Alpha, guys. Get out your applications.

My love for Tamora Pierce is well documented. She's one of my idols; without her books, I never would have dove so vicariously into writing. Without her characters, I don't think I ever would have understood so much about feminism, friendship, or love. My freshman year of high school, I was able to exchange several messages with her via YA for Obama; it was a time when writing had gone to the wayside, and that correspondence brought me back to the world I loved. A year passed. Inkpop happened. I got into debate. I figured out my hair and learned how to give myself a really good manicure. Basically, life happened.

Then, late March of my sophomore year of high school, my mother came up to me and told me about a camp in which Tamora Pierce took part as a mentor. That camp was -- and is -- called Alpha. She'd seen mention of it on John Scalzi's blog. Immediately, I went to the site -- 

and they had already closed admissions.

It looked like heaven. It was a writing camp, a selective and international writing camp, that's held in Pittsburgh. It's based primarily on short stories, but the camp goes over everything. World building. Characters. Feminism, racism, religion. It's like heaven, except with much less sleep and way more junk food, and the wings we talked about were just as often made of metal or scales as they were of feathers. Ahem.

Life happened again. I bookmarked the page. Months passed. January of last year rolled around, and I realized that soon, I could apply to Alpha. I wrote a short story. I promptly deleted that short story. I wrote it again. I pulled out my hair, cried and ate ice cream maturely realized that it was horrible, that this was a normal growing experience, and so tarted anew. I was closing in on the deadline. I wrote yet another short story, frantically forced Maggie to edit and read it, and rewrote again. I'd never written short stories. It was jarring, weird, and unpleasant to force myself to do something new, but at the end, I had a decent twelve pages of -- ahem -- a story in which a genetically altered teenager ended up on an alien planet and then sided with the aliens. (Shut up. I like genetically altered rebels, okay?) (For those of you who don't get it, this was the story that won Inkpop:

...Yeah, yeah.)

But. I applied. I waited. And then I got in. In July of 2011, I attended Alpha.
I don't have words for how glad I am that I did.
The people are amazing. The help is divine. The mentors -- Tamora Pierce! -- are so, so helpful. It's funny and really, really worth it. I can't express in enough words what a great time it was. A published horror author -- Scott Johnson -- told us stories in a grave yard. We played Oregon Trail and discussed philosophy. We read really bad stories out loud, gossiped about authors, and made towers out of waffles and brownies. We sang Disney songs and waged paper airplane wars. There's writing advice and signed books and publication discussions. It's the most real writing has ever felt for me. I've always loved it, but being around people that loved it just as much was eye opening and truly wonderful.

The video before was made by the lovely Lale and shows just a little bit of Alpha as it was last year. (The man in the starting clip is Robert Sawyer,) (The chick with the messy and heavily chlorinated hair in the corner of the screen would be yours truly.)

Anyway. If you can, I suggest you apply. I plan on it. Check out the page. It's worth your time. If you have any questions, I'll gladly answer them.

It's worth it, guys. I have pictures with the person that made me want to write. I have friends from all over the country, and even from across the world. I learned about writing and so much more, and I suggest heavily that you check it out.

In Which Sam Gets Deep

I started this blog when I was in sophomore year of high school. At that point in time, writing was my life -- and don't worry, it still is. I live, breathe, and sometimes dream of words. (When I'm not dreaming of Prince Charming, from Once Upon A Time.)

Seriously. How hot.

Anyway. Words. (That aren't -yummmm-)
I collect them, not just on my sagging bookshelf, but in a binder on my desk that drips my favorite quotes, and pasted on my bed room door, and even one that's framed in my bathroom. No matter what happens to me in the next year, or in the next five years, as long as I'm breathing, I'll be hunting for words, strung together in sentences, or sometimes just alone -- the cynical kind, the beautiful kind, the kind that make you think, or just the kind that make my twisted sense of humor happy.

For instance, this word. One of my favorites. 

