Oo, isn't that image lovely? Melting brain...liquified gray matter...yummy.. *cringes away from that thought*
Ariana is not perfect after all. I didn't think she would be, and though I'm relieved, a part of me wishes she'd picked another means of revealing that to me. Of course, she's not loud and violent like Katie could be at times; she's just...Well, let's put it this way. It's a natural human tendency, when we get tired and anxious and upset, to also become cranky and sometimes unreasonable, right? Ari's no different from the rest of us in that respect...or in most others, I dare say, but that's beside the point. She's not very happy right now, at least she wasn't when I left her this morning. She wanted someething, and couldn't have it, simply put, and...that scene was not easy to write. Quite frankly it made my insides twist up. Weird, since I've seen my little siblings express wants in much the same way she did, and they tend to do it with a great deal more yelling and fit-throwing in the bargain. I didn't know how to handle her; I'm just glad Eryn did.
It's really proving to be an amazing experience, writing through Eryn's eyes. She lives with trials I've never known. Her country is full of political unrest; her father is dead; her husband is in prison and supposed to be executed soon; and she has a younger sister who requires just a bit of extra care in order to prevent magical accidents and promote family happiness and peace. Yet I can identify with her, and understand all these things through her. Maybe because, from my own limited experience, I've learned that extraordinary circumstances don't feel all that different from ordinary ones when one is a part of them.
In other news...I am sooo darn tired. And it's just Tuesday. And I feel like crap. Body aches, headache almost constantly for the last three dasys and I can't get rid of it with any kind of pain medicine. The old anxiety complex has come back, and I don't really know why. There are just so many vague things weighing on my mind. It would be all right if I could take each one out and think over it individually, like articles from a box; but when one comes, the others follow, and it's just too much. I would so love to go and get some kind of soothing treatment or something...but that's expensive, and I don't have money for it right now.
There are six weeks and three days till school is out. Counting down...
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
One-week anniversary post...for lack of any more creativity
So, this has been up for a week. Cool. So in honor of that, I'm going to make this post thoughtful and random at the same time.
Hmm, there are only two things I can think of to really write about. First, I saw Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix last night. I really want to see the HP movies in DVS because it was just a bit hard to follow towards the middle/end, but for the most part it was pretty close to the book--except it was *reeeeally* condensed. It would be interesting to know how the spells are done visually; quite flashy, I'm sure. Creacher was definitely cast well, as was everyone else, really. Dan R. did amazing as Harry; I thought he would from the interviews I've seen. Incidentally, I've seen nothing else he's been in, so as proof of my crackedness, I amuse myself with the familiar tone of that last sentence. Anyway. I do wish they'd kept the screaming portrait of Mrs. Black in the movie; I really wanted to see that. But all she did was talk to Creacher. :( Bellatrix Lestrange was scary. Like really scary. Like scarier than Voldemort. She doesn't give the haglike impression you might expect; she seems like a real person, not some weirdo out of a distorted fairy tale. Then you hear her laugh. Oh my goodness, that's the scariest laugh I've ever heard. Makes you really think she might just be unhinged after all. And one final highlight, the music is amazing. I want that sound track!
Moving on. I've hardly done any writing in the last couple of days. But I've decided Brin's going to keep a journal so that readers can get to know him better. Stroke of genius, or downfall? Well, we shall see. It's bound to be interesting, whatever else. I've been thinking about Ariana, too. She is the youngest sister of my main character, Eryn. She's fifteen, a mage, and when she was three (far beneath the age when children can begin learning to control their abilities) she did a very powerful bit of magic without really meaning to; she was trying to defend herself from a mad dog bigger than she was. She did defend herself, killed it in a horrible way. But the power of the magic backfired upon her, breaking her mind. For those who wonder what that means, she's not deranged. Just...just...and that's where I lose words. She can't read; she never went to school because emotional stimuli trigger the magic in her, and it gets out of hand and bad things happen. She'll never be able to control it, and though she only vaguely remembers the incident with the dog, it terrifies her when it gets out of control and she finds herself doing strange and extraordinary things without knowing how or why or how to make them stop. She's fifteen now. Can't read or write (though her parents and sisters tried to teach her...if you want to know what happened, you'll have to read the story because I'm not one hundred percent sure, it just didn't work), and the neighbors call her "feeble-minded," but she is wise in her own way. Just for kicks, or maybe my own discovery, I ran her through one of those "What's your mental age" tests. The test wasn't a good one, and the result was not just cruel, but jarring. "Infant?" I think not! Far from accurate. But I knew it wasn't a good test anyway. To judge her myself, I'd say perhaps eight to ten. I'm doing a lot of character evaluation for this story, and I've been trying to see flaws in all of them because I have a bad habit of writing "perfect angel" characters. Kelina is rough and wild around the edges, definitely a tomboy in a society where ladies are supposed to act like ladies. Eryn, though gentle as a dove most of the time, tends to get a bit snappish and argumentative when upset, tired, or just moody. Brin, as I've said before, is a bit of a hothead under certain circumstances. "Uncle" Rendig, though not really an alcaholic, tends to get carried away if you sit the whole jug in front of him and takes more than he can really hold, though he does have remarkable endurance. He's also a political pessimist and hides it by pretending he doesn't care. But Ariana. What about her. She's sweet, she's gentle and affectionate, musically talented, fond of embroidery, which she does fairly well... Sure, she might get a little out of control when she's upset, but who's going to shake their head at that? Of course we won't. We'll understand. The dear can't help it, anyway; it's not her fault she can't keep her magic in check and doesn't have the firmest grip on her emotions; that's a part of her handicap. A lot of people will take it like that, and really it is true. It *is* a part of her handicap. I'm sure she's had tantrums in her time, but I haven't seen any, and as that experience is particularly unpleasant (I've seen a few real tantrums from one older than Ariana), I don't think I really want to go there. We'll let the past be past. So, what flaws would she have? What would not contradict an inherently gentle nature? A flaw is something readers won't find endearing, and disabled or not, we all have them. We can understand and look away or say, "It's just how she is, it's okay," if we want, but every person I've ever known well where some of that has been necessary has had at least one trait that really, really, really got under my skin, whether it was clinginess or manipulative behaviors or temper tantrums. (I'm speaking from very limited experience--and all of those traits have also aroused profound compassion in me at one time or another.) Eryn and Ari are sisters, and what two sisters ever got along well all the time, never aggravated each other? Of course, Ari hasn't had a ton of time in the spotlight yet, so maybe she'll open up more as we go along. I hope so; I hope it comes naturally and I don't have to improvise, because that never turns out very well. But I'm not having any flawless characters in this story, even if I have to resort to the terrible, horrible, no good, and very bad. It's just confusing because working with Ari is like working with two in one that aren't separated by anything. Part of her has grown up, and part of her hasn't, and yet they're one; it's not like multiple personalities or anything like that.
