It's Final

I'm a senior now.

Not senior as in senior citizen, though lately sitting at my desk all day with bad posture has been giving me neck problems. I mean high school senior. It's the final year for me, before my parents take their hands off my shoulders and I'm left with just my training wheels to keep from falling off the bike. It's the beginning of the year of endings.

At first, when I walked through the school at the end of August, I thought I ought to be depressed. One more year of excruciating torture upon the rack of public education, and then relief - only to be shipped off in a few more months to undergo the exquisite, privileged punishment of college? One more year of loitering aimlessly with a bunch of teenagers like me, and then watching most of them walk off the face of my world after graduation? One more year of carefree constraint, before - oh, I don't know - the ominous, inevitable, final, Cap and Gown?

I expected these thoughts to weigh on me for the rest of my high school days. I am terrified of endings, you see, almost as much as I am terrified of beginnings. I always feel like they have to be perfect.

But I wasn't depressed. Instead, plodding through paths jam-packed with both strangers and old friends, I felt a profound sense of warmth flood through me. There was a senior I'd known since freshman year, for instance. He'd had a growth spurt, and when he stood next to the WHS newcomers it became suddenly obvious how much he had changed. And then I passed the half-finished mural by the North Quad, and I thought to myself: Little guys have never known anything else. Not the washed-out Yosemite scenery buried beneath the paint; not the hours spent balancing on a rickety ladder with a paintbrush in hand, trying to figure out if the trumpet dude's head fits on his neck right. They've come into this school, and the first impression they ever had of this wall was the half-finished mural.

I'm a senior. I know things they don't. I'm at the top of the food chain, and I'm amazed that I managed to make it this far. Three years, and so much has happened - so many things I'd rather not repeat, but that I don't want to ever forget - so many things that made life worth loving. And I looked at the new kids and realized that, pretty soon, they're going to be where I am now. They're going to go through freshman year and sophomore year and junior year, and by the time they're seniors, they'll have changed. For better or for worse, nobody goes into high school and then comes out exactly the same. I can only pray that all these kids come out with both feet on the ground and head held high.

I was happy, ludicrous as that sounds, as I squeezed past all these young faces. They looked confused, sleepy, annoyed, and maybe a little scared. But if there's one thing they all had in common, it was a future. They're going to define what comes next in this place I've spent a third of my waking hours in for three years. Senior year isn't really an ending - I'll just be stepping off one chapter and into another. There will be plenty of others keeping the cycle going.

And I'm not done yet, either. I've still got a year before signing out of here, and I don't plan on letting it go to waste. I'll make the most of my last year in high school, enjoying the hell out of every day of my life - and that's final.

We All Have Our Battles

Six in the morning. The battle begins.

Victoria Wang is waist deep in a snake pit. She has no idea how she wound up in the snake pit, but she concludes, wisely, that she should get out before asking questions. She begins to run through her mind a list of possible escape routes.

The Ringing disturbs her thoughts. To compare the sound to a ringing bell would be mistaken; it is more like a braying donkey. She finds it impossible to ignore. So she grunts, rolls over, and slams her hand down. The Ringing subsides.

She returns to her previous position and begins to grapple with the stone walls of the snake pit. There are countless fangs brushing against her legs. Her thick clothes save her from the venom – for now – but they also make her movements sluggish. Time is of the essence. A rope appears in her hands, attached to a grappling hook, and she prepares to hurl it up and over the lip of the snake pit.

The Ringing returns. The grappling hook falls uselessly onto the writhing snake by her elbow. Scowling, she rolls over and smacks her hand down a second time. The Ringing leaves.

She spins the grappling hook around by the rope, then sends it flying. It soars gloriously up the mile-tall wall of the snake pit and latches onto the rim perfectly. She moves quickly now – the snakes’ fangs are about to penetrate her clothes. She wraps her hand around the rope and begins to scale the wall, walking vertically and using the rope as leverage. It is a long and strenuous process, but with a last burst of willpower she boosts herself up the final stretch and clambers over the rim - she's out - she's safe -

The Ringing is back with a vengeance. The sound is physically and psychologically painful. She sticks one leg out from covers, then the other, and both feet touch the carpet floor of her bedroom. It takes an excruciating amount of willpower to extricate herself from the tangled snake pit of her blankets. But she does, eventually, and hauls herself to the alarm clock. This time she sets it to Off, not Snooze. She rubs her eyes irritably, then stumbles to the bathroom to take care of morning unpleasantries.

Time for another day to begin.

The Return of the Princess of Laziness

I'm home.

Possibly one of the most depressing realizations I've had since I turned fourteen and I ran out of new things in life to angst about. I - aspiring novelist, college bound Asian, hobbyist musician - am staring at a computer screen and lounging on a queen-sized memory foam bed all day, fretting about my driving test in four days as I twirl my pen idly. The colors, the noise, the enthusiastic conversations about the nature of beauty and truth are now swept under the rug of Yesterday. I am home.

Really, I ought to get up and do things more. Take a walk. Build a card castle. Bake a cake. Now I understand the term "everyone needs a hobby." Even though my mind is finally free to frolic in the realm of my imagination, my body can't keep up - it gets so bored, sitting here. It gets in the way of my writing.

My writing, I hope, has improved. I have difficulty judging that, though - after all, it was only two months of learning, and I haven't gotten round to writing anything substantial since I got home last Friday. Besides, my personality often leads to inconsistent work: what I write tomorrow might be the best thing I've ever written; what I write in a month might be the worst. But after going to both EPGY and CSSSA I now know that only a small portion of the experience was geared toward cultivating actual technical skills. Most of it was about the process and the approach, and in these areas I am confident I have grown.

Writing scares me. Terrifies me. That's the main reason why I used to keep putting it off, procrastinating on projects until just before the deadline, then slapping together something crappy that I would sheepishly call "art". It's a weakness of mine, trying to hide from things that scare me. But the programs, CSSSA in particular, forced me to sit my ass down and just puke my guts out (metaphorically) no matter what prompt I was facing. The process of writing is not some mysterious beast with rainbow-colored wings. It's just writing. Ideas are gold nuggets, words are nothing but things that shape the gold into jewelry. Got something to say? Then say it! (EPGY had a rather more scholarly answer to writer's block: first becoming one with a character, and then simply letting the character carry the story, which leads to a very natural flow and more often than not surprises even the writer with a resounding conclusion.) Refinement and polishing can come later.

Of course, if you aren't double-checking every sentence in the first draft, the rewrite and revision process becomes much more important. EPGY had a pretty heavy emphasis on this. I wrote a character sketch that I had absolutely no intention to use as an actual story, but then I rewrote it and touched it up a little, and everybody loved it. (It's little Tito's story.) CSSSA's workshop model helped me learn a great deal about how to evaluate other people's work and how to take criticism myself. For long works especially - I used to nitpick like crazy when reading other people's novels-in-progress. Now I know that, for the moment, grammar and stylistic differences really aren't that important, and comparing someone else's writing to your own writing is the worst thing possible you could do. What's important is the big picture, and the integrity of that person's idea and voice. I really like that phrase, so I'll repeat it: integrity of the writer's idea and voice. It's the soul of the writer's work.