But since sophomore year, a lot about my life has changed.
In March of 2010, I won inkpop.com with a story called Altered. I got an interview from editors that changed my life. Now, at 17, I can honestly say that. (Yeah, guys, I'm old and wise and junk. Yeppppp.) I wrote the essay for the Common App about Inkpop, and the validation that it gave me. Altered was and is my baby. I queried too fast after finishing it; by the time I figured out the patterns of plot and such, I'd already done too much. And so, I closed Altered off, and went about life -- still collecting words, still writing, still anxiously eyeing my sagging bookshelf and wondering how long it would be before it totally collapsed.
Then last year came, and something shifted. I ended up dating my best guy friend, and it ended in a catastrophic way that will someday be immortalized in a novel. I went through the typical signs of teenage drama, but somehow a little bit escalated; for instance, for reasons that I'd rather not go into, the entire grade-- or at least my entire English class, plus the entire debate team, and for that matter, the choir -- felt the need to get involved, or at least have a very, very vocal opinion. Suddenly, words were more than just pretty things I collected. They were my refuge.

This actually has very little to do with the post. I typed in refuge, and this came up, and I find it incredibly cool.

Writing took a hit, though, last year, for two reasons. The first was The Messy Mess of Boydom; all my writing was cathartic, therapeutic collections of memories that I refused to forget, or even let fade. (I'm weird that way.) The second was debate. November of my Junior year, something happened. I started winning. I started winning a lot, and as cocky I feel saying that (Like, OH LOOK AT MEEEEE, I GET THE SHINIES) it is actually true. I've always loved debate, but when I switched to varsity sophomore year, I got my butt kicked; winning, however, took more time and more work to keep up, and so writing went away as my collected words came from political philosophy and the New York Times. But, by the end of March, I had this:

and by the end of June, I was ranked as a National Semi-Finalist in Parliamentary debate. For that, I can blame my addictions to words. Reading and writing so much has taught me to speak well, even on the spot, and Parliament is fast -- you need to be able to think quickly and then be able to convey those thoughts in the span of two minutes. 

By July, writing came back, though. In July, I went to Alpha. It's a selective speculative writing camp held in Pittsburgh; I wanted to go because Tamora Pierce taught there, and Tamora Pierce is one of my idols. Alpha didn't just introduce to me to incredibly cool people -- such as Lale  or Gretchen -- but it reminded me of why I loved writing, and how much fun it can be to just sit and play around with stories. 

(I mentioned this to my mother the other day: my preferred way of spending time, when not with friends or working on debate, is to sit in the dark and mess with make-believe characters. This puts into a strange, strange perspective.) (But generally I'm burning nice smelling candles ... So it's okay, right?)

They're still the happy smells!

But anyway. Coming to the end of this heinously long post:

It's now my senior year of high school. Since Altered, I've started half a dozen stories, gotten about 30k in, and switched to something else. I'm finally playing with something new that I think will last longer, but at the same time, I'm learning to balance. I've applied to colleges -- several very selective, and one that already has offered scholarship and sent a Christmas card hand signed by the Dean of Admissions.(He has a pretty signature.) I've won five first place trophies this semester, and a couple of slightly less impressive ones -- but ones that would have thrilled me two years ago. I'll probably apply for Alpha again this year; I hold the title of Debate Mom on my team, even though the team is huge, as well as 'The scary redhead' from other schools that I compete against. (It's an oddly flattering nickname. Granted, others are not so nice.) (They're jealous of the Gingers.) (It started a long, long time ago.) (See?)

An original scary redhead. Mwahaha.

Life is balanced and happy, and I'm looking forward to 2012. I've read three books so far within this year -- if rereading Scorpio Races counts -- and still am managing everything else. Two years ago, when I started this blog, I don't know that I could have expected my life right now. It's a lot more full than it used to be -- but it's also a lot more fun. And someday, maybe even someday soon? The words I've collected will change into words that I've made.

I mean, that is assuming that the world doesn't end and everything next December.

But until then, high school is speeding up as it comes to an end. It isn't as scary as it used to be, either.

More later, guys. Promise, it won't be so much pontificating! 

Until then:

Go watch Once Upon A Time. Seriously. Get past the first episode of cheesiness. It's worth it. 

And here comes the New Year

So, today is the first day of the New Year. In 2012, I graduate high school, and the world is supposed to end. I'm not sure which one scares me more. Currently, probably high school, because I've yet to settle on a college. BUT.
Let's evaluate 2011 first.
It was a year of books, man, and good books at that. For me, the tie for the favorite comes down to these three:

Divergent was fast, and beautifully written, and had a really, really cute guy -- minus a love triangle. I push this book on my friends at all cost; after I got an advanced copy from my lovely librarian and returned it, I asked for it as an early birthday present from my mother so that I could have my own copy to pet and whisper sweet things to tote around. It's that good.