Writing is such an adventure, and one meets so many interesting people along the way. Life would be so boring if I wasn't a writer! :)
Hmm, there are only two things I can think of to really write about. First, I saw Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix last night. I really want to see the HP movies in DVS because it was just a bit hard to follow towards the middle/end, but for the most part it was pretty close to the book--except it was *reeeeally* condensed. It would be interesting to know how the spells are done visually; quite flashy, I'm sure. Creacher was definitely cast well, as was everyone else, really. Dan R. did amazing as Harry; I thought he would from the interviews I've seen. Incidentally, I've seen nothing else he's been in, so as proof of my crackedness, I amuse myself with the familiar tone of that last sentence. Anyway. I do wish they'd kept the screaming portrait of Mrs. Black in the movie; I really wanted to see that. But all she did was talk to Creacher. :( Bellatrix Lestrange was scary. Like really scary. Like scarier than Voldemort. She doesn't give the haglike impression you might expect; she seems like a real person, not some weirdo out of a distorted fairy tale. Then you hear her laugh. Oh my goodness, that's the scariest laugh I've ever heard. Makes you really think she might just be unhinged after all. And one final highlight, the music is amazing. I want that sound track!
Moving on. I've hardly done any writing in the last couple of days. But I've decided Brin's going to keep a journal so that readers can get to know him better. Stroke of genius, or downfall? Well, we shall see. It's bound to be interesting, whatever else. I've been thinking about Ariana, too. She is the youngest sister of my main character, Eryn. She's fifteen, a mage, and when she was three (far beneath the age when children can begin learning to control their abilities) she did a very powerful bit of magic without really meaning to; she was trying to defend herself from a mad dog bigger than she was. She did defend herself, killed it in a horrible way. But the power of the magic backfired upon her, breaking her mind. For those who wonder what that means, she's not deranged. Just...just...and that's where I lose words. She can't read; she never went to school because emotional stimuli trigger the magic in her, and it gets out of hand and bad things happen. She'll never be able to control it, and though she only vaguely remembers the incident with the dog, it terrifies her when it gets out of control and she finds herself doing strange and extraordinary things without knowing how or why or how to make them stop. She's fifteen now. Can't read or write (though her parents and sisters tried to teach her...if you want to know what happened, you'll have to read the story because I'm not one hundred percent sure, it just didn't work), and the neighbors call her "feeble-minded," but she is wise in her own way. Just for kicks, or maybe my own discovery, I ran her through one of those "What's your mental age" tests. The test wasn't a good one, and the result was not just cruel, but jarring. "Infant?" I think not! Far from accurate. But I knew it wasn't a good test anyway. To judge her myself, I'd say perhaps eight to ten. I'm doing a lot of character evaluation for this story, and I've been trying to see flaws in all of them because I have a bad habit of writing "perfect angel" characters. Kelina is rough and wild around the edges, definitely a tomboy in a society where ladies are supposed to act like ladies. Eryn, though gentle as a dove most of the time, tends to get a bit snappish and argumentative when upset, tired, or just moody. Brin, as I've said before, is a bit of a hothead under certain circumstances. "Uncle" Rendig, though not really an alcaholic, tends to get carried away if you sit the whole jug in front of him and takes more than he can really hold, though he does have remarkable endurance. He's also a political pessimist and hides it by pretending he doesn't care. But Ariana. What about her. She's sweet, she's gentle and affectionate, musically talented, fond of embroidery, which she does fairly well... Sure, she might get a little out of control when she's upset, but who's going to shake their head at that? Of course we won't. We'll understand. The dear can't help it, anyway; it's not her fault she can't keep her magic in check and doesn't have the firmest grip on her emotions; that's a part of her handicap. A lot of people will take it like that, and really it is true. It *is* a part of her handicap. I'm sure she's had tantrums in her time, but I haven't seen any, and as that experience is particularly unpleasant (I've seen a few real tantrums from one older than Ariana), I don't think I really want to go there. We'll let the past be past. So, what flaws would she have? What would not contradict an inherently gentle nature? A flaw is something readers won't find endearing, and disabled or not, we all have them. We can understand and look away or say, "It's just how she is, it's okay," if we want, but every person I've ever known well where some of that has been necessary has had at least one trait that really, really, really got under my skin, whether it was clinginess or manipulative behaviors or temper tantrums. (I'm speaking from very limited experience--and all of those traits have also aroused profound compassion in me at one time or another.) Eryn and Ari are sisters, and what two sisters ever got along well all the time, never aggravated each other? Of course, Ari hasn't had a ton of time in the spotlight yet, so maybe she'll open up more as we go along. I hope so; I hope it comes naturally and I don't have to improvise, because that never turns out very well. But I'm not having any flawless characters in this story, even if I have to resort to the terrible, horrible, no good, and very bad. It's just confusing because working with Ari is like working with two in one that aren't separated by anything. Part of her has grown up, and part of her hasn't, and yet they're one; it's not like multiple personalities or anything like that.
Writing is such an adventure, and one meets so many interesting people along the way. Life would be so boring if I wasn't a writer! :)
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Tired. Just tired.
Yeah. What can I say? It's Thursday and I'm dying a slow and painful death. I'm tired.
Got my hair done after school today, just a wash and cut. Oh my word, heaven! Do you know how good that felt to let someone rub shampoo into my head and lean back and let water run over it after a long, stressful day? It was amazing.
Had a good long chat on Skype tonight. That was amazing, too.
I know I need to write. Write more, anyway. Just a bit more. But I can hardly type this post. I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to stay awake.
Tomorrow is Friday.
Got my hair done after school today, just a wash and cut. Oh my word, heaven! Do you know how good that felt to let someone rub shampoo into my head and lean back and let water run over it after a long, stressful day? It was amazing.
Had a good long chat on Skype tonight. That was amazing, too.
I know I need to write. Write more, anyway. Just a bit more. But I can hardly type this post. I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to stay awake.
Tomorrow is Friday.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Bottoms Up
Well, last night, after my post, I was all geared up for forward march. Should've known it wasn't going to be forward march. Nope. It's back to square one...well, maybe not quite, as I don't have medical research to do, but pretty much, from a writing standpoint. The plan? I'm formulating it as I write.
Let's see. I know what I'm dealing with now, at least as far as where I went wrong before and what I need to fix. I know where the line is now between character and outside force, if you will. So it's not technically outside, but you get the idea. That's good. And if my trauma victim were a girl, I'd have no further problems, very likely. I'm a girl myself, I know how woman's emotions work. Unfortunately, Brin is not a girl; he's a guy. A grown, married one. I like him, but I don't know him very well yet. He can be a hothead, that's for sure. He's really brave and a patriot who wants reform in the way his country is ruled. He’s also, from the perspective of a girl, a sweetie. I’ve heard men don’t like to hear that about themselves, but that’s just too bad, isn’t it? *smirks* Brin also blushes easily (for a guy—like when he’s angry…his wife is the only one who can make him blush for any other reason), which I thought was an interesting trait to pop up against the machoness. He’s a carpenter, and does small wood carvings in his spare time. Also hunts, with friends. He’s not into it enough to go at it alone. Hmm…what else? Okay, now I’m making up stuff as I go, but who cares? It’s working. Um, he sings, but only for his wife. He’s a good debater, quite eloquent, and he loves it too, and probably knows he’s good at it, deep down, even if he never says so. He’s in great physical shape, a good runner, has an amazing aim when he throws something (be it a stone or a dagger), and his favorite forms of competition are formal footraces and a board game called kings—a classic, really. Okay, so I know all that now. That’s cool, really cool. That’s more than I knew about him five minutes ago. Now there are just three things to solve.
