Writing Out of My Head

The Fear

2011-08-17T22:11:00.000-07:00

As quickly as I grasp it, it slips away. The Fear is constantly undulating, serpentine, through the hills and meadows of my mind. Where it goes the grass grows purple, and the sky is clouded with a thickness that is hard to breathe. Two glistening teeth curve out below its lip; it is a smile I know. I turn my face away.

The Fear is a void with clasping, clawing arms-- the graceless movements of an insect gathering its prey. Hastening it to fill it, I try everything I can think of: food, stories, idle thoughts. Anything I can do to keep from seeings its faceless form, terrifying in its emptiness. I run from it because I always have, I run from it because I am paralyzed and have always been.

Clarity comes in those quiet moments when there is no sound jar against my ears, and in those moments I gather what courage I can to face the Fear. In those moments I feel whole; I do not feel the pull of the void, the ceaseless and thoughtless need to fill it.

Peace comes, and then I feel it rush over me, a tide of people and feelings and thoughts and colors. It is my world; it can only exist where nothing has existed before. The Fear cannot quench it, cannot kill it, cannot force it away. I am full. I can succeed. My dreams are inspired and my hands are magic.

The Fear will not conquer me.

The Bottom Line

2011-05-12T01:15:00.000-07:00

I get caught up sometimes in the different expectations and obligations that have pull on my time. In the end I need to remember one thing:

the most important thing to me is that I work, work my fucking ass off until my fingers bleed. I have words that need to get out. I have stories that need to be told. I have to be committed in a miserable and one-track way that defies all things and abandons all things. I need to be crazy in pursuit of my goals. I need to be committed to dig deep and find the true things inside of me that my characters crave; that my readers are entitled to. People need to hear me. I need to be heard.

That's the bottom line.

Love

2011-05-04T16:54:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been feeling like a crybaby, because everything I see makes me teary. I should clarify, not everything, mostly just touching, beautiful, or amazing things are making me cry. The only problem is that I find a lot of things that fall into one of those three categories.
Part of me thinks that since I have started to feel the ticking of my internal baby clock, and as my body is pumped full of hormones I have fallen into some estrogen-induced happiness-coma in which I attempt to love as many things about the world as possible. Maybe there's something biological about it? It ruins it to overanalyze, but sometimes I wonder. It just seems unreasonable that one person could be as happy as I am, or in any way deserves to be. And yet, I am.
As I go about my day I am sometimes terrified that I don't deserve this, that the universe is fixing to serve me up a nasty slap in the face in the form of something horrible happening to me, some new kind of devastation that mirrors my current jubilance perfectly. Isn't it strange that I've grown up thinking that happiness is unattainable and that I don't deserve it? There's nothing in my upbringing to suggest this, so don't get the wrong idea. I just keep waiting for the arm to reach in and snatch back all the wonderful things I've been given.
But meanwhile, I've decided I'm going to enjoy it. It isn't part of me to give in to those feelings, to feel depressed, to let my fears diminish my appreciation for my life at all. So I feel sappy and lovey all the time, so what? What's wrong with telling all the people in your life how much they mean to you, or crying over the way a song makes you feel? I told my husband that all I wanted in our relationship was for him to always feel that he was loved, appreciated, and adored every day. So far, so good. I told him that when I die I don't want there to be any question in his or in anyone else's mind about how much I loved them. I did. I do. I love my friends and family in the way that you love something that you know you were lucky to get, and that you will be torn apart to see it go. I know that I am lucky, or blessed if you prefer that term, and I guess I will just take this time while it lasts to be in constant appreciation of it.
On that note, I cried watching this video today. It's lovely.

I hope when I am old, when my heart has been broken, when I have lost many of the things I today appreciate and love, I will still have the capacity for joy. Please don't let it die before I do.

Twinge

2011-02-01T21:44:00.000-08:00

I see the shape of my future in your shape. I can pull it around me, tuck me into it, feel complacent. But complacency won't bring me closer to my future, and it won't bring you to life.

I feel your breath on my face every time I fall into you. I know you're real, real as anything I've seen and held and touched. I feel your sadness, I feel your victory. I feel you with everything raw and untouched and unfiltered inside me, the power that grows into that impossibly bright light that is always buoyant, always white. You are alive and you are demanding to be seen.

I love you completely and I will never leave you until I die. You make me feel whole and powerful, wholly powerful against anything that tries to defeat me. I will not be defeated. You want to live too badly.

They say you are just inside my head, just thoughts floating invisibly though the graspless ether in my mind. But I know better. You are in every atom of my being, every cell of body. You are the light that fills my soul. I would not exist if not for you; our lives and our future are inextricably intertwined.

I found you, and I will free you. You protect me, have always protected me. But you don't have to do that anymore. We can hold each other's hands. We can do this together.

Live! Live and be real and laughing; be what is at the darkest heart of you. I will always love you.

You will never die, and neither will I. We will always be together.

Live!

Writer's Prayer

2010-11-14T22:16:00.000-08:00

May I always approach writing with a stillness, a gentle contentment so fragile that it might whoosh away at any moment, carried away by the passion of my characters. May I always remember to laugh and to have them laugh too; to glory in the ridiculous as well as the joyful. May I never forget that what I do is beautiful, that I pull design from the nether, and weave it into something that can be enjoyed. May I always treasure every laugh that is brought by my words, every tear that is wrung from another's eye. May I infuse every letter with yearning, the yearning to be understood, to feel what I am feeling, and to thrust my hand into my reader's chest and pull out a still-beating heart.

May I always appreciate every day that I am alive, because it is another day that I have a chance to make something beautiful.

