Characters: Those people things

I have a confession.
I'm weird.
Yeah, yeah. I know. Most of us are. Actually, we all are. We -- especially we book types -- come in odd forms. We like locking ourselves in rooms alone with dead trees and pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist. We sit at our computers and lose ourselves in worlds that only we can see. We collect intangible words and hold them close. It's a characteristic of people who love books. And why?
Because:

Every group of people has that. Has that set of things that makes them different. Some of us like words. Some of us enjoy cooking. Some freaks lovely individuals like spending their time getting sweaty and disgusting  working out. That's what makes life -- and books -- interesting. High lighting the differences.

Even better, though, is the weird stuff.

Some of it doesn't translate well to books because it's just too odd. I, for instance, live in the debate group. The mix consists of about fifty people -- seriously, our prom group numbers 30 -- but you can narrow it down to ten or fifteen of my particular 'people'. We go camping in back yards because we're too lazy to go further, but we like the out doors. We make a lot of mix cds and we go to a lot of movies and the boys play a lot of Frisbee. We're known in the school as the debate kids, and known by the characteristic of being snarky, cynical, and competitive.We spend too much time at the local Sonic, drinking way too much soda. (Except we gave soda up for prom. You don't know how much that hurt.) (I miss cranberry coke desperately.)

All of those things are part of our group. Those translate as our characters. But there are little things that probably wouldn't make much sense in a book. Time at tournaments has made us lose our personal space. It isn't uncommon for people to randomly bite someone else on the shoulder or wrist -- and by bite, I really do mean bite (I know, it really is weird). We joke to the point of meanness and get in trouble for talking a lot. (I am a senior, dangit, and still having my seat moved by my teachers. It's incredibly obnoxious.) (But then, I guess I am too.) Those things don't really translate as well. If I were writing a book and using us as characters, those little things wouldn't make sense to put in. 

It's interesting to me. I've been reading a lot lately -- I took a class called Appreciation of Literature this semester and all it consists of is reading and reviewing books -- and the difference between strong and weak characters comes in the details. I have the bad habit of looking at my friends and thinking of them in terms of a character. One of my best friends has bright hair and a bright laugh; another will either end up an incredibly successful engineer or a freaking crazy mob boss. It's fascinating to wonder about authors and their characters. Even if we don't mean to, I think we pull from our friends. Things that are said, jokes that are made. Nervous habits. I was reading something I wrote for Alpha last year and noticed just how many of my characters ran hands through their hair, or twisting their hair, or pulling at it, when they were upset or thinking or nervous. When I watch my friends, I see the same movement. It's a stress thing, I think, and in debate, that's one of the few nervous ticks you'll see demonstrated time and time again in hallways. 

The other most recent notice of good characters comes by Hunger Games. Even in the movie, the characters has things about them that make them breathe. When watching the movie, you can ignore everything else and realize just how freaking adorable Josh Hutcherson is see Peeta or Cinna or Rue or Haymitch and realize just how good Suzanne Collins' characters are.

I don't know. It's interesting to think about.

Anyway. More later. And for now, go watch Hunger Games.

(Seriously, now. Why haven't you already?)

Lessons Learned

Things I've learned this year:

We can't force people to be who we want them to be. We can push and prod them into the vision we've had, the idea we've conceived, but that won't them make them the ideal. We'll just be disappointed when we realize that we've been clinging to a dream.

Dating is messy. Enough said.

I shake when I'm mad. Seriously. I physically shake. I had to pull over the car at one point. Poor Maggie can attest to that. I made her sit in the parking lot of an ice cream parlor for literally an hour, blasted the heat, and had to be talked down before I could drive again.

I have awesome friends. Dude. I had no idea how awesome they all were. I had no idea how much my team -- yes, I am a debate nerd, whatever -- means to me, and how much they can be there for me. How much I fit with the people I love. It's kind of cool.

Ice cream cannot solve everything. However, writing is like, the best therapy ever.

People are way crazier than I thought. And they aren't all like me. I based what people would do off of what I would do, and then was shocked when they did something different. When sometimes, they did scummy stuff. It's interesting. I'm not perfect, but I'm relatively grounded. It's freaky how many people really, really aren't.

When something is poison, it's always going to be poison. And pretending it might turn into nectar or gold or hell, even diet coke, is just naive.

Someone called me whimsical today. It's funny, though. I'm really not. I talk about pandas and monkeys and sparkles, but I'm fully aware of the hurt in the world. I didn't win districts by giving speeches about sequins. I think it's just about learning to cope and moving on; dwelling on the pain is just gonna make more darkness.

Books get a lot of things right. I just didn't realize how real a lot of emotions are.

But more than anything?

There's always light at the end of the tunnel. There's always green grass and shiny skies, and there's always sparkles in the future. Life is what we make it. We can't be happy unless we move on. We can't move on unless we keep our eyes on what's in front of us, and not stuck on all the crap that we've been trenched in.  Sometimes we just have to be -- well, whimsical. Jump around, listen to music, dream about tomorrow.

Closing doors opens windows. It forges new hallways and busts down walls that had been so long, we'd just grown used to the fact that they were blocking off new worlds. Worlds that are just as good and maybe better than the ones we live in.

Someday, the crap that has been this year will be a great book. And until then, it's made me stronger. It's hurt and it's sucked, but it's over -- I'm making it be over. And I'm going to relish Nationals in debate, relish writing, reading, relish my library and my friends and all of the great, great things in my life. I'm worth more than how I've been feeling. How I've let myself be treated. But the only way to write great books, I guess, is to live a little bit of crap.
So.