Okay, that's enough blabbing for now. I'll get off my ass and do something fun, like, oh I don't know, blowing up the kitchen. Now, where to find that cake recipe...

The CSSSA Reports 1

After four days of figuring out the tangled web of dorm life and cafeteria lines and two teachers and lots of writing homework (hence the dearth of blog posts) and getting to know my three roommates, I can safely say that CSSSA is not as bad as the two "policewomen" of the place made it seem. (It's just that the campus life sucks compared to Stanford's.) So far, despite art school's reputation for being pretty dopey, I have not seen any drug use or even heard of it. The food's pretty good, and changes every day, though if you don't like the day's main course you're basically screwed (not much variety in a single meal). At first I think I wasn't eating enough vegetables or something - my mouth felt weird. Tonight I accidentally ate a vegan meal, chili beans and brown rice with sauteed vegetables and vegetable soup, and now I feel great. I love chili. Yesterday two of my roommates (one in Creative Writing with me, the other in Visual Arts - the third is in Film and already has friends in CSSSA, so she's out a lot and I haven't gotten to talk to her as much) and I ordered Thai food delivered, mainly because they both suddenly craved boba tea for whatever reason, and also because none of us had done this before and we wanted to try. That curry was good. Made me happy. Yum.

Crap the lights are out, I have to go to bed soon and I still have work to do. Uhhhhh today there was a faculty reading, basically our four Creative Writing teachers got on stage and read examples of their work aloud. I really wish I had the poet and department chair as a teacher - she was fucking brilliant (sorry cuss words proliferate a great deal around here) and hilarious as hell. My two teachers are also very good though - both playwrights/screenwrights, as it seems CSSSA has a pretty big emphasis on the film industry. It's why the school was built in the first place, according to the handbook. The fourth teacher, the short story writer, he told a story about a father and his daughter and his inability to connect with her because they lived apart, even though he loved her a lot; and for whatever reason I started to cry and I wanted to talk to my dad and make sure he knew I loved him and I really really missed him. So after, as I was walking back from the reading to my dorm, I called my parents up and then started bawling like a baby as I tried to say, "Hi Daddy." My mom is probably reading this, though, haha - I love her too. I have such a great family. In my memoir class, I realized what a perfect life I've had: loving, stable family, great grades to compliment a great education, never ever had to worry about money. This is probably where all my problems come from, oddly enough. In my lack of problems. I'm gradually learning how to make use of my advantages though - there was a speech my older sister showed me that dealt with this too. Later when the lights are on I'll post the link. 'Night.

In Summation

Let me tell you about EPGY.

A small group of brilliant kids all around your age come from incredibly diverse backgrounds all around the world meet in Stanford to study something you love. You have a plethora of counselors who also work as teacher assistants and your awesome older siblings, so they can help with both life problems and academic questions. The first few days you're given a tour of the campus structured as a game and led cheerfully from place to place so even the most directionally challenged person won't get lost. Activities and having fun and making friends are strictly enforced, with plenty of student input of course. The food is great, the campus is beautiful, the dorms are homes away from home, the instructors are among the best. It's impossible not to enjoy your stay.

For me, EPGY was probably the most incredible writing experience I have every had, not just because it revolutionized the way I see short stories and poetry (particularly poetry), but also because of the atmosphere of freedom, friendship, and pursuing a passion together. After the first few days counselors didn't follow us around to class anymore, so it was remarkably easy to skip class - but it never even crossed our minds. We have our fun, but we all know what we're here for. When I sat down to dinner and for the first time saw all my friends start talking about the art of literature, I realized I was exactly where I wanted to be. The camp felt like a bubble of intellectual delight. I was also lucky enough to be in (we call ourselves) the best house in EPGY: the Creative Writing and Anthropology people were so sweet and funny and smart, and the counselors too. I still talk to the people I met there and still love them very much.

I'm writing this in CSSSA, actually. There are 73 creative writers here, not fifteen. Yesterday for orientation we were told, "Your roommate is not your best friend, so don't tell her you're having sex with your boyfriend," and then we were lectured for another twenty minutes not to use drugs (but if we hand over whatever drugs we brought by 9:30 pm they'd turn a blind eye). Yeah, I miss Stanford.

Independence Day

Fireworks work like this: light flowers on fire and shoot them into the sky, see how high they fly. Someday they'll reach the moon, or maybe they'll come down again like shooting stars, all aflame. We pitch our fireworks into the grass and stand back, watching the spark flare up between us.

Happy Fourth of July! and i'm tired and it's late and too much poetry asdflkjldjksa, so no more update today. g'night.

Lesson 8

7/3/13
"the heart sang in the head" - Song, Brigit Pegeen Kelly

Today was basically trying to define poetry.

Oh God my head.

(Enough said.)

After lessons I drew Henna on myself and then an Anthropology professor came to visit and it was frickin awesome he gave a college lecture and talked about his past and he personally knows Tobias Wolff or something, and it was fascinating learning about human perceptions of other humans and eugenics and the Pueblo Revolt and archaeology. Cool stuff. Fed two poems and a couple story eggs. I might stick them in the incubator later.

Lesson 7

7/2/13
"Sometimes you feel like a scientist in the middle of an experiment that no one else believes in." - Sam Beckett, Quantum Leap

Today was the last day of the short story unit. The teacher gave an inspirational talk using the above quote from Quantum Leap, and then somehow we started talking about how to maintain a lifelong marriage, and then we talked about ambition and faith and the meaning of life, and it was in my opinion a great way to end the unit.
When you get down to it, the life of an artist is really quite depressing. Rejection abounds; stories you've worked on for so long and so hard die in the blink of an eye; and even though a good story has the ability to change the world, society shoves most writers in the back corner of the room just as it uses classical music as background noise. Look over your shoulder; you are alone. There is only you and the page. The great beauty and great futility of a writer is that we must have absolute faith both in ourselves to create a work of art and in our readers to appreciate it. Before the experiment can be complete, we must go through a long and difficult process. But we keep waking up every morning, we keep setting word after word down until the blank page is full, because we are in love with the craft and there is nothing we can do about it. Nothing else completes us.

Yupyup. That was me being sentimental. You'll have to excuse me - I'm a writer. Anyways.
I'm oddly tired, so I'll be brief now. Made ice cream in the afternoon. Ran out of plastic bags - had to stir with a spoon. Cream never iced. Drank it in liquid form. It was still sweet.
Pretty sweet, no?

Lesson 6

7/1/13
"Language is fossil poetry." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Dialogue today. Finally discussed those snippets of speech we harvested during our eavesdropping sessions - it was both hilarious and hurt my brain a little. I love dialogue, but I usually do it without actually thinking; today I learned about all the elements that go into dialogue to make it not quite real (putting conversations verbatim onto paper is impossible to read) but a fabrication of reality, and it was hard. As my piano teacher always tells me, if I want to be good I have to stop relying on inspiration and start perfecting my craft. It applies to everything about me, really.