Cluttered Mind

2010-11-10T09:21:00.000-08:00

So I haven't written in a while. In the meantime, the ideas has been taking up space in my mind, stacked in piles that are starting to impinge on one another. They keep getting mixed up, and I know I need to get them out. I've been trying to finish the novel, so I haven't had time to write about them. I'm going to list them down, so I can get back to them when I get a chance. And to give me a little breathing room!

Why are people attracted to brokenness?
Why do I find myself inexplicably attracted to characters with an unflinchingly lawful good alignment, even those who have traded any modicum of rationality to be true to that morality? I am reminded of the fate of Rorschach, and I worry that there is no truth in them.
Why is it that my husband can have a far more practical view of humanity than I, and while I don't feel repulsed by that in him, I feel like my entire existence would cease if I allowed myself to believe the same?
Why do people want unequal love? Am I the only one who sees that the yearning, pining bullshit that people perceive as love is really nothing of the kind? And if they do realize it's not love, then what is it that people want when they submerge themselves in that fantasy?

Okay, just some food for thought for now. During my writing process, my mind is always going a million miles an hour, analyzing, thinking about not only my characters but the entire world upon which they are based. What things give them resonance, what things give them truth? That's what I'd like to know.

Back by Popular Demand....

2010-10-13T07:10:00.001-07:00

The Frodo Story

This is by far one of the more compelling stories of my life.

Once upon a time I was in the capital building in Olympia, getting inducted into Phi Theta Kappa. It's the official Honor society of the two year college, and I had finally scraped together enough disinterested A's to get admitted. The only catch is that I had to submit to the monotony of a few hours' wait for my proper recognition. Oh well, I thought. It will look good on my resume someday. I'm sure there's tons of employers who are thrilled about your membership in a community college honor society. I hear sometimes it's even a requirement.

Anyway so there I was, standing in the wings and practicing the kind of commencement-type bullshit one practices when one is being inducted into a secret society. The girl next to me was a fidgety nervous type; I remembered her because her name came just before mine in the alphabet, and so despite the fact that her appearance wasn't particularly remarkable, she had always stuck out in my mind as noteworthy. We stood and waited for our turn to walk out. We are the P's, you know, so there's quite a few other alphabet letters to get through before you get to ours. We waited...and waited.

Suddently a guy appeared with a basket. He handed me a little plastic tube and kept walking. "What's this for?" I asked P-name-before-me girl, because she was the head of our line, and seemed to think this gave her the authority to line and re-line us up, shushing us periodically. She explained that it was a glowstick, and we would need it for the ceremony. I wrinkled my nose. "What the hell do we need a glowstick for?" I asked. She explained that an open flame was banned in the capital building, and it was a tradition for the leader of the ceremony to light each inductee's candle, symbolizing the "passing of the flame of knowledge." I looked at my glowstick and laughed. "So I gotta crack this glowstick when he comes around and touches it with his glowstick?" I asked. She nodded and I laughed again.

Still bored, and still waiting, I started to toss my light of knowledge up in the air. P-before-me-shusher girl quickly became agitated. "Stop it!" She said. I ignored her, because I'm a bitch, and she was uppity shusher girl. She sighed, and under her breath muttered, "I bet Frodo didn't have to deal with this crap."

I stopped tossing my glowstick. My eyes were literally bugging out of my head.Did she say what I thought she just said?I thought. I decided to test it. I couldn't resist. "Yeah," I said. "But he did have to carry the one ring to Mordor. Somehow, that seems a little more trying." My face was the picture of reverant respect. She looked at me for a moment, and then nodded.

"You're right," she admitted, squaring her shoulders at the thought of such hobbit-courage. "You're right."

It was nearly impossible for me to keep from laughing, but somehow, through the grace of God, I managed. It was the best bullshit school ceremony I ever didn't giggle through.

Only in Dreams

2010-09-13T13:28:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamed I was in China again. I was so happy.

To My Sister on Her Birthday

2010-09-09T18:18:00.000-07:00

Dear Rylee Jane,

Twelve years ago today you were born. I remember the first time I ever met you, not only because you were purple and squishy and looked like an alien, but also because I had waited for you from the time I was old enough to understand what a sister was. I don't remember who else was there, what Mom looked like, or even where she had you. I just remember looking at your giant forehead and thinking my life would never be the same.

I remember when Mom first brought you home. Sometimes you would wake up crying in the middle of the night, and since I was the lightest sleeper in the house, I would go and get you and put you in bed with me. I slept so lightly because I was terrified of crushing you, but it was like my body wouldn't let me. Every time you moved I woke up and then went back to sleep. And it never bothered me to lose that sleep, because I was just happy you were finally here.

Eventually your face took on a normal shape and you morphed into the cutest thing I or anyone else had ever seen. There was really no chance of you not growing up spoiled, being as cute as you were. I know that Matt and I did not stand a chance. Since the time you were born, we were all yours. We still are, and I think at twelve wise years old, you know it. You have always known more than a child should know. You are definitely an old soul. An devious old soul, but an old soul nonetheless.

Rylee Jane, you are everything that I have ever wanted to be. You are effortlessly beautiful, you are good at everything you try to do. You have Matt's graceful athleticism, my ability to laugh at myself, and Mom's compassion. You are bold and courageous and outspoken and righteous. Sometimes I think of the world you are coming into and I am a little afraid-- for them. You are going to take this place by storm, and anyone who gets in your way should beware.

I just wanted you to know that you are loved more than any little sister could ever be. When I think of you it makes me want to be an amazing person, a role model you can look up to and be proud of. I want to forge a path for you in this world that makes you believe that you can do anything. I want you to believe in magic and miracles and beauty. I want to make this place something that you will love. And I want you to be happy.

I know that you will be, because you are much too smart to let anyone get in the way of being who you are. You're an exceedingly brave girl, and that's why you are a perfect storybook heroine as well. I know that when the rest of the world meets you through my book, they will love you just as much as I do.