Firstly, what makes him tick? Not him as a guy anymore, but him as an individual? What does he want out of life. I’d say two main things. He wants a family, and he wants a free, good, happy homeland free of the tyranny that rules it now. He wants his country to be able to really call herself “proud Charlane,” as the old songs say.
Now, secondly, what’s he like on an emotional level? What is it that really gets down there to his core. More importantly for what I’m trying to do here, what’s his breaking point? In other words, what makes him cry? That sounds like a stupid, insensitive question, and Brin would probably get tight-jawed and short with me if I tried to ask him in person (if that were possible), but guess what. I’m the author; it’s my job to ask stupid and insensitive questions sometimes.
The next one is even more insensitive. How does a guy like Brin react to utter helplessness? He’s imprisoned, told he’ll soon be executed, even taken out there and made to dig his own grave, having been told he’ll be tortured into unconsciousness and then tied, put in a coffin, and buried alive in the hole he has to dig himself. Then it doesn’t happen. He digs the grave, and the torture starts, and there’s a highly disruptive event. He’s carted right back to prison and liberated soon after. What’s that going to do to him? How horrific! Really, this ties back to the crying question. Everyone has a point where they lose control, and I’m trying to find his. I don’t want him to be a wimp, I don’t. I don’t believe guys that cry are wimps; in fact, I admire the courage it takes some of them. I’ve seen my dad cry in semi-public (church), and even though it made my insides squirm and my own eyes fill and overflow with unreasoning tears just because Daddy was crying, I don’t know that I could have sat in his place without wanting to run away and hide afterward, which he didn’t. But getting back to Brin. The flip side to that is I don’t want to fall back into old ways, either. I don’t want him to lose his characterization. Sure, this will shake him; how could it not? It will probably do more than shake him; he might never be the same again. And maybe I’m as afraid of that as he would be if he knew. How ridiculous. Maybe I’m going to have to wait and see what his breaking point is, what his reactions are like, and just pray and hope hard that I can keep his character firmly in place. And this is going to be even harder because it’s all from his wife’s POV. You can say I have the option of changing from first to third person so I can write in his POV, and sure I do. But I don’t want to. I like it fine that Eryn is telling the story; in fact, it gives it a little bit of a unique perspective. For once in a fantasy, the tragic hero or the magical person isn’t telling the story; it’s being told by a simple, ordinary young woman who loves them both.
So, thus far, what do you think of my guy? He’s the first one I’ve ever consciously gone into this much detail with. I’m going to have to find a way to work him in more; he didn’t have very much stage time before he was arrested.
On a slightly different note, I’ve begun reading All Quiet on the Western Front, in hopes to learn more. Bit of a hard book. Or I could just come right out and say it’s shocking, eye-opening, and extremely sad—and I’m just at the beginning. Still, thanks to True Patriot for the rec. I love the guy’s style and I think I’m in for another big lesson or two…or ten. I’m hoping to learn more about writing guys, and Brin in particular, by reading more guy literature.
Let's see. I know what I'm dealing with now, at least as far as where I went wrong before and what I need to fix. I know where the line is now between character and outside force, if you will. So it's not technically outside, but you get the idea. That's good. And if my trauma victim were a girl, I'd have no further problems, very likely. I'm a girl myself, I know how woman's emotions work. Unfortunately, Brin is not a girl; he's a guy. A grown, married one. I like him, but I don't know him very well yet. He can be a hothead, that's for sure. He's really brave and a patriot who wants reform in the way his country is ruled. He’s also, from the perspective of a girl, a sweetie. I’ve heard men don’t like to hear that about themselves, but that’s just too bad, isn’t it? *smirks* Brin also blushes easily (for a guy—like when he’s angry…his wife is the only one who can make him blush for any other reason), which I thought was an interesting trait to pop up against the machoness. He’s a carpenter, and does small wood carvings in his spare time. Also hunts, with friends. He’s not into it enough to go at it alone. Hmm…what else? Okay, now I’m making up stuff as I go, but who cares? It’s working. Um, he sings, but only for his wife. He’s a good debater, quite eloquent, and he loves it too, and probably knows he’s good at it, deep down, even if he never says so. He’s in great physical shape, a good runner, has an amazing aim when he throws something (be it a stone or a dagger), and his favorite forms of competition are formal footraces and a board game called kings—a classic, really. Okay, so I know all that now. That’s cool, really cool. That’s more than I knew about him five minutes ago. Now there are just three things to solve.
Firstly, what makes him tick? Not him as a guy anymore, but him as an individual? What does he want out of life. I’d say two main things. He wants a family, and he wants a free, good, happy homeland free of the tyranny that rules it now. He wants his country to be able to really call herself “proud Charlane,” as the old songs say.
Now, secondly, what’s he like on an emotional level? What is it that really gets down there to his core. More importantly for what I’m trying to do here, what’s his breaking point? In other words, what makes him cry? That sounds like a stupid, insensitive question, and Brin would probably get tight-jawed and short with me if I tried to ask him in person (if that were possible), but guess what. I’m the author; it’s my job to ask stupid and insensitive questions sometimes.
The next one is even more insensitive. How does a guy like Brin react to utter helplessness? He’s imprisoned, told he’ll soon be executed, even taken out there and made to dig his own grave, having been told he’ll be tortured into unconsciousness and then tied, put in a coffin, and buried alive in the hole he has to dig himself. Then it doesn’t happen. He digs the grave, and the torture starts, and there’s a highly disruptive event. He’s carted right back to prison and liberated soon after. What’s that going to do to him? How horrific! Really, this ties back to the crying question. Everyone has a point where they lose control, and I’m trying to find his. I don’t want him to be a wimp, I don’t. I don’t believe guys that cry are wimps; in fact, I admire the courage it takes some of them. I’ve seen my dad cry in semi-public (church), and even though it made my insides squirm and my own eyes fill and overflow with unreasoning tears just because Daddy was crying, I don’t know that I could have sat in his place without wanting to run away and hide afterward, which he didn’t. But getting back to Brin. The flip side to that is I don’t want to fall back into old ways, either. I don’t want him to lose his characterization. Sure, this will shake him; how could it not? It will probably do more than shake him; he might never be the same again. And maybe I’m as afraid of that as he would be if he knew. How ridiculous. Maybe I’m going to have to wait and see what his breaking point is, what his reactions are like, and just pray and hope hard that I can keep his character firmly in place. And this is going to be even harder because it’s all from his wife’s POV. You can say I have the option of changing from first to third person so I can write in his POV, and sure I do. But I don’t want to. I like it fine that Eryn is telling the story; in fact, it gives it a little bit of a unique perspective. For once in a fantasy, the tragic hero or the magical person isn’t telling the story; it’s being told by a simple, ordinary young woman who loves them both.
