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 the classic 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?

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?

I loved that book. Not Twilight, shut up--although... yeah, never mind. Troutmans. Maybe it was the story or maybe it was the characters or maybe it was the dialog or maybe it was the road trip and all the weird and hilarious events revolving around that but no, no, it was definitely all of that stuff plus more than I can explain.

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 night morning.

*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.

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.

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.

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.