Dear Rylee, I hope you have a good birthday today. I hope you know you are loved and that you have people that think about you all the time. If you ever need anything, all you have to do is call. And if anyone ever hurts you, they better run and hide. Because I'm not sure who they should fear more-- the small army of family ready to destroy them, or the wrath of you.

I love you little sister! Happy birthday!

Your older sister,

Kayla

9.9.10

Lost Time

2010-08-05T16:13:00.001-07:00

Is there anything more frustrating than putting hours of work into writing and then losing it? I don't think so. And I just lost a week.

So so so fucking pissed.

My Brain

2010-08-04T19:13:00.000-07:00

is full of ambient music and underwater breathing. It is swimming and searching and curling and unfurling. It is lifting and soaring as drops of water curve downward and splash in an ocean of sparkling jade. It is surrounded by wind as I am lifted inexorably upward, supported by graceful hands. If joy were magic it would breathe under my skin. My brain is glistening with broken fragments of memories that are not mine, all drawn into the vortex at the center: the storm where I am suspended by everything that is arrestingly lovely and I reach my hand out to grasp the hurtling pieces as they fall and I see that they are right. They are that which has lived before and that I let live again within me. My brain is magical; the hand that holds this world is magical.

Why I Have a New Tattoo

2010-08-01T00:35:00.000-07:00

After my first tattoo, I never thought I would get another one. I've always had strong feelings about them; for me it was impossible to consider getting one that didn't have substantial meaning. My first choice of tattoo was a pair of wings, something I'd always wanted. When I try to explain it to people, I don't always have the courage to tell them the full reason. I have wings and the words "Sola Fide" in between. It means "Only Faith." The reason that I got this message paired with the angel wings was because I wanted to remind myself that I was capable of anything-- capable of the impossible, as long as I had faith in myself.

I have been haunted by dreams of flying all my life, dreams that are more like memories than some afterimages my subconscious baked up. I'm not trying to be new-agey, but I believe my dreams are significant, especially the ones that play like movies and have elements with no bearing on the waking world. My dreams are where I straddle the line between reality and the world from whence my stories come. They are truly special, and my tattoo symbolizes that secret part of me that I will hopefully reveal in time. I never thought I would get another tattoo.

But then my brother came to me and wanted to get something together. I fought with the idea a bit, not knowing if I could find something that encompasses me the way that my wings do. It might be silly to put so much serious thought into something like a tattoo, but I do have to have it forever. I guess it's not too much to ask that it be significant and eternal.

The more I thought about it, the more scared and nervous I became. Would I choose the right thing? Would I regret my decision? How would I do with the pain I vividly remembered being enough to make me never want to go through it again? I was nervous all the way up until the day we were to get them, and then I had a thought.

On the drive on the way there, I thought about my relationship with my brother. Not everyone is lucky to have such a bond with their sibling. This is not to say that my brother and I didn't fight or still don't-- we did and still do. But I think the difference is that I always knew the value of my brother, even when we were children.

I wasn't one of those kids that wished to be an only child. I loved my brother, even when he was small and cute and everyone thought he was cuter than me. I'm sure I had my jealous outbursts, but I honestly adored him as much as everyone else did, so that made it easier to forgive him when we fought. From the very beginning, we were partners in crime; adventurers who walked the same forest paths and children who faced the same nightmares. I always thought it was odd that my friends didn't see their siblings the same way. Didn't they know a brother is like a built-in best friend?

My brother was my playmate, and because he was a boy I had to learn to play baseball and football and wrestling. Who else was he going to practice on? In return, he tolerated my plays and music video directing as patiently as possible. We had a good arrangement, and even though we didn't always see eye to eye, we knew it was better make up and have someone to play with.

But I have to mention, even though it is difficult, that I have always thought the main reason we appreciated each other so much was because of what we did not have. There were times when people in our lives were not dependable, and that's when having him counted the most. I knew that even when my life was chaotic, I could always depend on my brother to be there and to understand. I have said before that there is no one that knows what it is like to be me the way he does. He has seen the same ugliness as me, and has tried like me to find something positive in it.

When we were older we made the pact that we would always support each other to our family, even if we secretly disagreed with each other's choices. This has come in handy more than you could guess. Knowing that there is always someone there to get your back-- that is true love. My relationship with my brother was the first time I really understood what "unconditional" meant.

My brother is a great person, and thinking about how much we have been through convinced me that this tattoo wasn't a bad idea. Every time I see it I feel like it represents what we have gone through together, and what we have won. I like to think that we are successes; that like our mother we exceeded people's expectations.

I don't mind having that idea memorialized in ink forever. Not one bit.

Tubthumping

2010-07-27T10:12:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite themes in writing is the redemption of the human race. I have seen this done well and done poorly, and each time it adds to the mulch that I move around in my brain, contemplating as I strive to find meaning in writing and also in my own life. I think everyone has their own search for identity, and for me it has a lot to do with who we are as a species. Terrible acts are committed every day, and I am not exempt from acting out of cowardice or jealousy or any manner of petty emotions. But the thing that gives me hope is the belief that we are reedemable, not through any act of divinity, but through our actions.

It's interesting to bring this subject up because at the outset I sound pretty religious. It makes me feel funny and small because I know that I am not the only one who has asked themselves if we deserve to live, to survive, to subjugate and to save. Obviously we have several religions that cover that ground. And for awhile, I counted myself as part of that machine. I didn't believe in God because I felt a need to feel larger, I believed because I agreed with what he had to say most of the time. But as must happen to anyone who consciously goes about their existence, I eventually came to an impasse with my beliefs. It may sound egotistical, but the one thing I couldn't agree on (and I suppose I can thank Ayn Rand for this) was that I was born with original sin. You see, the entire premise of Christianity is that we are born sinners. We were evil to begin with and we needed God to redeem us and make us whole again. I just couldn't consent to the idea that I was born evil. I felt tied to Christianity because I felt that I was worth something, but not because someone else gave it to me.