So, thus far, what do you think of my guy? He’s the first one I’ve ever consciously gone into this much detail with. I’m going to have to find a way to work him in more; he didn’t have very much stage time before he was arrested.
On a slightly different note, I’ve begun reading All Quiet on the Western Front, in hopes to learn more. Bit of a hard book. Or I could just come right out and say it’s shocking, eye-opening, and extremely sad—and I’m just at the beginning. Still, thanks to True Patriot for the rec. I love the guy’s style and I think I’m in for another big lesson or two…or ten. I’m hoping to learn more about writing guys, and Brin in particular, by reading more guy literature.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Shoot, darn, hang, blast, confound and confusticate the whole ruddy thingymajigger!
No. Do not laugh at me. Do *not* laugh at me. Well, you can. Just don't tell me about it till I look back on this and laugh too and say how stupid that title is...as I undoubtedly will.
No, nothing is seriously wrong. At least not by sane standards. I'm just in a towering temper and dying to just blow my top completely and scream bloody vengeance at something. And if you're guessing I'm enjoying the use of colorful non-profanity, you'd be dead right. I'm also very much enjoying the sensation of pounding computer keys with my mean, lean fingers. Okay, now that I've just written that, I almost feel ready to laugh. Mean, lean fingers? Shoot! That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard--why am iI not surprised it came from me?
So, why am I mad anyway. Well, let's see. It will be interesting to find out if any of it is logical.
1. I'm exhausted as crud. And I have no idea why. It's only Tuesday, for crying out loud! I can't afford this junk!
2. I'm a girl, plain and simple. Girls have moods. So do I, and right now they're really, really super-dee-duper not fun ones. Maybe that should be number one, because it's probably the root of everything, but I'm too lazy to switch them.
3. Probablyy a general build-up of the things that linger in the back of my mind and keep me awake at night when I think about the future...though that's more of an "if" these days, as usually when I go to bed I'm so tired I can't think further than to hit the button that starts some relaxing music on the stereo.
4. Something wrong with something to do with my lot of recording equipment. Again! Man! What's this, the billionth time in less than a month?! What am I going to do? I don't belive in luck and I'm not superstitious, but I'm seriously starting to wonder if I'm supposed to put that dream aside...even while the bare thought makes my heart contract and starts a tiny little flutter of panic somewhere so deep I can't name where it is. I'm sure if I put my music aside, my writing would go, too, and then what would I be left with?
5. I finished reading Angels Fall. And I guess that one deserves some explanation. First of all, it's good. I mean it's really good. The characters are amazing, alive, you love them and in some cases hate them at the same time. They warm you, touch you, fill you up and wring you out and make you breathless. But I wouldn't recommend the book to my friends. I said to Shelley in an e-mail last night that it was "risque" as far as romance scenes and stuff. Uh-uh, this is a little bit more than risque. There was more in that book about what goes on behind closed doors and in heads and hearts while two people touch than I ever wanted to know, in marriage or out of it. Maybe what's bothering me is the fact that it's *not* bothering me. Not at all. I could just read it, watch casually, without blushing, without cringing or thinking of putting it away, without blinking an eye. Not that I've never read similar (even for school purposes); but the other things I read that come to mind disgusted me at the time. With this, it was just like listening to the rain and realizing that's what it sounds like, if that makes any sense. But then, should I really be surprised? After listening to a girl across the table discuss her sex life over lunch at school on a number of occasions (pardon my bluntness, those of you who might be sensative, but that's what it is, and it might as well be said), after having to deal with something I won't mention because this is the internet and it was highly personal and more traumatic than I'm used to, should I be surprised that I'm no longer a child, no longer an innocent little girl to be made rosy in the face by the mention of the word, to have to turn my back and eat my sandwich on my lap while this girl talked about the details of her and her boyfriend's "playing around" so that she and her friends wouldn't see my color and laugh at me for it? Should it surprise me to find that I've grown up and become hard? No. I suppose not. And now that I've finally said it, I want to cry. Just cry. Like a child. But I won't, I won't, I will not...I'm seventeen. Almost eighteen. I'll be out in the world soon; it's high time I lost my innocence, I guess. Sometimes I think it would be less long and excruciating if it weren't taken bit by bit but just ripped away all at once. But then I realize that if that happened to me--as it has to others--it would crush me, break me, possibly kill me. So God knows what He's doing, I guess...I know. Even if it does hurt a little bit.
Moving on, I did have a reason for continuing to read that book after I found out it wasn't quite as innocent as I thought it was. I'm not a dirty little feminine peeping Tom (Tammy?) for nothing. As I said before, the main character, Reece Gilmore, suffers from PTSD...and it's worse than I could know from the movie. Flashbacks, nightmares--awful nightmares, nightmares that made *me* shiver--panic attacks, obsessive-compulsive symptoms, phobias (I can't list all of them, I'm not even sure I know all of them), neuroses, etc. She really did need to spend time in that psych hospital; she was losing touch bad and fast. But that's not what defined her character. No, if I was going to describe her, I'd say a lot of things. Like she loves to cook like I love to write. Like she's got a good sense of humor and an even better head on her shoulders. Like she's as tough as nails, maybe tougher. Like she's brave, and feisty, and heart-warming. She's compelling; she makes you care about her, from the thin, pale face and the big eyes to the heart that beats beneath the scar where the bullet pierced her--a scant physical sign of the pain she's endured, and still endures in the story. PTSD? Well, it adds a layer of character. But she isn't it, and it isn't her. She's just an ordinary woman, fighting with all she's got against the currents of chaos in which float bits of refuse from her life before, trying--and doing a good job of it--to get back to the shore of normalcy. Just like any of us would. And in watching her on one of the harder stretches of her long journey, I learned something from her, a lesson for which I was long overdue.
I guess my fascination began with a book called The Bronze Bow, by Elizabeth George Speare. There's a character in that book named Leah, who is afraid of almost everything and everyone and who absolutely will not leave the house. She was fine until she was five, when she saw her Father and some others crucified. This being set in Biblical times, the people thought she was possessed by a demon. I'm not ruling that out, but weird demon, if that's what it was, to just scare her and leave her perfectly sweet and gentle otherwise. I asked my mom what she thought it might be, and she replied, "She was traumatized." Then I set out to learn what that meant. In those days, that didn't go beyond a few dictionary definitions.