I went shopping today, haha! Imagine. I realized that it was probably not the best idea, even to go with CW camp friends, when I was sitting on the bus staring out the window and all the girls were yammering about cute clothes and then about cute boys. I don't know why girls use the word "cute" so much. I tried it, but it felt like wearing a woolen sweater over my brain - I prefer using a diversity of adjectives when I talk, thank you very much. Especially if I'm trying to describe things I like.
Generally, shopping is an unfortunate necessity to me. Browsing is alright - in fact, I love looking at the different personalities stores have and all the pretty clothes and jewelry and tidbits and decorations. But shopping with actual goals in mind makes me anxious, and wears me out really quickly. I also hate changing clothes. I like looking at clothes. I hate trying them on. I'm too lazy to be a barbie doll, even if (and that's a big if) I had the looks. Haha.
But whatever the case, I went shopping because I was looking for birthday presents for my older sister and my best friend. My older sister's is kinda late (like, two weeks late); but neither of us were home then, anyways, so I think she'll forgive me. She's turning 21. I browsed Urban Outfitters and was sorely tempted to buy her this alcohol case - the kind you see old men drinking from in movies about the Down South - that said "Happy F** Birthday!" on it in bright happy letters. But I figured it would look highly suspicious for me to buy that under the supervision of our counselors, and besides, it didn't quite match her sense of humor. I got her a bar of chocolate instead. It says "I LOVE YOU" and then about fifty "very"s and then "MUCH." and then "MORE THAN CHOCOLATE." and then "NOT MORE THAN CHOCOLATE." There was a better one that was like, "I love you thiiiiis much! Now give me a piece." but it looked possibly molding.
I'll write her a letter too, of course; a proper handwritten one.
I ended up not getting anything for my friend. There was a section that I absolutely adored and that I think she would too, which held all these posters and could be summed up by the big label on the top which said "CARPE THAT F** DIEM" (I swear I don't cuss in my everyday speech). I almost, almost, bought this one poster with the backside of a painted cadaver that was decorated with flowers and birds and a few anatomical labels. But it cost over twenty bucks. And I didn't exactly want to buy my friend something more expensive than my sister's present. So in the end I shied away from it. I'm going to write smth awesome and send it to her by email tomorrow.
It will arguably be more difficult than buying that poster. And arguably worth more.

Yup. What else? Oh, yeah, Monterey Bay was amazing. Sunday was even more lax than I expected, but I got writer's block and spent the whole day alternatively mentally stabbing myself and writing the first chapter of Sun Road.

Also, I missed the college essay deadlines.
(Shh. Don't tell my mom.)

Field Trip

6/29/13

At the moment that I am writing this, it's actually Saturday morning already, and we're about to go on a field trip to Monterey Bay Aquarium! I'm so excited - but I want to start working on writing Sun Road this weekend, so this is the last blog post until Monday. I wrote some diary-scribble-things for the previous weekdays, though, so I might also clean those up and post them.

I feel like I've learned so much in these short five days. I had so much fun, and now I realize both how crappy my novel is and a way to fix it. My friend suggested I write a book jacket summary blurb thing, which I did, and it was surprisingly really difficult - but it helped me straighten out key plot points and, most importantly, enabled me to respond if somebody asks "Awesome, you're writing a book! What's it about?" It still sounds corny though, haha. I pasted it below. Welp, that's all. See you later!

Rhea's life is luxurious, if isolated - until she wakes up one night to an ashen wasteland where the sun never shows through the clouds. Accompanied by a self-righteous defected soldier and a boy whose origins are as shadowy as his footsteps, Rhea must journey to the mythic Glades in order to find a way back home.

The world she encounters is falling to pieces, however. Swollen cities defile the land, old animosities threaten to spill over and rip the nation of Alsooth apart, and above it all, hovering in the black smoke-stained skies, the elusive dragon menaces. In the midst of the turmoil a new Vassal of the Lord is inducted, but even he may not bring the hope the nation so needs. As Rhea delves deeper into this troubled land, she must learn to navigate a maze of revenge, retribution, and ultimately, redemption.

Lesson 2

6/25/13
"[Poetry is] a momentary stay against confusion." - Robert Frost

"Don't plan," we are told. The characters should be allowed to grow organically on the page, without our say; don't plan. Let them do as they please. "No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader. No tears for the writer, no tears for the reader."

Prepare for a lot of tears.

Anyways, this afternoon for Activities I was introduced to a fascinating aspect of Stanford culture: fountain hopping. There are several fountains around campus, and I went with a small group to each of the big ones. We kicked off our shoes (I was wearing my flip flops) and dipped our feet in; a couple girls sat down in there and got completely soaked, and one guy stripped off his shirt and just dove in. I assume those shorts were in fact swimming trunks. About halfway through our adventure a group who looked like Stanford students came running, equipped with swimsuits and sneakers, and inadvertently provided us with a convenient showcase of all the ways one can fountain hop: i.e. at the one shaped like a cup, sit inside it spa-style; at the one that shoots water, spray each other with the water pressure, plug all but one shooter, and parody Old Faithful; at the jagged sculpture one, climb.
The weather is getting hotter; at last the clouds have passed, and the sun is beginning to grace us with its glorious rays.
By the end of each day I'm always so worn out. The Scav Hunt left me completely sore today. Every step is half torture.
Tomorrow my writing group for class has to turn in up to three pages of writing, which the instructor will give feedback for. I already finished (which is why I'm on here) - one hour of intense writing, and no revision. I wonder what he'll say.

Lesson 1

June 24, 2013:
"CHARACTER IS ACTION" - F. Scott Fitzgerald

I was, embarrassingly, nervous before the first day of class. After leaping out of bed (literally - it's about three feet high, I assume to leave room for a suitcase underneath in addition to a dead body), my roommate and I got ready for the day and the whole House went to breakfast together. After breakfast the group split up into Antho and CW, and we all went straight to class.
The Creative Writing instructor is a smooth-talking blue-eyed poet in his late twenties or early thirties, and after a round of introductions, we set into the reading and lecture. The days are structured like this: first the instructor gives the day's lecture/lesson, with one or two breaks interspersed between, then it's lunch, followed by study hall led by our two counselors for individual writing exercises and other varying activities.
Today's topics were Introduction to fiction and Characters. We got a bunch of handouts that I still need to read, and discussed in depth "The Story of an Hour" by Kate Chopin. I'd actually read Chopin's short story in English class just last month, but this was different; the instructor pointed out the range of techniques Chopin uses and the perfectly formed character arc condensed in those brief two pages, and then the group talked about the effects and reasons behind the techniques. After this, the genius of the story became so much more apparent. In school we just kind of skimmed over it and said, "Yeah this is about women's rights." Needless to say, I much prefer this type of reading.
In the afternoon is Activities. Today was the great grand Scavenger Hunt that all incoming EPGY students must go through, as a kind of induction to the Stanford campus. The House split up into groups of six and walked and walked and walked for over an hour, going through a list with 30 tasks that included "Make friends with the librarian and take a picture with him/her (note: no photography is allowed in the library)", "Stop by the on-campus Starbucks and buy coffee", and "Build a human pyramid in the Oval". My personal favorite was "Take a picture with an Asian tourist." It's funny because it was one of the easiest tasks to accomplish, there are so many Asian tourists. It started raining halfway through the Hunt, though, so by the time it was dinner I was soaked through and starving. I wolfed down five more pieces of chicken than usual.
Stanford meals are surprisingly delicious. It took a little to get my bearings at first - the cafeteria is large, and when the crowds set in it's near impossible to navigate - but once I found the right places I knew I wouldn't go hungry here.
CW class provides a Coursebook containing all the short stories, poems, essays and handouts we'll need, but we are expected to provide out own notebooks and stencils. I only brought my little journalism notebook because I thought all materials were supposed to be provided (it said so online); I'll have to buy it tomorrow when we go to the Bookstore.