Okay, so Myra McEntire is, without question, one of my favorite authors -- and she's only written one book. Why do I love her, then? She is funny. She is sweet, and she is nice, even to the creepy teenage kid aspiring author with a blog who accosted her for an interview. When Hourglass came out, I was wary -- I didn't want to dislike it, but I wanted to like it on the terms of the writing and not the person who wrote it. 

It didn't disappoint. It mixes A Wrinkle In Time with the best of modern paranormal, and it does it in a way that embraces the culture of the south and the mentality of modern teenagers -- which, ultimately, turned a good book into a great one.

and finally:

Holy monkeys, guys. This book is so different than anything else. It's eerie and creepy, and I love it so much. The characters are so real that they could step out of the pages. (Then they would stare in horror at Missouri and our lack of ocean, and promptly turn back around.) Parts of the book are so well written than I'm overwhelmed with an odd and overemotional desire to cry at the prettiness of it all. I love this book for so many reasons, and if I continue to gush anymore, you will run away and never come back, so I'm cutting it short there.

Anyway.

It also occurs to me that this was the last year of Harry Potter.

I'm not quite sure how to respond to that, except for lots and lots of movie marathons, and possibly sleeping with the final book next to my pillow.
For now, this is it, however. Happy New Year!

It's totally awesome -- or, um, not

Hello and good morning, my lovelies! How are you? Good? That's good. Applying to college? (I'm so sorry. It's almost over; the last applications are almost all gone.) To my fellow Americans, I hope you enjoyed a healthy coma of carbs and tryptophan. To those across the world, I offer you this. Because why not.

(I wish I could cook.) (No, seriously. My friends and I tried to fry chicken the other day, and it ended with me sitting on a counter at a safe distance.) (I am obviously a bad American.)
Anyway. As the holidays set in, college searches start to solidify, and debate picks up, my life is in a pattern of complicated comfort. Obviously, this a problem. At all times, something should be stressful. So, last night, I decided to Black Friday Shop.

That's what I thought it was like. She looks happy. Happy, but stressed, which, sure, I'm cool with. But I didn't understand what it truly means to Black Friday Shop.
If you've done this, you understand why I capitalized that.
So, we've all had that moment. The one where you get pumped up. You drink coffee, you tap your feet, you wait and you bounce in anticipation for the moment. (Or, in my case, you get together with friends, you go to dinner, and you goof around a lot while waiting.)
And then the moment totally sucks.
For some of us, it came with the first onscreen appearance of unfortunate sparkling vampires. For others, it was at the release of the final Hunger Games, or the final Harry Potter. Personally, I got through Twilight with a fair bit of amusement, and I cried a satisfying amount through both of the aforementioned books. So it was time to be disappointed and horrified. It was coming. I should have known.
Shopping was crazy. People are crazy. I understand mobs now. Granted, we watched from afar (casually sitting on a bench while people ran by) but it was still very different than expected, and ultimately, rather horrible to watch. (Victoria's Secret, man. People in there are on missions, and they shall not be distracted.)

So, what's up with you guys? Black Friday stories? Stories of disappointment? Holiday happiness? Open reign. 

Nano, here we go

So, it's the end of the month, and as you can tell from how many posts I managed to make, I'm kind of sort of really, really busy. Debate is alive and well (3 first place trophies? Why, yes, I shall take them, and please, why don't you take a look at my massive ego as well?) and I'm trying to get out a new rough draft on a story.
Which brings NANO into play.

I'm going to actually try and finish the novel this month. I'm not particularly worried about getting the 50k for Nano -- I just wanna get this rough draft done. For me, that's the hardest part of writing. I love editing; it's just a matter of getting something to edit. I started playing with something at Alpha last summer. I think it might actually be decent if I can just get it done.
For now, I'm going to finish my applications for college and then go get ice cream. And then, writing!
More blog posts soon, I promise. I just wanted to make an appearance, and an official acknowledgement of the fact that I'm signing up to get myself killed through November.
Ciao, darlings!