Then there was LOTR. Frodo was not the same after the Quest to destroy the Ring; anyone can see that, even if Tolkien did dull and flatten it considerably--I guess he had to, considering the space limitations surely in place by this time, and the fact he was a war vet himself and probably didn't want to remember it. I don't blame him there, not at all; I can't even imagine...Anyway, something in Frodo aroused pity so profound in me that it brought me to tears more than once, and made me desperate to do something, anything. I wanted to jump into the story and carry him up the Mountain myself, soothe him afterward when the wounds ached so and the shadows came back to plague him. Poor dear, he'd endured so much and he still had to bear the pain. I first found a vent in songs--songs of a comforting and lulling nature--lullabies, in short, though at first they were written specifically for him. (Before anyone asks, I don't have them. At least not the first ones. They were horrific. And the later ones, whatever some may say, are not much better.) Then I started on fanfic. I was totally obsessed, though by that time there was more to it than wanting to ease Frodo's pain. It was in the midst of this that I started to understand what it truly meant to be "traumatized."
As a writer and admitted angst-addict, I wanted to try this out. I still have some of my first attempts, when I'd hardly done any research, and they're ludicrous. I've gotten more informed over time, and less morbidly obsessed. But reading Reece's story has made me wonder if my near-present attempts aren't just as awful as my first. I think of one character in particular who suffers PTSD, and I see now that I've let that define her whole character. No wonder I had such a hard time with her, and no wonder I don't really want to finish the story now. I can't blame myself because she came in as she was, and the story is not from her POV, so it's difficult to build a background. But not impossible. Basically, I took a problem, added some looks, a name, and a shadow of a personality, and called that a character. Uh-uh, there is no way, and I can't believe I did that. I state in the book that she has a sense of pride etc. etc. But how can that really be true, when she takes pity and pampering like a little lamb lying down? I can understand someone doing that if they're helpless, an invalid and do it because they must, or a child, but an adult? If I met an adult with so little iron in her, I'm not so sure I'd have much patience with her, mostly because she wouldn't feel real or right. As humans, unless there's something seriously wrong, we don't do that. Think about it. Have you ever cried in front of someone? Had them hold you, pat your back, shush and murmur something like "There, there, it's okay, honey." Maybe you wanted comfort. Maybe you were so upset that it was actually soothing. But how did you feel afterward? It's not embarrassing to cry, yet we get embarrassed. And as for story people who always know exactly what to do when comforting, they're nice, and there are people really like that. But for the most part, especially if the one needing comforting is our equal, we're pretty awkward creatures when it comes to dishing it out. I like to think I'm a good comforter (ha, ha, ha), and I've been called motherly more times than I can possibly count. But when someone really and completely loses it, I don't know what to do. It doesn't even take that. A lot of times if I seem to know what to do, I really don't; I'm really just freaking out and winging it. It's all very sweet and warm and fuzzy to read a story in which someone whose pain defines them gets comforted by someone who is magically good at it (and my mind is flitting back to hundreds of LOTR fanfics, some of them mine), but is it realistic? I think not, after all. Not if you're real; not if you know anything about real life. Sorry, doesn't work that way. There are people that seek attention by trying to get pity (which is the form of attention-seeking that I most despise and look down on--how low can somebody go, and how conceited would a person have to be to do that?), but for those of us who at least try to be sensible, we like to find our feet and stand on equal ground with those around us, not have them lean down to pet us on the head and say "There, there." I wonder some brutally honest person didn't see that all my trauma victims (or nearly all, certainly the most profoundly affected) seemed to be all bad memories and tears and shudders and pale faces and no backbone or real character and point it out to me. Or maybe people did see, and just didn't want to hurt my feelings. Either way, I'm rather ashamed. Not only is it bad writing, it's disrespectful to those who really know what it's like firsthand, like making fun of that. And that was the last thing I ever, ever wanted to do. I might have a fascination for what some call morbid (effects of trauma, psychological conditions, mental illness, etc...I'm sure nobody wants me to keep going here), but I really do respect all those things and the people who deal with them in everyday life, and I hate misrepresenting things that really are important in writing. I hate it when people do it with blindness--makes my skin crawl--and I hate it even more when I do it to something else. So. I guess my next task is to learn to deal with my trauma victims without stripping them of all dignity of character, whether they realize they still have it intact or not, they have to keep it. And I have a trauma victim coming right up in a few chapters of my novella, how handy. Yea. Romance and trauma at the same time. And I'm no better with the former than I am with the latter--worse, in fact. Goody. Joy. But really, I might be sarcastic, but I love the excitement of the challenge.
And I feel considerably better now. Still tired, still with homework awaiting, now hungry, and a little bit snippy, but I think the towering temper has shrunk to a stacked couple of blocks. Now, somebody tell me if any of this makes any sense at all. Actually, on second thought...don't.
No, nothing is seriously wrong. At least not by sane standards. I'm just in a towering temper and dying to just blow my top completely and scream bloody vengeance at something. And if you're guessing I'm enjoying the use of colorful non-profanity, you'd be dead right. I'm also very much enjoying the sensation of pounding computer keys with my mean, lean fingers. Okay, now that I've just written that, I almost feel ready to laugh. Mean, lean fingers? Shoot! That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard--why am iI not surprised it came from me?
So, why am I mad anyway. Well, let's see. It will be interesting to find out if any of it is logical.
1. I'm exhausted as crud. And I have no idea why. It's only Tuesday, for crying out loud! I can't afford this junk!
2. I'm a girl, plain and simple. Girls have moods. So do I, and right now they're really, really super-dee-duper not fun ones. Maybe that should be number one, because it's probably the root of everything, but I'm too lazy to switch them.
3. Probablyy a general build-up of the things that linger in the back of my mind and keep me awake at night when I think about the future...though that's more of an "if" these days, as usually when I go to bed I'm so tired I can't think further than to hit the button that starts some relaxing music on the stereo.
4. Something wrong with something to do with my lot of recording equipment. Again! Man! What's this, the billionth time in less than a month?! What am I going to do? I don't belive in luck and I'm not superstitious, but I'm seriously starting to wonder if I'm supposed to put that dream aside...even while the bare thought makes my heart contract and starts a tiny little flutter of panic somewhere so deep I can't name where it is. I'm sure if I put my music aside, my writing would go, too, and then what would I be left with?