Arrival

(The next month's posts will all be about my EPGY summer institutes experience, so...enjoy.)

June 23, 2013:
"Make as many friends as possible!" - camp counselor

I forgot to give my parents a goodbye hug, and they chased me to the security check-in and took about a dozen photos of me awkwardly standing in front of a statue made of paper airplanes, backpack over my shoulders and a small suitcase in my hands. And then they were gone.
The line moved slowly, as lines usually do when there's nothing entertaining going on. I could talk about my purchase of a Whopper from Burger King for lunch and the subsequent 2+ hours we waited before the plane could safely take off, and I could describe in detail the character sheet I drafted on the plane after a half-hearted attempt to finish my Why College and Why Major essays; but let's fast forward to what you actually want to hear. (Or, well, read.)
I dorm with the Anthropology students and the Creative Writing students (a remarkably larger number of the former, I am happy to say). The house has two CW counselors and two Anthro counselors, one Tech Guy, and one Supplies Guy. They're all really easy to talk with - lots of friendship to go around! The first night, barbecue was served, which was about as good as any barbecue really, and we did a few Name Games and Ice Breakers (some absolutely hilarious and fascinating stories to go around between all 28 of us) before tumbling, exhausted, into bed.
Sudden overcast weather greeted us when we arrived, and it rained in the night. It's not too cold though, so I'm comfortable enough. Palo Alto weather is slightly more humid than the weather at home, but that's all.
The only thing is, there isn't a whole lot of time for internet use (which is a good thing when you're supposed to be socializing with everyone else in person, but this means my blog will be updated a little sporadically and what little free time I have left will be used writing short stories and Sun Road.
Looking forward to class tomorrow!

College essays

We all know that we'll have to face them someday. The best thing you can do is to start early and know what you're doing as you're writing. It's kind of like what Sun Tzu said in The Art of War. "Know your enemy and know yourself, and you shall win a hundred times in a hundred battles." What does the college want? Someone with promise, who's memorable, intelligent, and not someone who'll drop out of school or shoot his/her professors in a rage. And who are you?

Ah, that is the question - to be, or not to be, yourself.

I say be who you are. Even if you aren't quite sure how to, yet. Just be honest and it'll be okay. Be true, be true.

Okay, I really didn't mean for all these allusions to crop up in my blurb. AP Lang is taking over my mind! No!!!

Well, here, anyways. M

y second draft of my golden essay; it will need to be cut drastically, and the ending is crap, but the content is all there. (I'm already halfway there, suckers! Hah!) (Seriously, though, this was a real pain to write a lot of the times, and it took hours. And hours. Please don't procrastinate on your college essays.)

-------

When I was twelve, I created an imaginary friend. I did not play with him in the conventional manner, though - I never spoke to him, held hands with him, or interacted with him at all.

Instead, I packed in his little straw basket a twisted past and a magic rabbit and sent him off on a grand adventure. By the end of his travels, he would have met a hundred strange people, seen a thousand strange sights, ended a war between magic and science, and saved the world eight times over.

After writing 35 chapters and 64,920 words of his story, when the magic was just starting to gain momentum, I stopped. I had just turned fifteen.

See, I know a lot of people who write for fun. Convoluted plotlines, cliche characters, and abandoned stories are all commonplace. I was one of them; I would scribble out fake fancies, romances, and dramas, searching for a means of escape from my own life, because school and parents and the myriad rules of the real world were all so monotonous and needlessly complicated in comparison to the fantastical. And I was lonely; I attended a different high school than all of my middle school friends, and for months I had no idea how to open up to strangers. Friends were hard to come by for me, and so I made my own, and I loved to lose myself in their otherworldly adventures. I wrote by myself, for myself.

But inevitably, I started to meet people. I learned how to hold an extended conversation with a stranger until he or she was a stranger no more; I practiced how to harvest truth and real people’s characters through Journalism class. Talking still was not second nature to me; but with enough practice, it became my third. By my Sophomore year of high school, I was confident in myself enough to take my own initiative and join clubs like Literary Chronicles, participate in rallies, and speak up in class. And as I hung out with an ever-expanding social circle, I realized that my previous reasons for writing no longer applied. Life was interesting, though I couldn’t quite call it exhilarating. And now that I had real friends, there was no need for fake ones.

But following this logic alone, I still would have continued the story of the little boy and his rabbit - it was fun to write, and my mind is so constantly creating scenes and character interactions that I’d feel bereft without some kind of plotline to channel the creativity into.

What led to my moving away from this story was actually the revelation that I could make some kind of impact in my community. Before, I never attempted to instigate change. It reflected in my writing - I never placed people I knew into a story, instead creating characters out of fragments of my own personality and thoughts, or modeling them after pre-existing archetypes. My “inner world” and the “real world” were separate and incompatible, and however brazen and idealistic I could be with a pencil, I was quiet, dull, and forgettable most of the time. I wrote for selfish reasons only, and if nobody ever gave my story a second glance, I would be fine with it.

By the time I turned fifteen, though, I had learned that words could touch people in miraculous, mysterious ways. I read books by such authors as Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck, Neil Gaiman and John Green, and each time I was left with both a profound sense of satisfaction and a fresh outlook on life. They all wrote fiction; but they wrote about truth, as well, in a less direct but more moving way than journalism. They inspired in me shockingly strong feelings. And for the first time, I seriously sought to inspire that feeling in others with my own work. I came to see writing less as a tool for escapism and more as a means to reach out to people.

I wrote a short story and posted it online, and the feedback I received from friends and strangers was one of the most exciting experiences I have ever had - to think that I could make something enjoyable, could color somebody’s perception, even just a little bit! But I was fully aware that I could not compare with the authors I admired. I began to read with a more critical eye, trying to discover how to close the humbling gap in ability. My child’s fantasy, I now saw, paled in comparison to good literature - my characters spoke in cliched falsetto, and the events played out like a bad soap opera. I stopped writing that particular story.

But I did not stop writing. Far from it. I merely turned my focus in a new direction, telling stories about various kinds of people, for everyone to read. Currently I am working on another novel, still an adventure, still grounded in fantasy, but also a serious contemplation on the passions and motives of human beings as a whole.