Now I am the worst kind of sinner because I believe that I was born a hero, that I am capable of great heroic deeds, and that no one can give that to me, or take it away. I am redeemed, because my aim is to do great things, to be a positive force, and to love those around me the best way possible. Sometimes, I fail, and sometimes I fail even more. But I was never destined to fail. It was always my choice, and I always have another choice to bring me back to where I want to be.

So now that those beliefs are out of the picture, where do I turn to in order to find answers? I find them everywhere, in little things, tiny segments broken up over the span of space and time, that add up together to one whole. Sections of conversation and interaction, snippets of songs and stories. My belief is quilted together with pieces that shouldn't fit together but somehow do. I believe in myself, and I believe in our species because of a million little things I have witnessed. We are not born good or bad, but we can choose to be great or terrible. I choose greatness.

The whole thing might sound egotistical but I am used to people thinking that about me. I am privy to the same insecurities as the rest of you. The difference is that I believe I was made to fit a mold of greatness, and every day I aspire to change and evolve until I can fit it completely. It's not the model of a God, but of the best possible person I can be. I will work my whole life to fill that space, but I will do it willingly, and joyfully.

And mostly, I believe in us because of what we tell ourselves when we are not paying attention. Lyrics to cheesy songs that are easily dismissed:

I get knocked down, but I get up again. You're never going to keep me down.

Silly I know. But think about it. This is exactly what makes humans so great. We fail. Some of us fail and then we're done. But many of us get up and try again. We try and try and hammer away until we get it right. We've been doing it for thousands of years and we will continue to do it for thousands of years. We fail, but we try again. We'll try again until we get it right. We are all trying for greatness, yearning and searching and reaching for it. It's lovely, and it's why I love being alive.

30 Day Difference

2010-07-14T16:02:00.000-07:00

I'm starting something today called "The 30 Day Difference." I haven't heard about this somewhere, although I'm sure similar ideas have existed and I'm not the first person to try it. Given past behaviors, I am probably going to fail miserably at it as well, but you know, I'm always ready to have a go.

The 30 Day Difference (capitalized, and therefore important) is all about doing exactly what I want for 30 days. Or more specifically, doing the things that will eventually bring me the things that I want. I am going to put forth the effort- 100%- into achieving the things that I want to achieve. What does this mean practically?

Well, it means that every day I exercise. I am not going to put a time minimum or limit on this, just want to make sure that every day I find something active to do with time. Obviously the more time spent exercising the better, but I don't want to defeat myself by setting impossible goals. I want to spend some time, every day exercising. I want to have a better opinion of the way I look.

It also means that I write every day. I want to write for at least an hour every day, two if possible. I am getting kind of sick of my story at this point, and have been wanting to explore other things. I've been neglecting some passages because I don't like what's going on in them, and then I just don't write at all. The best thing I learned from Nano Wrimo was to write despite these hurdles, so I'm going to try to re-create the scenario where I am absolutely required to write every day. This habit I hope stays with me longer than the 30 days.

Also, this means that I am going to journal every day of the 30 days. I hope this will help me keep on track or at least produce something written every day. Hey, this is day 1! Go me!

Lastly, it means that I go at each day with energy. Some days I just feel like oozing around like a slug on the couch, watching Doctor Who marathons or reading. I don't have time for that anymore. I have things that need doing and a life that needs living! At least, for the next 30 days.

Wish me luck! :)

My Thoughts for the Week

2010-06-25T08:38:00.000-07:00

A Dream Deferred

by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over--

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Going Through the Stacks

2010-06-22T10:57:00.000-07:00

It seems like life is so frenzied right now. I know Gabe feels the same way because he asked me the other day, "Is there a weekend when we don't have something planned?" I know exactly how he feels because ever since we were married, moved house, came down with plague-pneumonia for a month and then were hurtled into the summer holidays (Graduations/Father's Day/ Class Reunions/BBQs/ & Birthday Parties) it seems like every moment is filled. I came up with a plan to have my story finished by the end of July and already I am sooo far behind.

Our house is filled with crap. We moved that kind of way where you just throw things in boxes and then they stay in boxes until you are like, where the hell is that ____? Then there's a mad search in which you come up with several other things that are not what you were looking for, but are nice to have around anyway. Our furniture just arrived and is sitting in neatly stacked boxes waiting to be assembled. And in the meantime, I have my writing, sorted into neat piles, waiting for me to give it the full time and love it needs.

I had a moment when I went through my desk and notes and organized all of my stories into neat little stacks, all lined up on the floor of my bedroom. Besides the obvious fire hazard and lack of real organization, this gave me the delightful experience of seeing that I've come up with not just one but at least four or five different novels over the last ten years, and countless little short stories and essays. It was good to see that even though I have produced nothing, my brain is still working away, creating little storylines that lay dormant until I have the chance to pick them up again.

It doesn't help that I'm now obsessed with Doctor Who. Gabe and I both seperately joke that we have our own TARDIS in our heart-- he because he is constantly producing outrageous heat-energy and me because I am able to travel anywhere in my mind and in my stories. I wish I did have a real TARDIS though-- then there'd be no more spending the majority of my time doing something completely unrelated to my life-goals. When I think about how much of my time, the raw percentage, that is spent in such activities I kind of want to scream. Even though I wish the solution was stepping into the Police Box and being whisked away, really it's going to come down to me. What kind of time can I carve out for myself, steal for myself among the unimportant and mundane? That's what it's going to come down to. Me fighting for every moment in which I can possibly be creating, and instead of spending that time to relax and vegetate (which is what I want to do most of the time).

Here's to fighting for every moment. I wish, Jonathan Coulton, that living every day like it counts was as easy as it sounds.