5. I finished reading Angels Fall. And I guess that one deserves some explanation. First of all, it's good. I mean it's really good. The characters are amazing, alive, you love them and in some cases hate them at the same time. They warm you, touch you, fill you up and wring you out and make you breathless. But I wouldn't recommend the book to my friends. I said to Shelley in an e-mail last night that it was "risque" as far as romance scenes and stuff. Uh-uh, this is a little bit more than risque. There was more in that book about what goes on behind closed doors and in heads and hearts while two people touch than I ever wanted to know, in marriage or out of it. Maybe what's bothering me is the fact that it's *not* bothering me. Not at all. I could just read it, watch casually, without blushing, without cringing or thinking of putting it away, without blinking an eye. Not that I've never read similar (even for school purposes); but the other things I read that come to mind disgusted me at the time. With this, it was just like listening to the rain and realizing that's what it sounds like, if that makes any sense. But then, should I really be surprised? After listening to a girl across the table discuss her sex life over lunch at school on a number of occasions (pardon my bluntness, those of you who might be sensative, but that's what it is, and it might as well be said), after having to deal with something I won't mention because this is the internet and it was highly personal and more traumatic than I'm used to, should I be surprised that I'm no longer a child, no longer an innocent little girl to be made rosy in the face by the mention of the word, to have to turn my back and eat my sandwich on my lap while this girl talked about the details of her and her boyfriend's "playing around" so that she and her friends wouldn't see my color and laugh at me for it? Should it surprise me to find that I've grown up and become hard? No. I suppose not. And now that I've finally said it, I want to cry. Just cry. Like a child. But I won't, I won't, I will not...I'm seventeen. Almost eighteen. I'll be out in the world soon; it's high time I lost my innocence, I guess. Sometimes I think it would be less long and excruciating if it weren't taken bit by bit but just ripped away all at once. But then I realize that if that happened to me--as it has to others--it would crush me, break me, possibly kill me. So God knows what He's doing, I guess...I know. Even if it does hurt a little bit.
Moving on, I did have a reason for continuing to read that book after I found out it wasn't quite as innocent as I thought it was. I'm not a dirty little feminine peeping Tom (Tammy?) for nothing. As I said before, the main character, Reece Gilmore, suffers from PTSD...and it's worse than I could know from the movie. Flashbacks, nightmares--awful nightmares, nightmares that made *me* shiver--panic attacks, obsessive-compulsive symptoms, phobias (I can't list all of them, I'm not even sure I know all of them), neuroses, etc. She really did need to spend time in that psych hospital; she was losing touch bad and fast. But that's not what defined her character. No, if I was going to describe her, I'd say a lot of things. Like she loves to cook like I love to write. Like she's got a good sense of humor and an even better head on her shoulders. Like she's as tough as nails, maybe tougher. Like she's brave, and feisty, and heart-warming. She's compelling; she makes you care about her, from the thin, pale face and the big eyes to the heart that beats beneath the scar where the bullet pierced her--a scant physical sign of the pain she's endured, and still endures in the story. PTSD? Well, it adds a layer of character. But she isn't it, and it isn't her. She's just an ordinary woman, fighting with all she's got against the currents of chaos in which float bits of refuse from her life before, trying--and doing a good job of it--to get back to the shore of normalcy. Just like any of us would. And in watching her on one of the harder stretches of her long journey, I learned something from her, a lesson for which I was long overdue.
I guess my fascination began with a book called The Bronze Bow, by Elizabeth George Speare. There's a character in that book named Leah, who is afraid of almost everything and everyone and who absolutely will not leave the house. She was fine until she was five, when she saw her Father and some others crucified. This being set in Biblical times, the people thought she was possessed by a demon. I'm not ruling that out, but weird demon, if that's what it was, to just scare her and leave her perfectly sweet and gentle otherwise. I asked my mom what she thought it might be, and she replied, "She was traumatized." Then I set out to learn what that meant. In those days, that didn't go beyond a few dictionary definitions.
Then there was LOTR. Frodo was not the same after the Quest to destroy the Ring; anyone can see that, even if Tolkien did dull and flatten it considerably--I guess he had to, considering the space limitations surely in place by this time, and the fact he was a war vet himself and probably didn't want to remember it. I don't blame him there, not at all; I can't even imagine...Anyway, something in Frodo aroused pity so profound in me that it brought me to tears more than once, and made me desperate to do something, anything. I wanted to jump into the story and carry him up the Mountain myself, soothe him afterward when the wounds ached so and the shadows came back to plague him. Poor dear, he'd endured so much and he still had to bear the pain. I first found a vent in songs--songs of a comforting and lulling nature--lullabies, in short, though at first they were written specifically for him. (Before anyone asks, I don't have them. At least not the first ones. They were horrific. And the later ones, whatever some may say, are not much better.) Then I started on fanfic. I was totally obsessed, though by that time there was more to it than wanting to ease Frodo's pain. It was in the midst of this that I started to understand what it truly meant to be "traumatized."
As a writer and admitted angst-addict, I wanted to try this out. I still have some of my first attempts, when I'd hardly done any research, and they're ludicrous. I've gotten more informed over time, and less morbidly obsessed. But reading Reece's story has made me wonder if my near-present attempts aren't just as awful as my first. I think of one character in particular who suffers PTSD, and I see now that I've let that define her whole character. No wonder I had such a hard time with her, and no wonder I don't really want to finish the story now. I can't blame myself because she came in as she was, and the story is not from her POV, so it's difficult to build a background. But not impossible. Basically, I took a problem, added some looks, a name, and a shadow of a personality, and called that a character. Uh-uh, there is no way, and I can't believe I did that. I state in the book that she has a sense of pride etc. etc. But how can that really be true, when she takes pity and pampering like a little lamb lying down? I can understand someone doing that if they're helpless, an invalid and do it because they must, or a child, but an adult? If I met an adult with so little iron in her, I'm not so sure I'd have much patience with her, mostly because she wouldn't feel real or right. As humans, unless there's something seriously wrong, we don't do that. Think about it. Have you ever cried in front of someone? Had them hold you, pat your back, shush and murmur something like "There, there, it's okay, honey." Maybe you wanted comfort. Maybe you were so upset that it was actually soothing. But how did you feel afterward? It's not embarrassing to cry, yet we get embarrassed. And as for story people who always know exactly what to do when comforting, they're nice, and there are people really like that. But for the most part, especially if the one needing comforting is our equal, we're pretty awkward creatures when it comes to dishing it out. I like to think I'm a good comforter (ha, ha, ha), and I've been called motherly more times than I can possibly count. But when someone really and completely loses it, I don't know what to do. It doesn't even take that. A lot of times if I seem to know what to do, I really don't; I'm really just freaking out and winging it. It's all very sweet and warm and fuzzy to read a story in which someone whose pain defines them gets comforted by someone who is magically good at it (and my mind is flitting back to hundreds of LOTR fanfics, some of them mine), but is it realistic? I think not, after all. Not if you're real; not if you know anything about real life. Sorry, doesn't work that way. There are people that seek attention by trying to get pity (which is the form of attention-seeking that I most despise and look down on--how low can somebody go, and how conceited would a person have to be to do that?), but for those of us who at least try to be sensible, we like to find our feet and stand on equal ground with those around us, not have them lean down to pet us on the head and say "There, there." I wonder some brutally honest person didn't see that all my trauma victims (or nearly all, certainly the most profoundly affected) seemed to be all bad memories and tears and shudders and pale faces and no backbone or real character and point it out to me. Or maybe people did see, and just didn't want to hurt my feelings. Either way, I'm rather ashamed. Not only is it bad writing, it's disrespectful to those who really know what it's like firsthand, like making fun of that. And that was the last thing I ever, ever wanted to do. I might have a fascination for what some call morbid (effects of trauma, psychological conditions, mental illness, etc...I'm sure nobody wants me to keep going here), but I really do respect all those things and the people who deal with them in everyday life, and I hate misrepresenting things that really are important in writing. I hate it when people do it with blindness--makes my skin crawl--and I hate it even more when I do it to something else. So. I guess my next task is to learn to deal with my trauma victims without stripping them of all dignity of character, whether they realize they still have it intact or not, they have to keep it. And I have a trauma victim coming right up in a few chapters of my novella, how handy. Yea. Romance and trauma at the same time. And I'm no better with the former than I am with the latter--worse, in fact. Goody. Joy. But really, I might be sarcastic, but I love the excitement of the challenge.