More later. Promise, it won't be gushy or personal. I just kinda felt like putting this out there would make it more real. Basically, you are my bouncing board. Be proud. :P
What about you? Adversity teaches us things. What have you learned?

Pick Up Your Ninja Stars and Fight (or not)

Hey, all! How are you today? Were your holidays fantastic? -waits patiently for answer- Oh, good. That's very good -- except for those that weren't. And for you, I suggest cookies. Or Starburst. Either will work wonders, I promise.
So. Christmas is over. Target is no longer a place where you might lose appendages to rabid shoppers, and there will be no more obnoxious music being blasted on the radio. (Well. No more seasonal obnoxious music, at least.) But the stories of Christmas stay around, right? The heart warming ones -- the ones that you hear in school, or occasionally on the television (when the news isn't telling us how we're all going to die, that is) or the ones you just see. This is the time of year that good things happen. That brave and strong people are highlighted in stories.
Which leads to this thought -- why don't we always highlight brave and strong? Why does it take a Christmas story?
And--what is brave? And what is strong?
In movies, it's easy to identify. Look for the red eyes. The covert-behind-the-heroine's-back nod at the not-so-clean-ally. You'll have found the bad guy.
(Most of the time. Sometimes, it could look like this, and then end up way confusing, and we all die a little on the inside.)

But think about books. And think about life. Brave is hard to identify sometimes. We can see cowards without skipping a beat -- the boy who picks the easy way out, the girl who lets herself fall apart without fighting and is too scared to stand on her own, the people who put themselves before everyone, even children, -- but seeing heroes can be harder. The boy who chose to be on his own instead of hurting the people he cares about, the girl who fights for herself, the people who give up their time and energy to take care of children -- are they brave?
I think so.
But we overlook just how brave, and just important, those moments of courage are. We admire them, but defining them as anything more than temporarily admirable is kind of rare. And figuring out brave?
Yeah. Not easy.
Very few of us look at our life and can say that we've always been courageous. That we've always fought for something, some idea, some moral, or some prospect. The only way to get stronger is to fight, but we don't always do it. It's certainly easier not to. But if we read a book a that the character didn't fight, didn't try to be their best, would we keep reading?
Probably not. I mean, we don't like cowards, right? And if someone isn't always brave, then they are indeed a coward. Right? (-insert sarcasm here-)
It's one thing to have a moment of weakness. But inherent weakness? Inherent cowardliness? We would put the book down. Wrinkle our noses.
Despite the fact that we, ourselves, are not always inherently brave. Despite the fact that we don't even acknowledge bravery when we do see it.

In school, situations go bad fast. Drama, fireworks, whispered rumors, passive aggressive Facebook posts (I'm not kidding. Facebook is a battle ground, yo, and sometimes, there be blood) and flat out meanness can come out of tiny situations. When the situation grows, so can the fallout. And the people who start bandaging problems, who start fixing things, who don't cry, scream, or proclaim that they are going to die, are viewed positively. Brave, even. But take it out of school. Take situations out in the real world. Would simply fixing conflict be brave? Or is confronting the one causing the problem braver? Is it weak to want things to fit back to normal, or would it be wrong to let life crumble?
Courage is relative. It's hard to figure out, and it's messy. Sometimes being brave sucks. When you look to Scarlet O'Hara, a character who is often very brave, but not very nice, we get a character that many people don't like. But she is almost universally admired; I mean, there's a reason that thousands of people have slogged through the hundreds of pages of Gone With The Wind, and it's not just for the corsets.

Because we like to read about heroes. In situations that we never thought we would have to face. In situations we are scared of. In situations that sometimes, aren't even possible. But we read about heroes because we can see bravery, we can figure it out. It's like those Christmas stories -- seeing bravery, seeing heroes, gives us hope and happiness and other fuzzy, sparkly stuff that would totally bake into an awesome cake.

We like making our characters infallible. But it's not brave to fight when you have nothing to lose. It's one of those things in writing that has to be addressed -- weakness is what makes us strong.
Make your characters brave, guys. Make them strong. But remember -- the best heroes are the ones who are like us. Who aren't always brave. Who aren't always strong. Who, sometimes, are scared to fight -- but ultimately, pull out their sword, their machete, or their wicked awesome ninja stars, and fight anyway. Katniss Everdeen, Harry Potter, even Bella Swan are brave, in the end, because they are scared and fight anyway.  Those are the real heroes.
 (Are you still wrinkling your nose because I called Bella brave? I feel like you are.) (Siggggh.)
More later, guys, probably in the form of reviews. I've got a lot to catch up on. I hope your holiday remainder is fan-flipping-tabulous, all, and don't have too much fun come New Years.
(Or do. I don't judge.)

Boys and Books

Relationships in high school?
Suck.
Just saying. You can be happy for like, ten seconds. Even REALLY happy for about ten seconds. And then there is crushing, awful, horrid pain. Then they are done and over. At least, my opinion right now. (And can annnnyone say 'jaded?')
However.
There is a silver lining, and it is only, only because of books. I'm not joking. Books, authors, and friends are way better than chocolate.

(Even though that would be good too.)