College application, why you so mean?

Hello, friends. How's life? Do you still have hair? Yes? That's lovely. I, in the midst of applying to college, am going to lose all of mine. That's basically just decided. It's quite sad, too, because I'm ginger and we're a dying breed -- my hair loss, thus, will have horrific ramifications to world diversity.
...Er. Right. (I promise, I'm smart! Just don't look at my math grades...)
But seriously. I shall mourn my hair.

-admires the Ginger-

Anyway.

Amid the endless panic attack marvelous adventures of making perhaps the most important decision of my teenage life, I've spent a lot of time on the Common App. Essays are fine; I don't mind those. I try not to look too long at my GPA, and I'm okay with my test scores. But then I get to the hardest supplemental question a college can ask.

What is your favorite book?

-__-

Asking that question to a bibliophile is perhaps the cruelest injustice you can force upon them. (Except, you know, burning books and banning books and all of that really, truly horrible stuff.)

It's evil for multiple reasons.

First.

College is a smart place, and so I am tempted to list smart books. Honestly? I've yet complete Old Man and the Sea, but it seems like the type of book that should be my favorite. But it isn't. Not at all. The thing is, I've got dozens of favorites, and they're completely totally random.

I do really, really love this one:

But somehow I doubt any college would believe that. A Little Princess is my go to comfort book, but that doesn't seem particularly intelligent. I love it for the story and the writing and the nostalgia.

But Harry Potter was the book of my childhood. I pull Ender's Game out when I'm having bad days. Howl's Moving Castle feels like an old friend, and Divergent is that new, sparkling buddy -- and those are just a few.

Asking me to pick one is like asking me to pick a favorite friend (except not, because Maggie wins that) (even though she, now having joined debate, has sided with the boys in incessant and yet amusing mockery)

and ends up being much too difficult.

So, obviously, my response is to just give up on college.

...

Oh, wait, maybe not.

Anyway. What about you? What's your favorite? Can you pick just one? Do you think that I should drop all hopes of college and wrangler Jaguars.

More later.

Books and friends and bookish friendships

Hello darlings! Have you missed me? (Pretend, please?)

I've missed you all. I've pined. No, really. I mourn the death of my home's Internet pretty much hourly, especially since all the stupid college classes I'm taking aren't stupid at all and in fact need internet to do a large amount of the work.

(No, come back! Come back, I'll stop whining, I promise!)

Anyway.

I'd forgotten that my phone could work blogger, so I'm gonna try and use this to post occasionally (until freaking AT&T gets here with Internet) (Seriously. Doing debate without internet is awful) (Okay, I'm done) because I miss you all.

 But anyway. (Again.)

Do you talk about books? I'm guessing yes, if you're reading this. I always feel weird describing the books I'm reading to random people, because too often I'm just like ...well, there's a boy...and he's a vampire/zombie/werewolf/elf....and he's really cute...

But to real book people? Talking to them is fun. I forget, sometimes, that book people are everywhere, though.

I had a conversation with a guy today about books. (Dude, I know. I talked to a guy, about books. A new guy. How weird, right? Don't you love my stereotypes? No? What about my parenthesis?) But that isn't the interesting part. I haven't discussed books with someone new in a long time. I'd forgotten the friendships that done from yammering about them. Stories and characters and plot make the best bonds.  At Alpha this past summer, people were able to immediately start conversations because of books, because of love shared over stories.

(But still. Don't necessarily be that person in the book store that is like OMG THIS BOOK I LOVE IT ALSO HI YOU ARE PRETTY. Because books do not need to equate pick up lines.) (Unless he's British. Then do what is necessary.)

Actually, the bond with my best friend came from books. They tie people together easily and there's something magical about that. The best writing comes with friends. The best friends often share books. (Like in Tamora Pierce's Circle books omg Briar and Tris.)

Anyway. For now, that's all my fingers can type on this aggravating keyboard. And to my best friend, happy birthday. :P

Maggie, I love you. Here's to another lovely year of books. :P (Even if 18 means adult and adults are scary.)

More later, people. Continue loving each other. Also, discussing books.

(And if you have internet? Hug it for me. Love it. Because someday, it might be gone.)

(Okay, seriously, I'm done complaining now.)

(Love me.)