass media portrays modern life? What are the sources for defining something so subjective?)
3. From your unique perspective, what does our world view look like? Is there any way to characterize what our world view currently is?
4. Is your personal world view different from that of mainstream society?
and last of all
5. How do you think the messages we get through mass media relate to our world view? Does media help to reflect our world view or is media actively helping to shape it?
Unfortunately, there's no way I can make all of this makes sense to everyone so ask your own questions if you have them and I'll do my best to answer.
I'm eager to hear all of your responses on this.
First of all, to try and narrow down some of the wordings to follow (a difficult and yet important step for any philosopher), here are a couple definitions I found for the word or phrase 'world view':
"A set of commonly held values, ideas, and images concerning the nature of reality and the role of humanity within it." -environment.nelson.com/0176169040/glossary.html
"A comprehensive meaning system, providing a frame of reference (often unconscious) for interpreting the world" -school.sufferingfools.net/Archive/RELS_357_01/Apocalyptic%20terms.doc
"A framework of ideals and values through which to interpret the world."
I frequent a Philosophers' Cafe put on by Simon Fraser University that's held at my library once a month. The topics range from all different types of philosophy. I've been going about six months now and really enjoy it.
The latest topic was phrased, "Is it time for a new world view?" and though I was curious to see how the presenter (we have a different one every month) would define that, I was somewhat disappointed by the actual event. At the beginning we had something of a visualization of the future and the woman who led the cafe started right in on what kind of values she thought our new world view should harness (empathy, environmental awareness, respect, love). Meanwhile, I was stuck back on the question of whether we needed a different world view. While everyone else seemed to be venturing idealistically further into what humanity needs to change about the world, I still had some different questions in the back of my mind.
The demographic at this cafe is mostly older, educated men and women. I'm the youngest person there by a couple decades at least (as of yet) so I think it's interesting to see how perspectives can change from generation to generation. Personally, I can be a bit jaded so when it comes to looking at the world. I try not to let pressing issues make me bitter but sometimes everything looks pretty bleak. So as I was listening to everyone agreeing with each other about how important empathy is, I was asking myself if such a thing as a world view even exists.
I don't know if there's any possible way for everyone on this planet to see anything the same way. Yes, everyone in the room that night could agree that empathy was important but could they agree on a finite definition of the word? And could they draw a line of empathy, deciding who was worthy and who wasn't? I'm skeptical that they could and they're all living in the same town. Think of what would happen if you (hypothetically) brought the entire world into a room and asked them to agree on values.
I got frustrated that everyone was speaking about dreams of the future when what I, as a young person, want to see is action. What use is it to talk about the importance of love if you do nothing to change the state of our world? And before you get excited about what our future world view looks like, can you please tell me what a world view even is and what our current world view looks like?
So I put a few questions out to you, whoever is reading this. Think about it. Respond if you like. Either way, thanks for reading this.
1. What is your definition of the term 'world view'?
2. How do you quantify a world view? (i.e. should we be looking towards our government, our marginalized people, our teachers and mentors, our youth or anyone else to tell us how we look at the world? Should we be examining our actions and reactions, our treatment of each other, the way our mass media portrays modern life? What are the sources for defining something so subjective?)
3. From your unique perspective, what does our world view look like? Is there any way to characterize what our world view currently is?
4. Is your personal world view different from that of mainstream society?
and last of all
5. How do you think the messages we get through mass media relate to our world view? Does media help to reflect our world view or is media actively helping to shape it?
Unfortunately, there's no way I can make all of this makes sense to everyone so ask your own questions if you have them and I'll do my best to answer.
I'm eager to hear all of your responses on this.
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