Every book I have ever read has been my teacher this past week. They have taught me everything to do, everything to say, and that every feeling -- every god awful, heart wrenching feeling -- is okay. Is normal. And best of all?
It'll be over. This hole in my chest will get better. The way my stomach wants to twist into circles when I see him will eventually settle. The weird mix of fury, humiliation, and sadness will fade. School won't be a battle, but something I actually enjoy; this upcoming debate tournament won't be dreaded for any reason other than the fact I am too lazy to do proper research about banking and such. I won't wake up at 3 in the morning with these awful, awful dreams and then realize -- oh wait, dude, that happened. (Well, now at least I know I can write about this truly.)
I mentioned humiliation. Well. Books. Books, books, books -- they tell me it happens, they tell me that it happens and you can survive. That the humiliation will fade. The sadness will die. The fury -- well, I hope it goes away, because part of me still really wants to stay friends with the dude.
And someday? I won't care anymore. That is the most hopeful right now. I won't care someday. (I swear to god, if it isn't soon, I am moving to London this summer.)

It's funny. Even my English teacher came up to talk to me about it -- not that she knows what boy, because I don't particularly feel the need to do that to him -- and was kind of amazing. It's proof. English people are way cool -- it's just the way it is. (Of course, she came up because I walked into the room and, literally, like some bad, bad teen flick, everyone turned to stare, and five people flooded to talk to me, so that wasn't quite as cool.)
But. Books have an answer for that too. It also goes away. Soon it will just be a grimy rumor on the circuit. And it gives me hope, because I am assuming that authors write books off their experiences. (I am so putting this in a book someday. Ahem. Is that evil? I won't mention names...) Anyway. That means that real people, awesome, amazing people, have felt this awful feeling, and they survived.
So. I'm going to survive it too.
My friends have been amazing. Books told me that, too, but I wasn't sure that I believed it. Immediately, there was a battalion of them ready. (Granted. Their way of armor? They told people. At least, I'm assuming that's how everyone seems to know. Not so great there, but hey, I've had like, seven people I've barely talked to come and tell me how sorry they are. I'm feeling kind of really bad for the guy involved, actually.) My friends, though, have really, really been there. My mom and sister too, and my sister's best friend even drove over here the night it happened because sis was at college. (My dad is just kind of like, wait, what? What?! Baha. Good to know the books got that right too.)
I don't know that I would have survived this so ... so whole .... without books. It still sucks. God, does it suck. But even if I can't bear to open one with a relationship up right now, I know that they are there. And there are ones with plenty of bombs and crap to tide me over until a week or two weeks pass, and I'm feeling more optimistic about relationships.
And best of all?
Someday, according to every book I have loved most? According to every book that right now, I'm too scared to open?
There will be at least some element of a happy ending.
And this time, the guy won't act like such an asshole.

So you wanna be a writer

I'm a writer. I want to write.
Easy enough to say? Right? I mean, dude, I've got a blog dedicated to it. Obviously I want to write. I do it a lot, more than anything else except maybe reading and incessantly jabbering at my friends/family. But despite that, admitting that I write?
Um.
No. Just . . . No.

No.

Nope.
Nuh uh.
Doesn't happen.
When a debate friend asks what I'm going to be in ten years, I don't hesitate before saying what they'd esxpect. I don't tell people I write. When someone compliments my essays, I just kind of smile. I have at least a dozen notebooks filled with random scribblings, but I don't share that. The thing is, writing is dear to me, and it's something that is -- weirdly enough -- kind of personal. Not as in 'Oh, god, no one must read this' but more of a 'I'm not going to share this with you just to get mocked.' The only time I've ever told my friends about writing was last March, during Inkpop. The reaction I got was a good one, but still, I don't like 'bragging' about my stories. It's too personal, and I don't have any degree of success to measure that I'm not wasting my time.
(I don't think I am. But still, I don't want to be all Dude, I'm Ninja Writer.)

Anyway. Maybe it's because I'm so weird about my own writing, but when someone else my age starts talking about how they ARE an author, especially at school, I'm always -- perhaps unjustly -- skeptical.
See, it seems to me that  there are two types of people who want to write.
There are the ones who write. Who sweat and cry and laugh at their own jokes and stay up till two in the morning to write something that might never meet the air.
And the ones who don't, but like to say they do.
For instance, the kid in English class that gets good grades and understands a metaphor. (This is hypothetical. I don't have a kid like this in my English class, but I know of several.) This kid wants to be a writer. They say it loudly, daily, and often with waggling eyebrows that dare you to contradict them.
And then they get a bad grade and they are PISSED. Righteously furious. Possibly on the verge of tears.
And I'm just sitting there, thinking . . . . Honey, that's not what a writer does.
Writing is the easiest part. The tears, the deep emo depression, the freaky highs and the awful lows -- that is the best part of writing. But it's the easiest. The hard part comes later. It comes when you send in a story to an agent and are told you just aren't good enough.
So you rewrite. You don't sleep. You don't do your math homework, or you slack a little at your job, and for some poor parents, they stay awake all night so not to neglect their kids. You end up cranky and falling asleep at random intervals.

But you do it. You write, because if you want to be a writer, then there is no other choice.

And you send it again.

And you still aren't good enough. The characters are wrong. The opening scene is flimsy. You're funny, and you have talent, but you don't understand how to plot. Slowly, things improve. Slowly. Very slowly. But it doesn't sparkle and grow wings without work. That is what makes someone a writer, I think. The ability to cut, abuse, smash, take a machete against and possibly someday even throw away a manuscript.

Yeppers. Your baby might end up in there. Any other world, that would be considered sick.