And I feel considerably better now. Still tired, still with homework awaiting, now hungry, and a little bit snippy, but I think the towering temper has shrunk to a stacked couple of blocks. Now, somebody tell me if any of this makes any sense at all. Actually, on second thought...don't.
Monday, April 14, 2008
A Day on the Front Lines
So, it's Monday. Not my favorite day of the week, I'll say that right up front. School starts back then, usually after weekends that have been too short. Today was no different than any other. I overslept. No surprise. I didn't feel great either (just one of those things, I knew I wasn't sick), and didn't manage to get down more than a couple of little containers of yogurt, I knew I was going to so regret it later when I was so hungry I felt light-headed. Ran out, got on the bus, and headed off. Sean, a friend who rides my bus--my only real friend at school, really--and I usually head down to the V.I. resource room (he's blind as well), because we get there so early and it's just a place to hang out. Mrs. W. and Mrs. B. (braillist and Sean's V.I. teacher) were there already as usual, and we found ourselves entering in the middle of a spirited discussion of disability rights and improvements that could be made in our community--like our cruddy transportation system, for one. Mrs. B. was describing a meeting she'd attended, in which she'd explained all this to a group of people who apparently have power to move the mountins, or at least nudge them, shift the dirt and rocks and make them think about moving. "We, as teachers, want our students to be independent," she said, quoting herself, "and we do our best to encourage them in that. But they can't be fully independent if they don't have everything they need, to get around, to have a better quality of life and so on. And you have to fight for it. I mean, here on the front lines, that's what we do. The kids daily have to remind their teachers that they need their work in Braille, and then you get the teachers that just don't get it--and never get it." (Please not, this is not a direct quote, only as best I can remember.)
"Yeah, no kidding," I said. "Then you have the teachers that *really* don't get it and--and act like they have something against you or something--I don't know what the deal is there."
"Well," said Mrs. B., "I think with a few of them, they look at it like they have enough to do already and this is just one more thing on their plate."
"Okay," I replied, "I can take that. But what about all the extra stuff *we* have to do? Extended time and constant reminders and all the rest we all know about?"
"Exactly, I know..."
I don't remember where the conversation went after that; it meandered off into a lot of things. But one thing, one phrase stuck out in my mind, and lingered there all day like the encouraging clear call of a far-off trumpet: "the front lines." For years I've been wanting to do something, to fight for things that need fighting for and that are too often let go. Maybe this is it. Maybe I really am on the front lines right now. Yes, I know I am. I entered the ranks when I was fifteen years old and went off for eight weeks at the Colorado Center for the Blind, and got a taste of what it's like to live in the real world. Lord willing, I'm leaving the public school system next year, to return to homeschooling. An argument might be that with that step, I'd be leaving those ranks. But it isn't so. This world is a mountainous region. Maybe I'll have climbed over one when I get out of this school, and I hope I get to stroll in the valley for a little bit, but not too long. There will always be more mountains ahead.
At lunch, I got called on by an admin to give the SAT word of the day and its definition. The word was "capacious." I knew it, naturally, and the admin was enormously pleased. "I knew, I just knew you'd know it, Elizabeth, because of your hearing," he enthused.
I laughed nervously. "My hearing? Um...I just like vocab."
"But you do have a heightened sense of hearing," said April, one of the girls across the table.
"No, people just think I do because I have to use it more." What weird things people come up with, I thought for the hundred billionth time in my life.
"Well," said the admin, "could one of you girls fill this form out for her since it's not in Braille?"
"Sure, I will," said another girl, Chelsea. Then she asked me to spell out my first and last name. Apparently when the form is entered, I get a chance to win a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate to a local shopping center. After Chelsea had written my name down, she turned to her neighbor and said, with laughter in her voice, "She can't even tell if I put the right name down or not. I could put anything down and she wouldn't know. I just thought it was funny," she added quickly after waiting for me to say something and not getting any response except a face which, I hope, was as reproachful as I felt. I couldn't say anything to that. I laugh at a lot of things, a lot of things that could be hurtful if I let them, but I'm not an angel or a hero from a nineteenth-century novel. I can't laugh at that. I don't care about the stupid certificate; if I did win and Chelsea asked me for it, I'd give it to her. But I was shocked that she could say that and laugh about it. I don't know if she wrote my name down or not, and I don't care so much about that, but the motive behind the words. What was she trying to do? Be intentionally hurtful? Or was she just joking? Maybe those who have told me I'm too trusting are right, after all. I should know that by now, but what is it really going to take to wake me up to the harsh realities of this world? I know, of course, that I can't take everyone's meannesses and taunts to heart; half of them aren't said out of anything but carelessness. But it troubles me, both for Chelsea's sake and my own.
Got report cards today. I have an A in my hardest class.
I started reading that book, Angels Fall, on the bus-ride home, and it's really good so far. I like Roberts' writing style.
I don't have too much homework tonight, and writing and perhaps a story by a favorite online author awaits me when I'm done--and I sure do want it now.
You know, life might throw surprises sometimes, nasty little ones of no real consequence, but overall, it's pretty good, here on the front lines.
"Yeah, no kidding," I said. "Then you have the teachers that *really* don't get it and--and act like they have something against you or something--I don't know what the deal is there."
"Well," said Mrs. B., "I think with a few of them, they look at it like they have enough to do already and this is just one more thing on their plate."
"Okay," I replied, "I can take that. But what about all the extra stuff *we* have to do? Extended time and constant reminders and all the rest we all know about?"
"Exactly, I know..."
I don't remember where the conversation went after that; it meandered off into a lot of things. But one thing, one phrase stuck out in my mind, and lingered there all day like the encouraging clear call of a far-off trumpet: "the front lines." For years I've been wanting to do something, to fight for things that need fighting for and that are too often let go. Maybe this is it. Maybe I really am on the front lines right now. Yes, I know I am. I entered the ranks when I was fifteen years old and went off for eight weeks at the Colorado Center for the Blind, and got a taste of what it's like to live in the real world. Lord willing, I'm leaving the public school system next year, to return to homeschooling. An argument might be that with that step, I'd be leaving those ranks. But it isn't so. This world is a mountainous region. Maybe I'll have climbed over one when I get out of this school, and I hope I get to stroll in the valley for a little bit, but not too long. There will always be more mountains ahead.