On my fifteenth birthday I decided that I would be a professional novelist when I grew up, and this ambition has only solidified as I have matured. I now try to create settings readers would be able to relate to and infuse my characters with traits I have observed in the people around me. I will continue to write, and I hope that someday I will be able to make a difference in the world through my stories.

Waiting

"It wasn't me," you say, as the palace falls and the walls collapse and the wind shrieks its retribution - "It wasn't my fault, leave me in peace. I didn't know, I didn't know. It isn't me. It's them."
Them being the ones seated regal in the sky, too distant to have ever met, too vague to care about, and who deserve to be torn down and fed to the dogs because they act like they're better than you when they're not. They are the ones who should take the fall. You bow your head beneath their rule and tell yourself loudly, "It isn't me. It's them." And if they change then good, if they don't then you will hate them and spit at them and continue to feed their gluttony with gold.
"It wasn't us," they say. You know they're lying, of course. The people claw through dirt with their fingernails and look at you from between the dark corners of the rubble, a silent plea in their hopeless eyes, for they do not know you and you do not know them. You are too far and too distant, too vague to care, and all you can do is wait for the others to stretch out a hand. Because it wasn't you who brought the sky to the ground. It wasn't the people either. So it had to be them.
"It wasn't us." And they try to tell you that they did not know, that there is nothing they can do, that the past is sad but the hungry child cannot wait for the paycheck to come, so please forget what happened and let's all carry on with what we were doing before; but they are liars and so you do not listen. They must change. You sit and wait, and say, "They must change."
"It isn't us." But it isn't you, either, so why should you care? Let the others argue and yell and shed their tears upon the bloodstained ground, what do you know, what can you do? "It wasn't me. It isn't me. Leave me in peace." And someday if you wait long enough, somebody somewhere will stand up and say the words for you: say "This is wrong" and "Enough is enough" and "We will not support a murderer," and tell you the secret to being a good person and changing the world. And all you will have to do is follow, and change will come easily, and you will never again have to deal with that nagging guilt within you that whispers, "You are the one who has to change."

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/picture/2013/apr/30/bangladesh-factory-photography?INTCMP=ILCNETTXT3487#_

http://blog.peopletree.co.uk/

whispers

they never tell you why
as the hot ash breathes into your lungs and makes you choke - 
they never told you why.

you look at the world around you
and you look at the world inside of you
and the difference is so striking it is magnificently clear
that there is no difference at all.

if you have found the message in a bottle
fish it out from the sea and let me know.
more often than not it is written in code
the letters are drawn with confusion and stained by fear.
together we must piece
the broken chords of lament into some semblance of a human voice,
the kind that is reminiscent of ocean-song and salt-wind,
blown from a thousand miles away.

--repost from http://volkeswagondaotaku.deviantart.com/

this beautiful burden

no matter how heavy it gets
keep carrying your heart with pride.

DON'T PANIC

Learning how to drive under the tutelage of my mother is a nasty business.
"Turn right at Northcrest, turn left onto the 101 South, come off at Forest and then go straight on Francisco Boulevard until we get to the CVYO Orchestra.* Got it?"
(Starts car) "Yeah."
(One minute later) "What're you doing!?"
"Uh..."
"I said 101 South! Which direction is the 101 South!?"
"...South?"
"You're on the right lane, which means North! Go left!"
The level of agitation of my mother is directly proportional to the volume of her voice and how tightly she holds the door of the car. Studies have shown that staying calm in tense situations helps others remain calm and collected; this logic may be applied in the other direction as well.
"Turn the wheel, turn the wheel, turn the - no not so much! You idiot what're you doing!?"
"Stop yelling I'm trying!"
"Don't go so fast in a turn! Slow down, slow - don't stop in the middle of the intersection!!!"
The seven-minute odyssey from school to my home is a grueling ordeal that must be overcome daily. Perhaps the most life-threatening challenge is the daunting, terrible, scrutinizing last five-foot stretch. Parking, not surprisingly, is one of the most challenging skills to be mastered by a wimpy sixteen-year-old who allegedly has horrible hand-eye coordination (but who is somehow also an advanced pianist), and patience must be cranked up in full gear.
Attempt #1: "You're too far to the right again. Back up, try again."
Attempt #2: "You're still too far to the right. How many times do I have to tell you!? When you come in you have to pull straight, pull straight. You're turning the wheel too much!"
Attempt #3: "Pull straight! You're not doing what I'm telling you to do! Pull straight!"
Attempt #4: "Why can't you do it right!? Pull straight!"
"Will you just shut up!? I'm trying!"
"I'm just trying to help! You're the one who isn't doing what I said! Why can't you do it right!?"
"You don't have to yell!"
"Is it because you're too scared of hitting the garage door!? You won't hit the door, alright, so stop being so scared! There's nothing to be scared of!"
Attempt #5: I come one centimeter away from ramming the front of my mother's car straight into the garage door. At the last second it occurs to me that this is probably a very bad idea in a lot of ways (namely, a large repair fee would only make my mother yell at me even more and doesn't really disprove my cowardice, anyways).
So I don't.

(Neither of us really thinks too hard about whether or not I just don't know where the hell I am in relation to the rest of this leather-seated silver-backed monster of a Lexus, and that maybe if we all just listened to some Mozart and smoked some metaphorical weed I wouldn't be tempted to kill myself at my own front door.)


*most names are made up to protect personal privacy. Not because I don't remember the real directions. Of course not.

And So It Goes

Happy April Fool's, everyone!

--They don't give it much thought, the poltergeists; this day is just like any other. More tricks to pull. More property to trash. More people to hate. But then they notice something strange, and they stop to watch in silent awe (or as much awe as a poltergeist can muster, anyways): the living are playing pranks too. And the strangest part is the way they laugh as they do it, and the people who got pranked laugh too, mostly, and the way that everyone's just going about their business and laughing instead of having mental breakdowns and getting shut up in a straightjacket as is prone to happen with poltergeists playing around. Poltergeists don't laugh, you see. They cackle, but they don't laugh. The dead don't laugh very easily.
But even the poltergeists, these creatures who have long forgotten their own names in favor of a rankling emotion that stings and claws and that even they can't put a finger on, these sorrowful cackling dead, even they can recognize the laughter of the fools and wish they were as wise as we.--

On another note, Sunroad's still kicking around feebly in the back of my mind, so I write just enough every day to remember where the plot's going and because I've already got almost 25,000 words down (0 - 0 amazes me every time I sit down to think about it, even though it really shouldn't); who knows, maybe by the last day of school it'll actually be finished, ready for Draft #3, if the plot doesn't get any more complicated than it is now. And also there is Camp Nanowrimo. Which I'm kinda cheating through. But meh, I'll still post my progress here, anyways.

Words written yesterday: Not...really any, no. Total words: 24,400. Heck yes.