Nano is interesting to me. However, it annoys me greatly when people start talking about how it makes them a writer. It's a tool, it's a step, and it's a way in the right direction. I was listening to some friends talk about it -- they were introduced for the first time this year -- and tried not to smile at the assumption that writing 50k is easy. Only 1600 words a day.
Right. That's an essay. A long essay.
But I didn't say anything. That lesson is one someone has to learn on their own. And learning that lesson is key to becoming a writer.
Writing takes a backbone. People don't understand just how much until they get into it. Seriously, it can suck. But I entered querying a stupid 14 year old with an ego I didn't even realize I had and not nearly as much talent as I though I possessed. I entered it at a time when things were going south for my social life -- complications with a guy, best friends changing and turning out not to be so hot, a dislike for looking in the mirror too long -- and through the bashing, the building, the machete-ing (dude, you know it's a word) I may have lost some that dumb inflated ego I had. But I've grown. And that is just one reason I love writing. Why I keep doing it, keep hacking and cutting and writing, because at the end, I've got something I love.

(I am feeling ridiculously gushy right now. Let's talk about zombies or  something.)

 Okay, I'm rambling.
The rewrites, the editing, the obsessive combing over chapter after chapter -- it's worth it. At least, I think it is. And honestly, those days when I think that no, I'm not a writer, I'll never be a writer, not until I'm published, I think about the hours and days and weeks I've poured into stories.
I'm not an author yet. But I want to write, and I do write. Maybe I write crap a lot of the time, but honestly, I don't know that it truly matters all that much. I'll get better. It's scientific fact.
And yeah. I still can't say the words out loud, but I think that maybe, just maybe, that's enough to make me a writer.
What about you? What drives you to keep doing it? Do you think that ninja penguin was cute? Seriously, I now really, really want a ninja penguin.
More later.

Bothered

I was going to post a book review. Seriously, I was. And then I got on Twitter and went to the #SpeakLoudly page. And I found an article. 

It shouldn't bug me so much. Seriously, I hear comments like this every day.

But .. . . I'm bothered.

In fact, I'm really bothered. Bothered by this. 

I am a firm believer that girls can do anything guys can. Dude, it's never even seriously occurred to me that we couldn't. And I hear comments like this every day. 'No means Yes.' Sure. Yeah. When a girl says no, she really is saying yes. Of course. Comments about rape are thrown around the classroom daily. Girls are demeaned and boys are smacked and life goes on. 

Debate rounds lost? The people were 'raped.'

A girl gets pregnant? 'Slut.'

And if a guy gets a girl pregnant? Player.

It's not news. It's a double standard, blah, blah, feminist crap, whatever. Right? That's what a teacher said once. Feminist crap. Double standard -- just means women need to work harder to prove it wrong.

And don't get me wrong.

Girls can do everything guys can. Working hard will reverse a double standard; I believe that fully. Maybe I'm naive or young or whatever you want to call it, but I believe that girls have every opportunity in the world. 

That doesn't, however, mean that they should be treated like that. A double standard is one thing, but this? This is blatant disrespect, flagrant idiocy.  At Yale, of all places. A place where the smartest are cultivated to be smarter. Right? 

What crap.

A slap on the wrist. Is that really what those boys deserve? No. But they don't deserve expulsion either, because come on -- what would that fix? It's not their fault we live in a society where movies, musics and television tell us this sort of thing is okay.

 No. Let them read Speak, The Mockingbirds, let them go to sessions where crushed and hurt girls tell their stories. Let them talk to their closest female friends, their sisters, their girlfriends. 

Not just these particular boys. 

All of them. Hell, all of the girls too. Because we don't get how dumb we are sometimes. We've trivialized something that should never been made littler than it is. 

Ack. 

More book stuff later. 

Shiny Trophies, Shiny Failure

Debate season has started. For me, this means a couple of things. For one, I will start looking worse and worse. For another, I'm probably going to be freakishly bi-polar. It also means I need to be prewriting the Foreign Fridays and setting the timer publisher thing, because there just isn't enough time Friday morning. (I'msorrydon'thateme.) But most of all, it means that I'm going to get competitive.
See, I'm not competitive in sports. I'm more the kid that's like Oh, look, there's a ball coming -- DUCK! There's no point in me being competitive at that, because the public school system doesn't acknowledge that ducking is a  pretty impressive reflex and should be awarded as well. I personally would accept this trophy.

But that doesn't happen. So I become competitive at academics.
Debate, in particular, is what I tend to focus on. And guess what? I'm actually kind of good at it. I came into Junior year excited, because for the first time, I would have the ultimate edge of age.
Yeah. Funny, huh? Earlier this week my couch put me in something called Champ debate. It's more oriented toward seniors. Which means I would be among the youngest competing. For the third year in a row.
My partner and I prepared more than we ever have before. We knew the topic backward and forward. We spent hours and hours working on it, and we actually felt pretty good. I mean, we'd done well before with odds against us.
Guess what?
We failed.

Like, serious, the worst I've ever done.
And every time something went badly, I'm just sitting there horrified. I mean, I'm supposed to be good at this. Why do I keep losing? Was there like, essence of suckage in my coffee that morning? Oh, god, I'm going to end up a failure at life and have to like, be a trophy wife or something. (You see, even in panicked states, I am indeed thinking about trophies.)
Truth time? We prepared, but we prepared for the minor leagues. We didn't think about the big stuff - what could we trick people with, how could we trap them. Plus, we went up against the best. Every single team we hit -- every single flipping team -- was in finals. Every. Single. One.
I wasn't sure whether to be amused or not.
It's depressing to lose. If it wasn't, then we wouldn't want to win so freaking badly. (Also, those trophies are sparkly. That helps too.) In writing, it's the same way. I've talked to a lot of people who queried for maybe a month or so, got nowhere, and gave up. I've read blogs where people continually lament their losses.
And yes. I get it. It hurts. You do want to give up.
Yes, it's depressing.
But your first time out, you are the underdog. If you don't prepare properly, nothing matters. Preparation alone isn't enough; you have to pour yourself completely into it, think in ways no one else has, and still, sometimes, you just don't win. You keep getting reviews, but that doesn't really matter to some people. It's still miserable. And dude, does it suck.
Guess what, though?
Next tournament, I know what I'm doing. Next time, I know the competition. Next time, I am going to get a pretty shiny trophy.
And maybe for you, when it comes to writing, you'll get that shiny trophy your next time. Even if you don't, you will eventually. You just gotta keep trying.
Seriously, I promise.
The trophies are definitely worth it.