Little Lion Man

2010-06-18T11:17:00.000-07:00

Mumford & Sons / Little Lion Man video

Mumford and Sons

MySpace Music Videos
I love this.

This is It

2010-06-18T09:21:00.000-07:00

And that was it-- the moment when I realized this is all the time I have; the moment when I simply refused to go in the same direction any more. It's time for a change.

I just realized that pain can be good. If it galvanizes me to action, makes me take leaps toward the frightening unknown that I've avoided-- then it can be good. If it makes me realize the importance of trying as hard as I can, without fear, without self-destructive criticism-- then it can be good. If it makes me realize that my life will never change unless I take it upon myself to be the catalyst-- then it can be good.

Pain is good if you use it as a weapon. Not to strike down others, but to make something better of yourself. That's the only thing that's changed. But it's so much. This is it.

Don't live another day unless you make it count
There's someone else that you're supposed to be--
There's something deep inside of you that still wants out
And shame on you if you don't set it free. ~Jonathan Coulton

Time to Fall

2010-06-10T09:41:00.000-07:00

There is only one place, which is the place that is mine. It is the Obelisk, which I built with the spray of the stars and the air of the oceans-- is the undefinable, the untouchable, and the transcendant. It is the place I found that cannot be touched by any other, where no troubles may follow, and where I am always alone.

The Obelisk is black. It is its definition, a pillar with a top like an beacon pulling fragments of reality down to its base. It is slightly taller than myself, and its corners are smooth so that my hand as it grazes across the surface never comes to an end. It is this motion, my hand on its flowing planes, that wakes it and causes it to create.

There is no limit to that which it might bring into being. The last time I was there, I sought peace from an illness that wouldn't give me a moment's rest. I went to the Obelisk, I touched it and it brought me the wilderness that I could not bring myself to visit. It brought me the thoughtful, gently swaying trees, rippling the sunlight into glass patterns on the ground. It brought me the long grass which is always a home to me, the gentle ocean of movement that comes up to my waist and engulfs me in the familiar. It brought me the green-green smell, freshness personified. It brought me the sun at its best-- not stifling or sweaty but simply warm, comfortable and right. It brought me the scenes of my childhood, the eternal and boundless; impossibly young nature which knows nothing but good. I touched the Obelisk and it brought me to my home. At last, I breathed easy and fell asleep.

The place where the Obelisk lies is not always a place of nature. Sometimes it is a place of science, sometimes an entire world where my children play. It is ever changing and unknowable, and in my fiercest heart I hope that it will never die. But I know it will only last as I do, and the time for both of us grows ever shorter....

The Happy Ending

2010-01-30T12:04:00.000-08:00

The sixtyone is my writing tool. I always turn it on and let it cycle through songs without words, because these are the kinds of songs that help me when I'm trying to write. They can be typical classical style songs, or fast-paced and hard hitting, or new age trancey. What they can't have is lyrics, because that distracts me from the words that I want to write. What I listen to gives me a mood or a feeling, and when I feel that mood I can see what's happening in my world.

But something surprising happened to me as I listened. My song list connects to other songs of similar quality, and so I ended up, inextricably, with a cover of Mad World. I have always really loved this song, because it is beautiful and haunting, but I have never loved its irredeemably sad lyrics. It is not in me to be melancholy, or to wallow in the feeling that nothing I do in life will ever matter. My nature is firmly set to the opposite, so you can see where my contradictory feelings for this song come in. I don't believe in liking a song despite its lyrics, yet I do. It's a beautiful song, but do I really believe the world is unable to change for the better? Do I think it's best to just give up, give in, and surrender to the thought that a world without me in it is a better one? Absolutely not. So I have always limited my listening of this song.

But then- the surprise factor. Whoever had covered this song had changed it considerably. I heard the song played out, thought the same thoughts I always do, and heard its final note with something akin to relief. Then! The magic. The song continued.

I looked up from my work.

The song continued, but not in the same predictable way. Whomever had covered this song had added something considerable to it- a happy ending. As the sounds fluttered up I felt the hope in the quickness of tempo, the great sweep of the orchestra. It was hope, hope infused into a song completely and shamefully devoid of it. I experienced the thing Mr. Hardebeck told me in the 9th grade that all artists were trying to achieve: the moment of complete and total communication. Taking an idea or feeling and transferring it directly to another person without being with them. Telepathy of the heart.

Whoever had covered this song, loved this song the way I do. But they also love this world, love the feeling of happiness they feel in their everyday life, and could not content themselves to love something so devoid of hope. So they added it in, their own little postscript. I laughed. Because that's exactly what I want to do too.

Hope, my own little postscript.

The Fine Line

2009-12-07T22:09:00.001-08:00

I have always considered the line between writer and full on schizophrenic to be delicate. I think the only difference may be that the writer makes money (theoretically) from his hallucinations, while a schizo is victimized by them. At any rate, it is a jagged-edged gift, to be born with the power to create people and then to listen to them constantly speaking to you in your head.

My characters grow restless. Winter is the hardest time of year for writing, I think, though there are plenty of people that would say that is just an excuse. I don't make the time for them so they find ways to insinuate themselves into my day, even if it is just a flash of a scene I see for a brief moment. I know they are always there, always watching, always waiting for their moment to come out and breathe onto the paper. I hold them back in a way, even as I give them the chance to live. Their lives depend on me, on my dedication to giving it to them, and it's understandable that they get a little anxious when I don't show them the proper respect. They are calling me now, living in scenes behind my eyelids and threatening to disappear forever if I don't write them down.