Progress clip:

            “You do not…‘command’ us,” the woman said, and paused thoughtfully. “Perhaps ‘commission’ is a better word. We are not the same as soldiers, after all. We are more like mercenaries. We do as we please.”

            “Then, what kind of orders do I give?”

            “Hunting orders."


Other ongoing writing projects: short story due for dA competition April 6 (theme: Sanctuary), comic collab with LitChron friend I should really finish today, other shorts to build up portfolio, etc...

If I Weren't Underage, I'd Be Drinking While Writing This

For the first time in my life, I have the sudden really strong desire to talk to someone. About anything.
Strange, really - I'm not the kind of person who chats on the phone with her friends. I never used to chat at all unless by pure social necessity. And yet here I am, having a conversation with an assembly of lights on a computer screen that spell out, "Lonely and Trying to Grow Up."



Things are happening, and none of them are as dramatic or exciting or fulfilling as I thought they would be. I am failing at being superb. It makes me feel like a failure at everything.
In a sense I am. Sun Road is failing. I am at 21,000 words and have been there for five days, and March is basically done. Spring Break is not the productive source of all my great successes that I had bargained everything on for it to be. I can see it in my story habits - I jump from section to section, Sun Road to cartoon script to short story to poem to fanfiction to blurb, restless, burning with a desperate need to get something done, but confused as to what, lost as to where, forgotten as to how. God I need to calm down.

Two pages of my novel a day. That's all I ask of myself.
I beg this of myself. Have prayed it for two months now.
And I've managed one page a day at most.

Habit is a strong force. Back in November, I could do this - I sat myself down for two to three hours every day, just writing. But now I can't bring myself to focus for more than one hour at a time. I've spent too long fooling my minutes and hours and days away. Now, when it counts, when my life is a series of open doors that will no longer wait considerately for me to reach them before closing, when I haven't a moment to spare, I have gotten into the habit of failure.

I need to talk to someone about all this. I've never needed that before. I don't talk about myself. I talk about the weather, I talk about school, I talk about how beautiful life is and that we should all look forward to what tomorrow holds. I don't speak of my despairs.

The hopeful side of me says that this is a good sign. I don't use books to run away from myself anymore. I can't. There is far, far too much I need to say, and not enough time to listen to all the others say their parts. I have my own self to write down.

I could laugh at myself. The rest of the world assumes that all my stress originates in schoolwork, and college researching, when really these are only the messy brightly-colored sideshows to the greatest, blackest exhibition of my soul. All I can think about is how I need to write and how I can't write. My world is so small, yet so terrible and vast. It's the world within my mind.

Too many...

This Is Fantasy

This is a world made up of nostalgia and wishful thinking.
It is built upon sand, on the shores of the waters of time. Seagull cries hover in the salt-scented air, like the calls of a lover from the other side of the Milky Way, and they leave you breathless just by listening. It is built upon rock, one stone at a time, piled high to form a castle. Ivy vines creep across the walls, and a stray wind picks them up and brushes them against your hair, and it makes you wonder if it was meant to be a caress. It is built upon earth, rich earth, with water flowing deep beneath, a source of life which the trees have reached with their ancient roots and have grown strong by. The sunlight is warm, and you can sleep here, in the damp mystic light of a world forgotten.
It cannot be touched.
You may listen, you may feel, you may see. You may reach out a hand towards the surface of the pond. But touch it - and the world beneath disappears.

Under the streetlights and a faint sliver of a clouded moon, a child crouches beside a puddle. A car has just run through it, and the reflection in the puddle is shuddering, scattered in the ripples.
The dancing speckles of lights grow larger.
They begin to reassemble. The pieces touch, change places, join together.
In a minute, the waters are calm.
The child smiles at the image of a bright noonday sun on the ground. All of a sudden, it's warm here.

Report 42

Words written yesterday: 941. Total words: 17,282. Words left: 32,718. Days left: 17.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,925.

Progress clip: “You have memorized the vocabulary,” the Lord mused. “That will serve you well. There are matters below the surface of this world, however, that cannot be spoken with the common tongue. Sit down.”

((read Sun Road here))

Report 41

Words written yesterday: 812. Total words: 16,447. Words left: 33,553. Days left: 18.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,865.

Progress clip: Whatever the case, he needed to keep an eye out for her. The woman was dangerous. She could tell that every word he had spoken was a complete and utter lie.

((read Sun Road here))

Report 40

Words written yesterday: 840. Total words: 15,571. Words left: 34,429. Days left: 19.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,813.

Progress clip: “I am Sandy Rockfell of The Fortune Gazette, and I would like to ask a question, Your Nobility,” she said in a loud, full voice that could have made a lion cower. “If you please,” she added.

((read Sun Road here))

DEFIANCE and Report 39

I am a failure at organizing my life, and thus my mother has taken it upon herself to remove this burden from upon me. She has forbidden me from writing my novel until the end of the school year. It is a perfectly reasonable decision: I have other responsibilities, namely staying at the top of the school, making full use of the painfully expensive college prep thing she's signed me into, and doing well in the upcoming AP's. And besides, being the untalented, immature, and overall far too naive creature that I am, the novel is bound to suck ass anyways.

Well screw that.

You see, I knew from Report 1 (With the Dedication of a Barnacle) that Sun Road would probably never be accepted by a publishing company; and that, even if it were, it would be painful to see that unprofessional block of ink on paper bashfully occupying two inches on the shelves of a bookstore, doomed to gather dust and then be shipped off to some unfortunate library packed with the souls that never sold. I am not a genius, I'm only smart enough to know that Sun Road is not particularly interesting, or beautiful. I've had my doubts of whether this was all worth my time.

But if I don't finish it now, I never will. And I have decided that that reality would hurt more than losing two hours of sleep every night fumbling with crappy ideas and loosely strung words.

It's probably stupid. I do a lot of stupid things, after all. Most of my problems I've invented myself. But besides untalented, immature, and naive, I am also sappy and romantic and very slightly clinically depressed on occasion.
The last thing I need is to break my own promise to myself after over a month of going strong.

I'm going to do this.

(...but I'm revising the plot to be simpler and shorter. Doesn't hurt to be realistic, after all.)

Words written in the past five days: 0. Total words: 14,087. Words left: 35,913. Days left: 20.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,796.

((read Sun Road here))

fml

they tell you to care, that there is this invisible intangible monster called your future that you have to feed and nurture and prepare for from the second you were born, they tell you that you're ruining your life and god they're right, but what can you do when life right now is so so sweet and you're a simple-minded spoiled bitch and all you want to do is lie in a field of flowers and soak up the sun while it lasts?

children are supposed to love adventure. love progress. love possibilities. love what the future holds in store for them.

i am afraid.

so i hide, and love others' adventures, others' progress, others' futures and presents and pasts, love everything but the things that pertain to myself, and before i know it i have broken trust and broken hope and everyone sees me as a lost creature in the night--

--for here is a blindfold i have fallen in love with, and i would rather trip and slowly bleed out on the road than to stop wearing it.