More later. 

Things I Know

Summer is coming to a close, though you wouldn't know it by the hideous weather. School is around the corner. And with that happening, I have decided to chronicle critical lessens I have learned in the past few months. More specifically, critical lessens I have learned THIS FREAKING WEEK.

Number One: Do Not Sleep Outside

I know. I know, it sounds like a bad idea right off the bat. But it's hot inside, and people are telling you to be quiet, so you and your friends decide, WELL, WE ARE AWESOME AND YOU ARE NOT AND SO WE ARE GOING TO SLEEP OUTSIDE.

And then, to quote Tamora Pierce 'The bugs realize they don't have to go to the inn to feast.'

27 bug bites later (Yeah, I counted) I look pretty much like a diseased freak. And not the kind of disease that I can be like, well, you know, it's bad, but at least I'm cool and am going to turn all sparkly and possibly have to drink some blood.

So, my pretties, if you would like to stay pretty and shiny and oh-so-fabulous, ignore your friends. Stand up to peer pressure.

Just sleep on the dang couch.

Lessen Two: Never Underestimate the Power Of A Car Wash

Or, even better. Just don't wash your car. Come on. Who says we should have to keep our car's clean? Just society, and society is dumb. 

See, you spend five bucks to wash your car, because you are thrifty and do not NEED such frivolity as the 8 dollar wash. You're all happy and shiny and all YAY MY CAR IS GOING TO BE PRETTY. And then you drive in. The thingy beeps at you to stop. You stop and grin because YAY MY CAR IS GOING TO BE SHINY. 

And so the car wash starts. It dumps buckets of soap all over you.

And then . . . it stops.

The car wash beeps cheerfully. You sit in the car, staring through the suds, and wait for it to start with the water.

Car wash beep again. It doesn't sound so cheerful. Scared that car wash is going to eat you and your car, you drive through again, your car dripping with foam.

And you spend another five dollars because, well, your car is dripping with foam and there's no one around to complain to.

And then, AND THEN, guess what?

It will rain the next day.

-stab-

So, basically, if you are like me and seem to have pissed off the car wash gods, do not ever use one. 

Number Three: Eat chocolate. And drink coffee. 

You might think having both is excessive. Perhaps even gluttounous. Don't worry, there is a plan.

It will get you through the car wash. It will get you through the hard times. It will be your friend. And most importantly, if you ever meet the Car Wash Gods, you can throw the coffee in their face.

Then, because you are clever, you can still munch on the chocolate. 

Aren't I smart?

Come on. It's okay. I like applause. Don't hold it back.

....

You know what, it's okay. Don't applaud. It would just embarrass me anyway. 

Why the Dark Side Is Necessary

Everyone likes being told that they're good at something. I mean, sure, sometimes we get a little nugget of self deprecating hatred that chants NO STOP TELLING ME I AM AWESOME AND LET ME BE EMO. But generally? We glow. We primp. We bounce and dance and think YAY.
And things are good. You're in the middle of a land with purple skies and cute boys and there might even be some really cute, cuddly animals. Every piece of praise sends you a little deeper inside of it.

But. Somewhere, off in the glowy, sparkly distance of praise, you will find a thin, glittering line.
And once the praise pushes you past that line, the skies get a little bit darker. The boys aren't quite so cute. Those cute little animals suddenly have really freaking sharp teeth and they are totally willing to bite into your leg and possibly try and eat it.
You have just passed the line from the world of 'I am Awesome' to the illustrious land of 'Oh, crap.'
Suddenly, you realize that you have problems.
Your pretty story? Yeah. There's a plot hole. A big one.
But no one noticed.
Or if they did, they were too nice to really say anything about it.
And that, you realize, is a big, big problem. If you have been gathering glittering praise, then you would think that someone, somewhere would have hit you with a big pile of muck. They would have had to. But . . . you can't remember that. You're too busy living in the glitter world -- but your story isn't glittery yet.
You've been taking bad advice; advice that tells you that you are perfect.
Because come on. Unless you look like Alex Pettyfer and have the brain of Einstein and the social skills of Oprah, you probably are not perfect.

(Why, yes. I did see the need to give you visual aid. Don't you just love that about me?)

Anyway.

A while ago, I helped edit someone's story. This person informed me that he wanted my honest opinion; I was told to write my good thoughts in green and my bad thoughts in blue. I was told not to use all green because surely, somewhere, I could find a couple of flaws. Out of annoyance of being bossed around, I used purple.
And I was mean. I edited and ripped and tossed my friend into the 'Oh Crap' land.
But here's the thing;
You have to be able to live in both worlds. And you need to be able to handle that.