I Am

2009-10-11T15:10:00.000-07:00

I was reading the ending of "The Amber Spyglass" today when I finished and turned to the page of acknowledgements at the back of the book. It's something I like to do just as a curiousity, and I was surprised to find Phillip Pullman's credits quite lengthy. There is one line in there that I loved, and I felt compelled to share: I have stolen ideas from every book I've ever read. I got to thinking about this and realized, beyond the admission that other people's ideas are inspiring to you, how every book you read is tiny piece of the ultimate shape you become, as a person, and especially as a writer.

I have a unique way of recognizing correct spelling. I remember every word I have ever read, and each word was added to my vocabularly the instant I saw it used in a sentence. My spelling is from visual memory, and if I have seen a word I will be able to spell it, based on the "looks right" rule that is so dependable. I do not always know how to pronounce every word, which has caused me some embarrassment when I have to admit that I have never heard anyone say it. I have seen it written, and have inferred its meaning from the context, and this is how I learn. I bring this up because I feel that my writing voice has been created in this way; I have taken the shape of what I have read into myself and made it part of me, part of who I am and part of the goal that all writers have when they set out to put their words on paper.

Who would I be if I had not read the Fountainhead, and heard the resonance of the law I had always kept dear to my heart: "bring yourself to bear with everything you can muster, and let nothing tear you down"? Who would I be if I had not first journeyed across the universe in a Wrinkle in Time, and learned that there is good and evil and that evil should be fought to the last? Who would I be if I had not read Jane Austen, and realized that I do enjoy the ridiculous, and so "dearly love to laugh?" All of these people, with their words like ropes thrown to me across the span of space and time, building me up into what I am. They have thrown me something to grasp and take into myself, their being, their message, their love- and I have done it.

Now I start my own journey, a journey I have been trying and failing to take like so many people before and after me. I read the words I have written and I think badly of them: who will read this and find resonance? Who will find these words in a part of their own heart, and with my help bring it to light? But I needn't worry about that. I can't see what will happen in the future, if any of the words I write will see the light of day. I can't known if anyone will find resonance with me, if anyone will take a tiny part of me into themselves and let me live on, in my own beautiful immortality, a part of them forever. I may never know if I will change the world in a tiny way. But I must try, because to not try is to betray those who have built me up for this purpose.

We are all a chain, reaching through each other forever, and I won't let you down.

Time's Top 100 Books

2009-04-09T11:51:00.000-07:00

I was wiling away another boring, useless morning of work when I saw an ad for the Time's list of top 100 books. Curious, I clicked the link and was presented with a helpfully alphabetical list of what Time Magazine, (or at least, whomever considers themselves the literary expert at Time Magazine) considers the top 100 books of all time.

On the list, I found the typical books you'd all expect. 1984. Animal Farm. The Sound and the Fury. The Grapes of Wrath, Their Eyes Were Watching God, Native Son, etc etc. A round robin of racially, thematically, and time period-ly diverse stories that anyone with an English major or a vague conception of literary canon would agree is "good literature." There are a few newbies thoughtfully entered into the list, but for the most part, they stick to the "greats," or what I consider anyone whose name you bring up in a Starbucks and have people nod knowingly, whether they'd read the book or not. These are people we are expected to read, expected to know, expected to absorb into our own identity as 21st century American writers. There were quite a few I did not recognize, so I clicked on them and read the blurbs. I wanted to get an idea of what it was I was missing, and why these books were continually being taught in sophomore English class.

As I read on, I started to notice a pattern in these books. It's something I've dealt with for a long time, as an avid reader and aspiring writer, this pattern, and I am starting to get an idea of the literary environment I live in. Many of the novels detail "quiet lives of desperation," as Thoreau would say. People who have grown helpless, bored, or unseated by their belief that they have no control over their lives. They are langorous and despairing. They, like my least favorite and only personally trashed book (100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez) tell a story of people who live lives that make no difference whatsoever. They almost revel in the fact that they will never achieve happiness, and that the insanity of a quietly accepting that is more logical than the unflinching desire to chase it. These are people who live with no hopes, no dreams, and no self-respect. They desire nothing and achieve nothing. They have acceptance and apathy. They are worthless.

I feel like I am going crazy sometimes when I read that this kind of thing is popular. Why do people love books that are urbane and spiritless? Why do they rejoice in mundanity? And most of all, why are these books considered an accurate reflection of humanity? I have only inhabited one body during my time on Earth, but I have never felt an inkling of those feelings, and I never will. I feel like that is the most evil thing I have ever heard of, and yet people accept it, laud it, even love it! And why? Why do they like books written about people without even a shred of heroic quality? Why do they want to read about weaklings and cowards and people who willfully destroy themselves? I don't understand it, and I wish someone would explain it to me.

Here is a blurb about a book by John Updike called "Rabbit, Run." If anyone would like to explain to me the merit of this book, please be my guest. I quite honestly do not understand it.

"At the center of the crack-up is Harry ("Rabbit") Angstrom. In the small Pennsylvania suburb where he was born and lives, he had been a schoolboy hero, a basketball player of exciting skill. That was the high point of his life. Now, out of the army and in his mid-20s, he has reached a personal nadir. The old hero of the courts works as a demonstrator of a kitchen gadget. His wife is dull, losing her looks, and spends most of her time before the TV set with an oldfashioned. Not knowing what he wants, but hating what he has, Rabbit walks out on his wife and child, gets into his car and simply runs away.
At his hollow center, Rabbit is ineffectual. He cannot even run away cleanly, gets lost on the road and returns—but not to his wife. He turns to his old high school coach and through him meets a girl who has slipped into casual prostitution. The first night, he pays. Then he and Ruth simply begin living together. Big, shrewd, and without illusions, she knows Rabbit is no prize, but neither is she. It is when the local Episcopal minister shows up to make Rabbit see the moral wrong of his desertion that all the weak strands of his character begin to tangle up. The minister is a weakling himself, but he is persistent. What follows is the revolting zigzag course of a weak, sensual, selfish and confused moral bankrupt. He returns to his wife; he walks out again; a tragic incident sends him back to her once more-and again he runs out. Can he go back to Ruth, pregnant and contemptuous of his weakness? When he goes out on a simple errand, all his failings converge on him at once, and again he runs, runs, runs. "

Why would I want to read something like this? I know people are like this, I suppose, but maybe I try too hard to shelter myself from it. I don't WANT to know people like this. I don't want people to accept this for themselves. I want people to stretch the boundaries of what they are to see what they can be, and to run for THAT with all the will they can muster.