((why? i cannot answer why. i look into my own soul and see a leaf in the wind, and i cannot answer what compels the wind to blow, only that the leaf follows, and is joyful, for the leaf does not know why either. and i see the teardrops on the windowpane and wish i could wipe them clean but bloodstains are difficult to extract, you see, and the scars will stay forever as i sigh and apologize and promise to do better but this feeble leaf is always failing, always failing, always failing, to the end of its days, to the time when the insects have seized it and have picked its fresh green health to the bone.))

Report 34

I was gloriously unproductive yet satisfied yesterday. Mainly because I finished the last 200 words of Chapter 1. And celebrated so much I lost all will to start Chapter 2.
But now I get to introduce JUDE!!!! My lovely character pet who has a sucky life and a sucky death and is overall a kind of sucky person! I am a sadist when it comes to fiction, it seems! Sorry Jude and Ashfire! (Wait they're both guys...oh-oh dear...good thing I haven't read Fifty Shades of Grey...)

Well now. One chapter down, 10 chapters to go. Oh what I do to myself.

Words written yesterday: about 1,000? Total words: 14,087. Words left: 35,913. Days left: 25.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,437.

Progress clip: “Honestly, I couldn’t be happier with my life.”

((read Sun Road here))

Report 33

Have courage, have strength; have joy within your heart.

Pacing is an...interesting thing. You can't quite grasp it just by writing short stories; you have to write a novel. And all the ebbs and flows and movements and pauses you have to build slowly, you have to breathe life into the plot and characters and carry the reader forward as organically as possible, and you realize that, well shit, books are hard to write, after all.

Words written yesterday: 1,400. Total words: 13,338. Words left: 36,662. Days left: 26.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,411.

Progress clip: An explosion of light and color seared across her vision—the next instant saw the heat and the wild pain. 

((read Sun Road here))

Report 32

It's almost miraculous how easily I can get under my mother's skin.

Words written yesterday: 860 and an intense amount of reorganizing (again). Total words: 12,037. Words left: 37,963. Days left: 27.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,407.

Progress clip: "I owe you my deepest gratitude."

That's right, Sermon. Learn to say "thank you." Then all you have left is to say "I'm sorry" and you'll have become a decent human being.

((read Sun Road here))

Report 31

Words written yesterday: 419. Total words: 11,413. Words left: 38,587. Days left: 28.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,379.

Progress clip: Rhea contemplated this. He had asked very nicely, after all.
            “Okay,” she finally said. “I can battle the dragon later, I guess."

((read Sun Road here))

Report 30

http://www.ted.com/talks/amanda_palmer_the_art_of_asking.html
I cried.

Words written yesterday: 1,026 (sort of). Total words: 11,187. Words left: 38,813. Days left: 29.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,339.

Progress clip: “A dragon. I am here to slay the dragon.”

            Of course. Jacky Marauder would throw up a stout green fist at that. She would be clamoring to go out and battle it for gold, as would the Six Swamp Sisters, and maybe even the Burrower, too. 

The Hobbit movie was the definition of adventure, in my humble opinion. I would've liked more words on that theme, but I suppose hobbling short people chopping off the heads of batlike nethercreatures will suffice.

((read Sun Road here))

Report 29

Words written yesterday: 590. Total words: 10,631. Words left: 39,369. (Augh, I do not like that number.) Days left: 30.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,313.

Progress report: “Why him? What did he do?”

            “I’ve no idea—and that is exactly the issue! The boy is the most mysterious creature I have yet encountered. Living in the Ash Fields, attacking men, searching for the Glades—he can’t possibly have an honest conscience.”

Standish Sermon and his usual mentality when it comes to good and evil. Using tv tropes terminology, the man's a Well-Intentioned Extremist and a Fundamentalist, and he fits Knight Templar to a button. My characters are so original, aren't they.

((read Sun Road here))

Report 28

First day of March, and life is clipping along at the pace of a whoppermungous killer whale. Discipline, I need to maintain discipline. Ugh. All those books and manga and anime about perseverance and determination and willpower, and yet, ironically, I lose all my perseverance and determination and willpower for the sake of reading them. Inspiration is funny at times.

Words written yesterday: 246. Total words: 10, 143. Words left: 39,857. Days left: 31.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,286.

The number keeps going up and up...*cries*.

Progress clip: “Mister, can I knock you out?”
            Standish Sermon choked on air. “Are you playing me as a fool? What in the nation compelled you to ask me that?”

(gotta love Rhea.)

((read Sun Road here))

Report 27

I interviewed a published author for my journalism class, and it was boatloads of cool. Of course it was via email, so it wasn't as exciting as it could have been, but his answers were great. Carter Wilson shout out~!

I'm finally almost at the 10,000 word check point, which means I should be about one fifth of the way through. The plot outline begs to differ. I'm gonna have to redesign it again and make it simpler - every time I let myself get carried away I add too much unnecessary crap, then realize I don't even know what the point of the whole novel is anymore and have to slash slash slash rewrite. At least an outline lets me slash before I've already written the whole thing (*cough* NaNoWriMo *cough*). And why am I so sloowwwww!? I spent over an hour yesterday and barely managed one Word page. I can't imagine how I ever managed to do it back in November.

I wish it were leap year. Then I'd have one extra day.
Ah, well. Better get busy.

Words written yesterday: 678. Total words: 9,897. Words left: 40,103. Days left: 32.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,254.

Progress clip: “It’s so beautiful,” she said, as if in apology. She asked to be able to hold it.

            “You would only burn yourself. Girl, remember this: fire is not a thing to be toyed with.”

            She had to content herself with watching from a distance.

((read Sun Road here))

Report 26

Tired.
Don't remember the last time I was properly awake for more than an hour.
Crap. Too tired to form complete sentences.
But not done.
Must.
Write.

Words written yesterday: 851. Total words: 9,425. Words left: 40,575. Days left: 33.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,230.

Progress clip: "Who are you?" he asked. His voice was even thicker with gravel than it had been before.

((read Sun Road here))

Report 25

SAT's make life so...complicated at times. But between studying for it, getting straight A's in my five AP classes, preparing for college, and practicing for a piano recital this Friday, I've finally managed a wedge of time to just...indulge myself.

Mainly because I've quit splurging on manga and fanfiction. Gawd. I could write a whole book about my fiction-related addiction problems, I really could.

Instead I discovered the most amazing video I have ever listened to. I finally found a favorite author - listening to that brilliance, I hadn't been so happy in a long time. It's so much more exciting than fanfiction. Really.

Anyways, all I wrote was another 800+ words of plot outlining, so now I'm finally planning out the climax. Or, I've planned the climax ages ago, I just need to connect it with everything else so it's not just fragmented vaguely cool-looking black and white images. Actual writing...I didn't do so hot.

Total words: 8,655. Words left: 41,345. Days left: 34.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,217.

Progress Report: "Humans. So damned breakable."

((read Sun Road here))

Report 22

Shoot me now. Somebody.

Words written yesterday: 0.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,118.