I think we all need to live in the land of 'Oh, Crap' at least a couple of times. We NEED someone to shove us into it. We need to see those stormy skies and pray we don't get hit by lightning and despair because our hair is now ruined for the day. But most of all, we need to find the strength to pull ourselves out of that world.
I was on Inkpop, as a lot of you know, and got my story into the Top 5. I know,  that doesn't seem like that big of a deal -- but it meant a ton to me -- and that was a world that can easily toss you onto either side of the glittering line. But as you start to  climb higher, and as you start to gain more and more 'status' (and I hate saying it like that, but it is weirdly true; people are much nicer now that I have a star by my name) and people start to get afraid to tick you off. They tend not to tell you when you're writing crap.
And so you don't get to grow. You are stuck in the glitter. And while it's a pretty place to be, what with all those hot guys (or girls, if that's your thing), you aren't ever going to grow there.
I guess it's the purpose for beta readers. But more than that, it's the importance of having someone who isn't afraid to knock you on your butt.
You need to become aquainted with the flying and glittering and shimmering world of Pretty. But you need to know the other side too. If you don't, than your ego starts to build and build and build and you won't be able to listen to any knocking-on-butt advice. The friend I edited for? They stopped writing. They said that they had realized they just were never going to get better.
And that is so not cool.
They'd gotten too accustomed to the sparkly world. The emo one was too much after being so firmly lodged in the glitter. And . . . well. That sucks. It sucks because everyone is not that hot a writer when they start out (except for freaking Maggie, who has been funny and smarmy from the first freaking document she sent me) and you have to, just have to, be able so see that someday, you will get to the glittery world. And you have to see that you can get there, that it's possible, and that if you sweat and bleed and drink a lotlotlot of bad-for-you-but-heavily-caffeinated drinks, you can get better at writing. It takes time, and since writers are naturally self deprecating folk, that can be hard. But you can't give up when you see the coming storm.

 But, on the other hand, you need to see that storm. If you haven't been pelted with its obnoxious rain of evil, you won't understand just how awesome the pretty drizzly stuff in the glitter world is.
I mean, how can you understand how pretty Alex Pettyfer is without having seen the trolls? The ones with big green fingers and huge noses and eyes like rotten oranges? And it'll make you like the cute little animal a ton more when you realize that it doesn't have razor sharp teeth.
(Score!)
Plus, just think about this; when you've clawed your way back over the glittering line, you'll have a story that totally deserves to live in a sparkly world.
Things become more valuable when you have to fight to obtain them. I've been residing in dark emo land for the past few days, staring at Altered and thinking ohmygodmyprettystoryjustturnedbackintoaroughdraft. And it is not a pretty world. I have been so used to getting good comments about it that when I got the revision letter tearing it to shreds, I felt like someone had smacked me. But it was kind of a good feeling; like, okay, the praise means twice as much because obviously they don't have a problem pointing out the bad stuff. If I can pull this off, then maybe, I think, it'll be okay to reside in the glitter world for a little while; after all, I've seen the other side.
(Dude, that felt cheesy.)
What think you?
More later.

When Blogs Go To Die

I know I posted today, but quite frankly, that was a lame-o post. Not the content, but my actual, you know, post. So, I figured I'd use this to talk about something I've been thinking about; the death of a blog.

I was cyber stalking an author's blog when I read something that interested me. It talked about when blogs die.

(This is the graveyard of dead blogs. Don't ask me who the dude running up the steps is; I'll be forced to find a deep and elaborate explanation.)

Anyway.

We've all seen it. Someone posts and posts and then they just . . . stop. I'm not talking about an author who's busy or someone who just has no time. That's fine--it'll happen eventually to all of us. I'm talking about the people who just stop blogging because they're sick of it.

The original post barely even brushed on that topic, but it's interesting to me. If someone isn't willing to keep up blog posts, it seems as if they'll never be able to finish a book. I've had a couple of friends who used to blog, and did it for a couple of weeks/months and then decided that it wasn't for them. That was fine; I can understand that. But what about the people who blog because they want to be authors? These are people who write and write and read and edit and love it enough to start basically an online journal for everyone to read.

It seemed oddly counterproductive to let it die. Author's need publicity, sure, and that is one aspect of having a blog. (Not as in branding, just as in, you know, getting your name out there.) There's the networking aspect as well--the fact that blogs give you the chance to meet people that you never would have before. Without writing this, I would never have gotten the chance to talk to authors. It's given me guts that I never had before. But there's something else; the motivation blogs give you.

If you work on a blog (and I really need a synonym for that word, because I'm using it a ton) than you have something to work toward. It can be like Green Bean Teen Queen's blog, probably the best books reviews and best news alerts I've seen, or a published author's blog networking and talking about books, or even one just like this, where I ramble incessantly. But even the rambles are motivating. The days that I want to quit writing, when I figure that I'm just some idiot kid that's never going to do anything, the blog is one of the things that helps. If I can keep this up, than maybe someday I CAN get somewhere with writing.

Motivation can go into graveyards like the one above just as easy as blogs do. Writing, especially when you aren't published, just feels so futile. I've even felt juvenile for it, like some little kid putting on author shoes and trying to do something I suck at. Those are the days when any little bit of motivation helps--and by letting a blog die, I think someone's motivation would take a pretty hard hit.

It's interesting. Any opinions?

More later.

Stereotyping? Me?