Is my idea of humanity outdated or ridiculous? Is it true that most people have given up trying to be great, and are satisfied with just being relatively good sometimes?

Or maybe my idea of literature is wrong. I read things that I feel will improve me and guide me down my own path to becoming great. I want to read things inspiring and glinting with hope. I want to read things that set me on fire.

Maybe different things resonate with different people? All I know is that despair does NOT resonate with me.

Just While Jobs

2009-02-19T10:32:00.000-08:00

Everyone starts out with a dream of what they want to be. Its pull may be great or wistful, and the obstacles barring its acheivement may be moutainous or nonexistent. But everyone starts out wishing to be something, and the rest of their life is just the background noise for that ultimate plotline.

Or so I thought.

Sometimes the line toward your destiny is not drawn in at all. Sometimes there are interruptions, complications, and the ever-pressing demands that society has deemed necessary for life. And that's when you have to start getting creative. Your goal is still there, it's just that now there's a moat and a castle fortress and maybe even a frothing-mawed monster standing imposingly before you, making your ultimate goal just a little harder to reach.

For me, that monster is my student loans and that castle the money to support myself. I have had to get jobs using only a fraction of my skills, just to be able to pay for those "necessities" that I need to live. The things that are not, apparently as necessary as that gleaming beacon of hope which is my goal of being a published writer. I have had to take a just while job.

I have started to realize that every job I've ever had was something I was doing "just while" I was doing something else. My first job, at McDonald's was something to do just while I was in high school. Then, I did a couple of jobs just while I was getting through college. None of these jobs were anywhere near in line with my ultimate goal of being a writer, because unfortunately, the road to that job is not paved with easily measurable stepping stones.

And now I am at a crossroads. My just while job is so soul-crushing, so incredibly awful that it's actually leaving me with nothing when I go to pick up my pen. I don't want to think, don't want to weave sweetly ironic tales of magic. I just want to go to bed and when I wake up, have all my financial problems disappear in a cloud of magical dust. Maybe if I build up enough magic from not writing, I can make it all disappear in one big poof! Okay, maybe not.

All of this, I am sure seems very whiny. I'm sure any one person could tell me that I could just get another job. And I'm sure that eventually, I could. But I don't want another just while job, and that is exactly what it would be.

I want my job. My job is to wake up and be happy at all the promise in the day ahead. My job is to watch people, to know people, to get inside their heads and figure out why the ticks are ticks instead of tocks. My job is to write something they understand, they relate to, they feel is truth somewhere inside themselves that they forgot existed. My job is to be a writer. And that's what I'm going to do.

I'm going to keep digging and clawing my way up after I get knocked down. I'm going to keep putting pen on paper, keeping clicking away at the keys until something finally takes. Because I see my destiny, even through the stones of that stupid castle, and through the waterlogged matted hair of that moat monster. No one is going to keep me from it. Not even this just while job.

I just realized

2009-02-03T14:05:00.000-08:00

That the voice inside my head sounds like Cate Blanchett narrating the first Lord of the Rings movie. How sophisticated! I wonder if my inner me is half as majestic.

Also, how can I get paid for writing things all day? Every day I convince myself that I need money to work. And that working here is worth it. Every day I have to convince myself of that. I'd love to have a job where I forgot that I was making money.

I'm working on a new story. It might be in Caderyn, and it might not. What I do know is that it's fun, and it has a great little heroine.

I have to be strong, I have to be tough. And I have to get the hell out of here! Wish me luck, iconoclasts of the universe!

Words Move Me

2009-01-16T12:26:00.000-08:00

Words are my coiled rope, clipped to my waist, ready to catch me if I jump too far away from the cliff's edge. They call me back to my place, still my tears when I am crying, and fill me with unsuspecting hope when I need it. They are my buoy. I am a writer because I adore words. They are the foundation of the castle that I live in. They are the ground that the trees spring from in my world. They swirl around, in a nebulous cluster, ready to hit me at any time with their irrevocable force. They are everything to me.

So when I feel the way I feel now, I like to reach back for the stars that guide me. I like to reach out and let them fill me with their magic.

"You may have success in life, but then ask yourself - what kind of life was it? What good was it if you've never done the thing you wanted to do all your life or went where your heart and soul wanted to go. When you find that feeling, stay with it, and don't let anyone throw you off."

Joseph Campbell

"If you can see your path laid out ahead of you step by step, then you know it’s not your path."

Joseph Campbell

"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or faraway."

Henry David Thoreau

"Sometimes I go about pitying myself, and all the time I am being carried on great winds across the sky."

Ojibway Dream Song

The las one always hits me the hardest, because it's so true. I am so fortunate, I have so much to be thankful for. I should never complain. I should be full of radiance and never let a glimmer of anything else tarnish that. I believe, like they all believed, in something that exists only in my own mind. I have to stay strong and bring it forth. Because if I falter, they will all die with me.

To My Students

2009-01-06T11:14:00.000-08:00

I wanted to write you this letter on the one-year anniversary of leaving China. I started to write it last July, but I don't know what happened. Maybe I felt like what I had to say was too small and disorganized. Maybe I just got distracted wth the necessities of living every day life. But mostly I think I was afraid that you would be disappointed with me, forgetting the lessons you taught me as I took on the role of your teacher. At any rate, I didn't write to you, and I'm sorry.