((read Sun Road here))

breathing and Report 21

I just got up from a nap and augh sweet repose. I have this strange condition, though, that if I sleep sitting up I forget to breathe and wake up by myself because of tingling in my fingers and a weird dizziness. Apparently it's related to my TMJ. But let's not get into complicated medical terms and just let you know that I have to practice breathing before I sleep every night to make sure I get it right. I breathe only from my diaphragm--meaning letting my stomach rise and fall without moving my rib cage--for a couple minutes, counting a breath in for three seconds, letting it out for five. I assume yoga breathing and meditation breathing follow the same principles.
Breathing is such a normalcy that nobody pays much attention to it, yet statistics say that a third of people don't do it right. How strange is it, to be told one day by a doctor that you've been living all wrong for so many years? The condition is apparently becoming more common because of modern stress factors skyrocketing. Things happen so fast that people don't have time to pause in the middle and catch their breath.
But people shouldn't forget to breathe. Just take a moment to lie quietly, people--close your eyes and listen to your lungs and your heartbeat. These are the sounds of your life.
I wonder, when was the last time you truly heard them?

Words written yesterday: 758. Total words: 8,635. Words left: 41,365. Days left: 38.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,089.

Progress clip: "I’ve seen soldiers before. I know what you are. You hunt in packs." 

((read Sun Road here))

Report 20

There are some things that cannot be repaired. And there are other things that cannot be relinquished.

Words written yesterday: 860. Total words: 8,018. Words left: 41,982. Days left: 39.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,077.

Progress clip: "A dull blade can kill just as well as a rock to the skull. I’ve used both weapons enough to know.”

((read Sun Road here))

Report 19

After much heckling and hassling and pulling of hair, I was introduced to the world of efficient time-management. I must admit, life makes a little more sense now. Writing was neglected the day before though, my apologies.
In the meantime, I've discovered the agony of providing information to the readers without becoming an info dump. "Show, not tell." Harder than it sounds; especially when the only three characters available to my use thus far are stuck in a pitch black chasm. In this case, it's more like "Stick your hand out and hope your fingers don't get burned off, not tell."

Words written yesterday: 400. Total words: 7,148. Words left: 42,852. Days left: 40.

Words left to finish on time: 1,072.

Progress clip: “The dragon lurks here, black as the night, with claws of malice and breath of flame. It is the Devourer, the Grim Wreathe; a terrible creature."

((read Sun Road here))

Report 17

I had an epiphany. My school's art magazine club is supposed to be about art - and all I talk about in there is money.
I felt like kicking myself.
That's about to change, alright? I'm going to make everyone come and turn to the person on their right and do something off of the prompt "The Wishing Tree" and it'll be awesome. Yup.

Words written yesterday: like ten. Curse those summer apps and bad SAT scores. Total words: 6,897. Words left: 43,103. Days left: 42.

Words per day to finish on time: 1,027.

((read Sun Road here))

Report 16

Sleep? What is that?
(Also, to all those sleep-deprived folks and insomnia sufferers, apparently unruly sleeping patterns damages memory. It usually leads to short-term memory loss, something I no doubt experience minor effects from, but chronic sleep deprivation can seriously kill your brain. Please guys. Try to be healthy.)

Words written yesterday: 300 and literally a thousand words of plot outlining, damn this is hard. Total words: 6,770. Words left: 43,230. Days left: 43.

Words per day to finish on time: like a thousand plus, my calculator's in the other room, too lazy to get it ugh.

Progress clip: "No child should have to wander these fields, especially not with a boy she doesn't even know. He shouldn't have brought you here. It’s dangerous.” His eyes narrowed. “And not just because of the chasms.”

((read Sun Road here))

Report 15

Love it when things just kind of click. Character tension really helps get the words out. As does fanfiction. But I didn't say that.

Words written yesterday: 506 + editing. Total words: 6,593. Words left: 43,407. Days left: 44.

Words per day to finish on time: 987.

Progress clip: “Sermon,” he replied. His voice was still a little gravelly, but it was gentler now, and didn’t make the rocks vibrate. “Standish Sermon. Girl, where is this?”

((read Sun Road here))

Report 14

Words written yesterday: 600. Total words: 6,234. Words left: 43,766. Days left: 45.

Words per day to finish on time: 973.

Progress clip: The stranger recoiled instantly and was soon out of arm’s reach away; glowering at her, she guessed. She frowned in the vague direction of his presence, then turned back to the man and set the not-egg on the ground carefully.

((read Sun Road here))

Happy Valentine's Day!

Valentine's Day. The time for couples - datings, marrieds, oops-I-had-a-babys, stalkersyndromes, hopefulromantics - to make their moves and ogle at their significant others like there's nothing else in the world. But this message is not for those couples. This message is for the ones left out of the party, painfully aware of their lower status in society. That's right, you. The singles.

I am here to tell you that there's nothing to be ashamed of as a single. Wear your hearts on your sleeve with pride. Because believe it or not, you've got an advantage over those lovey-doveys; while they're twirling around spewing affections toward each other, blissfully ignorant of the rest of the universe (themselves constituting an entire Big Bang and everything that follows), you singles don't have to devote yourself to one single entity quite so completely. You don't have to spend six months' allowance planning dinner with Her. You don't have to worry and fret in front of the mirror in order to appeal to Him. You're not inextricably tied to someone else.

Instead, you are free to look beyond, to explore the world and keep your eyes open to whatever madness is sent your way. Valentine's Day isn't just for romantic relationships, after all. It's for all forms of love, big and small. Your family. Your friends. The teacher who spent all night grading papers and then baking cookies for the class. The shopkeeper who passed out a red rose for every passerby on the street. Your pet dog. They deserve a small token of appreciation, every now and then, don't they? A card, a box of chocolates; or simply an honest smile, a "Thank you" and "Happy Valentine's Day!"

The person who hates Valentine's Day, single or not, is a sad and lonely person indeed. He/she doesn't realize that there's more meaning behind it than just paper hearts and uprooted flowers. Love is everywhere. You just have to offer some of it, too.

And you know what? If that's the true spirit of February 14th, I'd like Valentine's Day to be every day.

--Happy Valentine's Day! ♥
from the hopeless romantic (and very single) container of cheesy sap, VW

inspiration and Report 13

I would like to say, "The muses choose when to come, and to whom, and they have chosen me."
I have to say, "The muses don't care jack shit about me and don't do anything but sing airily in the heavens, anyway."
The muses are personages created by the ancient Greeks, nothing more, because miraculous as it seems, creating artwork is not overseen by some supernatural force that comes and goes on a whim. Beauty is more accessible than that.
The thing about inspiration, see, is that it isn't divine at all - the best is the truest and the most human, and that is all there is to it. Know what you want to say, find a how and a why and a for whom, and say it. As clearly and honestly as possible. After all, what is closest to your heart will touch others' hearts that much stronger.

Words written yesterday: 576. Total words: 5,662. Words left: 44,338. Days left: 46.

Words per day to finish on time: 964.

Progress clip: "Unhand me!" the giant boomed. In Rhea’s eyes, his voice made specks of ash vibrate across the ground.

((read Sun Road here))