There's this guy I know. He's charming. He's cute. He's even aggravatingly smart.
And guess what?
He's a total player.
I have watched him flit from girl to girl. I have been flattered when I am that girl, and annoyed when he turns to my best friends. And I have written him off as an idiot time and time again. Not just an idiot, either, but a jerk, and a shallow jerk at that.
Ahem.
Then I talk to him. We'll talk about Caesar or politics. We'll talk, and I'll realize again...He's not an idiot just because he's a player.
And then we'll talk about girls. He'll bash idiot girls. He'll say stuff like "The only thing I really can't stand is a smart girl who acts like an idiot."
And I find myself staring at him thinking "But...Why do you only date idiots? Why do you act like an idiot? And why do you get offended when I call you one?"
(Okay, fine. The last thought generally isn't verbatim. I get why that's offensive, at least.)
It's interesting, because he stereotypes himself. He puts himself into the player role so thoroughly, and then doesn't even realize that he's doing it.
Don't get me wrong. He kind of is a jerk. But there is more to him than that. He does have some reason to what he does, and some motivation to why he acts like an idiot. He even
It happens in writing, too.
I've read soooo many stories where characters seem real. Three dimensional. And then they'll say something, and the reader just kind of blinks and stares and eventually ends up dissing the author for using a stereotype.
But we all do it.
For instance, I'm sitting in the library right now. A cheerleader walked in about ten minutes ago. I'm not even one of the people who doesn't like cheerleaders--I'm friends with several--but when she ended up pulling out like, twelve books and walking off, I was kind of shocked.
Scratch that. Kind of?
Totally.
I thought she had nothing inside of her head. Or, you know, not much, except for really short shorts and sparkly eyeliner.


And then she went and sat down and started READING. Therefor, you know, all assumptions that she was just picking stuff up for a family member flew away.
And now here I am, feeling pretty dang shallow.
I guess it makes sense, though. If I'm smart enough to realize that using stereotypes in writing/reading isn't cool, then I should be smart enough not to do it in real life...even if it was subconscious. Just because the girl has good hair and makeup doesn't mean she's a bimbo.
(Granted, this also goes back to acting stupid even when you are smart. I mean, so not cool.)
Still, though. It's interesting.
More later.

--note--
Also. Maggie, along with several other people, have peer pressured me into getting a Twitter.
That's right. I now have facebook, blog, and twitter.
Yes. I promise, I do have a real life too.
The link is over on the sidebar, though. Come over and say hi!

Bad Meg Cabot, Bad!

I've grown up in a family that prizes intelligence.
It's always kind of been assumed that I would be relatively bright. No, that isn't any kind of bragging--I just happen to be book smart. Quite frankly, even if I wasn't naturally, my mom has been handing me literal books for so long that anything I might have lacked in genetics has probably been made up through some sort of literary osmosis. From the time I was tiny, I can remember being labeled as 'one of the smart kids.'
I've got to say, too, that I'm proud of that. I like knowing answers. I like learning.
But there's an interesting point made in Meg Cabot's latest novel, Runaway.

Girls that are intelligent very rarely are confident about how they look.
It all comes down to one question--Am I pretty? In one form or another, I think that runs through almost every girl's head at least once a day. It might be when you glance in the mirror, or when you tug self consciously a shirt that doesn't fit quite as well as it used to. It might be when your friend gives you 'that' look. I'm sure you know the one. It's the look that says 'I'm too polite to say anything, but dude--couldn't you have at least TRIED today?'
On some level, the airhead novels are about beauty. But on another, the girl inside--Em--is very, very bright. The two levels tend to clash. More than once, you catch Em thinking about the shallowness of beauty. In the third novel, though, Meg and Em seem to explore something new.
It's okay to be both pretty and smart.
I don't think a lot of girls get that. For me, I have always prided myself on being bright. I love that about my family, generally. However, I've never--not once--been super confident about outwards appearance. I'm not good at makeup and I generally chose comfort over style, and there has always been a good way to justify it--I'm smart, so why on Earth would I need to look good?
I have never wanted to be a silly girl.

I like sparkles, sure, and bright colors, but I haven't wanted that. At least not seriously. I've never wanted to act like a bobble head. But I've got to say, there are times when it seems like intelligence shouldn't be everything.

One of my earlier memories is coming to Missouri with my dad and my sister to visit my grandmother. My grandma and I were sitting at the table alone, and I was reading--I'm not sure where everyone else was. Suddenly, she looked over and kind of laughed. When I asked her why, she told me it was because when I got all serious, she could tell what I would look like when I was 'all grown up.'
"Really?" I can remember asking. "Am I going to be pretty?"
She just kind of looked at me for another few seconds before finally answering. "You," she told me, "are going to be smart."
...
Huh.
Well. That's just what every seven year old wants to hear. I can really clearly remembering wanting to press the issue, but she got up and left. It bothered me for a long time. Even in the second grade, I knew that I was 'smart.' That wasn't that big of a deal. Just by paying attention and occasionally answering a few questions, I was 'smart.'
I can't tell you the first time I brushed off thoughts of appearance by justifying my worth through intelligence, but I'm sure it wasn't long after that, or even before. I can certainly tell you it's happened since dozens of times. Girl's that pretend to be stupid have since always really, really annoyed me. I know several, and am friends with a few. It's always seemed weird to me.
But does the reverse say the same thing? If you pretend to be dumb so that people notice how you look, that's bad, right? But if you dress down so that people take you more seriously, isn't that bad too? Either way, you're selling yourself short.
It's weird. I like dressing somewhat nicely because people treat you differently. I like speaking up for the same reason. But I'm much more comfortable with being complimented on the second than the first.
I guess it's the new wave of feminism. Girls know they're smart. We just need to reminded, every once in a while, that it's not everything.
And god, let me just tell you--that hurts to admit.
Stupid Meg Cabot.
She's making me reevaluate my stinted ways of thinking. I'm not fond of it.
Oh well. If I get nothing else out of the musings, at least that prized intelligence of mine might get to learn something new.
-rolls eyes-
More later.