At lunch, I got called on by an admin to give the SAT word of the day and its definition. The word was "capacious." I knew it, naturally, and the admin was enormously pleased. "I knew, I just knew you'd know it, Elizabeth, because of your hearing," he enthused.
I laughed nervously. "My hearing? Um...I just like vocab."
"But you do have a heightened sense of hearing," said April, one of the girls across the table.
"No, people just think I do because I have to use it more." What weird things people come up with, I thought for the hundred billionth time in my life.
"Well," said the admin, "could one of you girls fill this form out for her since it's not in Braille?"
"Sure, I will," said another girl, Chelsea. Then she asked me to spell out my first and last name. Apparently when the form is entered, I get a chance to win a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate to a local shopping center. After Chelsea had written my name down, she turned to her neighbor and said, with laughter in her voice, "She can't even tell if I put the right name down or not. I could put anything down and she wouldn't know. I just thought it was funny," she added quickly after waiting for me to say something and not getting any response except a face which, I hope, was as reproachful as I felt. I couldn't say anything to that. I laugh at a lot of things, a lot of things that could be hurtful if I let them, but I'm not an angel or a hero from a nineteenth-century novel. I can't laugh at that. I don't care about the stupid certificate; if I did win and Chelsea asked me for it, I'd give it to her. But I was shocked that she could say that and laugh about it. I don't know if she wrote my name down or not, and I don't care so much about that, but the motive behind the words. What was she trying to do? Be intentionally hurtful? Or was she just joking? Maybe those who have told me I'm too trusting are right, after all. I should know that by now, but what is it really going to take to wake me up to the harsh realities of this world? I know, of course, that I can't take everyone's meannesses and taunts to heart; half of them aren't said out of anything but carelessness. But it troubles me, both for Chelsea's sake and my own.
Got report cards today. I have an A in my hardest class.
I started reading that book, Angels Fall, on the bus-ride home, and it's really good so far. I like Roberts' writing style.
I don't have too much homework tonight, and writing and perhaps a story by a favorite online author awaits me when I'm done--and I sure do want it now.
You know, life might throw surprises sometimes, nasty little ones of no real consequence, but overall, it's pretty good, here on the front lines.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Angels Fall
I watched a movie on Lifetime last night with Mom (something I hardly ever do) called "Angels Fall." It was a murder mystery/romance, not something I'd normally get into. Generally the stories about killers and stuff give me the creeps. But once I started half paying attention to this movie, I couldn't tear myself away. There was something about the main character, something familiar and yet mysterious. She never seemed really happy. She was quiet, withdrawn, terrified of everything. She even taped her door shut at night. And she had a ton of medicine bottles. I knew she had issues. Then I found out. She was the lone survivor of a killing spree in the restaurant where she used to work. "PTSD, that's what it is," I said to my mom, who didn't respond. It made sense. This woman was having flashbacks, she talked about nightmares, sleepwalking...after the killing spree, she spent time in a psychiatric hospital. I don't know, but it didn't look to me like it helped her much and might have had the opposite effect, because on top of the trauma and the anxiety and obsessive fears, she had this fear of being thought crazy. I can't say I know personally what PTSD is like, but I've done a good bit of research on it for writing purposes. It's so easy to read facts, make notes, even read fiction books in which something like that is portrayed, and only get the surface appearance of it. That movie brought all those facts I know into a whole new light. It was an interesting experience, and very poignant. I can't get that woman out of my mind, and movies usually don't stick with me like that. I feel as if I'd met and talked to her, was connected with her somehow.
Apparently the movie was based on a novel by a Nora Roberts. As I said above, I usually really don't like murder mysteries, and I'm not too crazy about modern romances. This wouldn't normally be my kind of book; I don't tend to like much of anything contemporary, actually, except a few special cases. But I have to read this book. I just picked it up today while I was getting stuff for my research paper, and I'm interested to start on it and see how it compares to the movie. I'm sure it's better; books generally are.
Apparently the movie was based on a novel by a Nora Roberts. As I said above, I usually really don't like murder mysteries, and I'm not too crazy about modern romances. This wouldn't normally be my kind of book; I don't tend to like much of anything contemporary, actually, except a few special cases. But I have to read this book. I just picked it up today while I was getting stuff for my research paper, and I'm interested to start on it and see how it compares to the movie. I'm sure it's better; books generally are.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Introductions
I've wanted a blog forever, and now I have one, and I find it unnerving to post. Not really a good sign, I'd say, but I hate first posts and autobiographies, as a rule, so I'm going to pretend I'm confident that this will fade and say that I am, and maybe it will make it true.
The number one reason why this blog exists is to hopefully remedy a persistent problem I have with keeping in touch with people. I love e-mail; I personally think it's one of the greatest inventions of all time; I would never talk to over half my friends if it didn't exist. But I'm a junior in high school, and it's getting on toward the end of the year. At present I have about three projects, the SAT, and of course EOC exams hanging over my head. It's hard to write ten or twenty e-mails daily, no matter how much I want to, and I procrastinate with schoolwork as it is. While blogging might also be time-consuming, I'm hoping that by posting one item every couple of days or so that everyone can read and comment on, I can let people know I haven't fallen off into some random place beyond the edge of the world and still get my schoolwork done. :) Not that I won't still e-mail, of course...
So, this will be a place for thoughts, experiences, writing prompts and articles (and probably a great deal more to do with writing--I am a writer, after all), links to interesting stuff on the net, probably some of those cool little blog quizzes (just because), discussions of politics and other current issues, and I don't know what else. Enjoy. And if anyone comes across this and thinks it's pointless and decides to tell me so, just know this beforehand: I don't care, because you're wrong. Everyone has something to say, and I happen to be a someone, just like you, so don't waste my time or yours; just don't read it. For those of you that are interested, enjoy...if that's the right word. :)
The number one reason why this blog exists is to hopefully remedy a persistent problem I have with keeping in touch with people. I love e-mail; I personally think it's one of the greatest inventions of all time; I would never talk to over half my friends if it didn't exist. But I'm a junior in high school, and it's getting on toward the end of the year. At present I have about three projects, the SAT, and of course EOC exams hanging over my head. It's hard to write ten or twenty e-mails daily, no matter how much I want to, and I procrastinate with schoolwork as it is. While blogging might also be time-consuming, I'm hoping that by posting one item every couple of days or so that everyone can read and comment on, I can let people know I haven't fallen off into some random place beyond the edge of the world and still get my schoolwork done. :) Not that I won't still e-mail, of course...
So, this will be a place for thoughts, experiences, writing prompts and articles (and probably a great deal more to do with writing--I am a writer, after all), links to interesting stuff on the net, probably some of those cool little blog quizzes (just because), discussions of politics and other current issues, and I don't know what else. Enjoy. And if anyone comes across this and thinks it's pointless and decides to tell me so, just know this beforehand: I don't care, because you're wrong. Everyone has something to say, and I happen to be a someone, just like you, so don't waste my time or yours; just don't read it. For those of you that are interested, enjoy...if that's the right word. :)
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