Desensitized

Today in school, one of the boy I know walked up and started doodling on me. (It was debate. This isn't uncommon.) Generally, there are smiley faces, lewd sayings, or proclamations that 'SO AND SO TOTALLY OWNS SAM!' Generally, I find it kinda amusing. However, today, what did I get? A swastika.
I know that it's a modern symbol in many parts of Asia. I know that it has a long, rich history. However, I also know that it was a sign used to represent one of the darkest times in recent history.
Oh, and one other thing? Um, well, you see, dear boy, there are Jewish people within my family. In fact, quite close within my family.
So, today, I didn't really find it amusing.
I'm not posting to rant about ignorance. The fact is, the boy knew what he was doing and quite honestly, while I snapped and him and made him get it off of me, there wasn't too much I could do. Why?
Well, if you're American, maybe you've heard of the Living Room War. Maybe you have if you aren't American. I can't speak for anyone from outside of the town I live in, but I know the story of that war. It was Vietnam. It's what television first entered into war. Before that, war was kind of glorious. At that point, when people saw what war was actually like, they were horrified. Disgusted.
Anymore, though?
War is not that big of a deal to teenagers. When we talk about genocide in class, people hardly blink. When we watched Anne Frank in eighth grade, some kids were even laughing during several scenes.
From the time we were small, we have been bombarded by pictures. It's the Living Room War in reverse. Back then, it was the first time people had seen horrible things like that. For my generation? We see it every day; fake, sure, but it doesn't look all that different than the real thing. I saw my first R rated movie a long time ago. I've been reading about war for years. Recently, I watched a movie where blood cascaded out of casino machines in these really nasty rivers, and bodies hung from the ceiling.
Disturbing? Sure. But not nearly as much as it should have been.
The boy that drew the symbol didn't mean anything by it. I guess you can argue that it's only a symbol, and that symbols don't have power. But I don't think so. I think it's something else; I think it's that my generation is a tad different than previous ways. It isn't that we're a sick generation, or even a jaded generation.
We're desensitized.
Not all of us, sure. I still cry when I see really horrible things and so does most everyone else. But too often, I've got myself just saying 'Huh. That sucks' when I read about something bad. In English, when we talked about the gladiator fights, no one even cringed.
It's weird, huh?
I heard something once. I'm not sure if it's true, but it seems probable. Decades back, some people went to a theater. It was the first time. A train was in that particular flick; a train that came barreling towards the viewers.
They fled the theater in mortal fear.
Now, to get someone to cringe, you've got to do more. I'm squeamish, but it takes a lot to really, REALLY creep me out.
This isn't just a rant about the media and ignorance and all that jazz, though. It pertains in this way to my general topics;
How do you write for an audience that has seen everything? How do you pull that gut wrenching feeling out of a kid who has been watching horrors and reading tragedies for literally most of their life?
Authors do it. But how?
It isn't in the blood and the gore. Sure, it could be, occasionally, that a really nasty scene has people--or at least me--grimacing. But that's not what gets the true reaction.
It's suspense.
But beyond that, I think it's making sure that the reader really empathizes with the character. They aren't just sympathetic--the reader truly, truly needs to feel for the character. If something happens to a friend of yours, you will be horrified. If it happens to a stranger? Sure, it'll suck, but you might not have the same reaction. It's a disgusting truth, but it seems to stand solidly.
--rant at disgust of the modern world? Nah. We have our problems, but so does everyone. Just look at Rome and the discarded children. THAT was sad--
Anyway. What do you think? Are you growling at how annoying I am? Do you agree? A mix of both? (Hey, I admit, I can be annoying. :P)
More later. And that post, I promise, will have pictures.

Creepy, or not?

Dystopian novels are fairly popular, right? Pretties, Crashed, Hunger Games...All of them, pretty popular. All of them, pretty amazing. (Who am I kidding. I love them all. Hunger Games is my favorite book of pretty much ever.)
However. It's kind of interesting to me how we get to that point. Most novels don't deal with the actual happening that changes society. I mean, sure--an evil bug. An uprising. But what led to that point? Are we at that point now?
It's kind of a weird reason to blog, I guess, but it's something I've been wondering about lately because of a very stupid reason; cameras.
Now, in Missouri, we used to have Red Light Cameras. If you ran a red light, you got a ticket, no matter if there was a police man. The camera just took your picture.
Yup. It's the all seeing Traffic Light.
To me, that seems normal. I mean, if you don't do anything, what does it matter? That seems to be the overwhelming consensus of my generation.
However.
People older than us FREAKED.
In fact, now, the cameras are gone.
On another side, my school is rigged with all sorts of cameras. Over a hundred, at least, and I think it might be closing in on two hundred. They're there to keep us safe. Again . . . That seems normal to me. But on another level, it is mildly creepy--we are monitored on every level. Sure, it keeps us safe. I've had several teachers who absolutely despise this practice, though, because it's ... Well, kind of creepy.
If you aren't doing anything wrong, logic says we shouldn't mind. It really doesn't bug me that much. I read a dystopian book the other day that follows this thread, though; a generational change.
(This is NOT a 'World is going to end' post. I'm just musing.)
So. What do you think? Do these-
-
Bother you?
Or, as in my case--does it seem weird that you aren't bothered?
Anyway, I'll have a book review up tomorrow.