Last night I had a dream. I dreamt that I was in China again, and I was alive with excitement to see you all. I had a friend with me, and I pointed you out to her, each of you by name. Your faces were so vivid to me, and I remember thinking that I was afraid that you had forgotten me, and that other teachers had replaced me in your hearts. It is a childish, selfish fear, but for some reason when I woke up I felt inspired to finish this letter to you. After all, what I have to say to you is important to me.

When I left China, it was with a sense of excitement to finally return to my family and friends. I had learned a lot on my little adventure, but I was happy to be home again. I was happy with the thought of not living out of a suitcase anymore, happy to think that once again I could be solid and put down roots. To have more money than what I needed to barely scrape by.

But when I returned, I found that I was actually quite unhappy. It took me a long time to get a job, and an even longer time to adjust to living with someone else again. I had been terribly lonely while I was in China, even with your wonderful friendship, but having someone around me constantly just didn't fit at first. I had gotten to used to my solitary life, walking two miles to the grocery store, listening to music. Sitting at a coffeeshop and writing, watching people interact around me. Running on the track at night, going to the dance club on the weekend. I spent most of my time alone, but I knew that I ever needed anyone, I could just call one of you.

You always included me in your parties, your outings, your lunches and your lives. I appreciated how much you encouraged me to explore China, to interact with new people, and to try to be the best kind of teacher I could. I worked hard on your lessons because I wanted them to be helpful to you. I wanted you to get everything you could out of my class, and mostly I wanted you to come away with the impression that people from my country are open, friendly, and fun. We're not all like the ones you see on the movies.

One thing I learned when I came back to my home is that you can live, painfully, with only half a heart. You, my students, and all of China will always have the other half. I loved my life when I lived there with you, and I loved all of you very much. You made me change in a way that was necessary, in a way that made me stronger and braver than I have ever been. It made me appreciate what I have and what I don't. And it made me miss you so very much. There is always a part of me that will belong only to you.

I hope that you will all go out and do things that are scary to you, that you push yourself past your comfort zones and try something new. I hope you follow after the dreams you chased when I met you. I hope you know that when your country was in the spot light at the last Olympic games, I was looking at you proudly saying "That used to be my home," while tears formed in my eyes.

I hope someday that my life can be as lovely as it was when I was with you. I hope to have the time for all the things I love, and also the time to stop, arrested by the beauty of a flowering peach tree, as I saw a girl once do in China. I hope you know how much you all mean to me, and that I think of you often. I hope that I will make you proud.

All my love always,

Miss Kayla

Flight

2008-12-29T14:08:00.001-08:00

There's a figure in the darkness. She's high up. No telling how she got there, standing a hundred floors high on building that shines like one solid mirror. The color of the sky changes in the panes of glass and in her black, black eyes. They reflect everything and evince nothing, the dark guileless eyes of a Goddess.

She watches the city breathe around her. Under the maddening sky, they don't seem to notice the brisk fragility of their lives, the tenouousness with which they grasp at things. They can only see that which is directly before them: the dry cleaning, the day at work, the dinner tonight, the fight with their mother, the holiday shopping annoyances. They march forward relentlessly, a never ending parade of sameness, mirrors against mirrors. She watches them, cocks her head curiously at them. They don't see her, they never do. How could they? She is in the sky and they never look up.

She watches the horizon until her chest fills up with its beauty. It hurts to breathe. There's no more time, if there ever was time in the first place.She closes her eyes and still sees the world behind her eyelids. There is no way to shut it out; it's a part of her now. She's part of it. She's part of everything.

It's easy to fall. She just walks out, stretches her arms forward out and pulls it around her like a blanket. The sky, the wind, the clouds, they pluck impishly at her skin as she goes past. She is not afraid. She smiles.She opens her eyes. It's time. She stretches her arms out and embraces it. Sure enough, the wind fills her up like a parachute. Just before she hits the ground, she sweeps up in a delicate arc. Her body spins around like a bullet, effortlessly peircing the air around her. She rockets into the sky even faster than she fell. As she reaches the clouds, she stretches them out again. She floats for a moment, over them all, and her laughter rings out like snowflakes. She swoops and dives again, on wings they can't see and won't see, wings they will never know she had.

My Subconscious is Extremely Impractical

2008-12-11T12:55:00.000-08:00

I've never been entirely sure if there is a huge difference between writers and schizophrenics. I think most writers live with an internal dialogue that they may or may not be able to identify as themselves. I know I have a voice in there, which I'm pretty sure is my own. But every now and then it comes up with something so bizarre or taunting that I really begin to wonder.

There's been a narrator in there for as long as I can remember, throwing out helpful descriptions of the landacape "the clouds billowed dangerously in the sky like a group of bullying children in the schoolyard" or just narrating my own actions in an annyoingly pretentious way, "She had known she didn't love him; but she seen her worth only in terms of what he could give her." It can be a little smug at times, but I don't want it to go away. Beecause it's also the voice I hear when I feel depressed or confused. It's almost always cheering me on, a little bit of hope that reaches out to me, and reminds me of the things that I really believe in.

But today, the voice told me something unusual. I was walking back up the stairs to my office, and I looked out at the sky overhead. It's something I frequently do when I'm trying to feel better. This kind of "looking up" reminds me that there's more out there, and that I just need to have the right kind of thinking to see it. But today as I looked outside, the voice quite clearly told me, "You could walk out the door and never come back." I would have almost called it a taunt, if it had not come in such a gentle, reassuring way. It wasn't making fun of me. It was just a reminder, that I am free.

I was surprised however, that my subconcious, so acutely aware of my current unhappiness, was reminding me of my freeedom to choose. Of course, it is the practical, rational choice, but it is a still a choice that I consciously make. I come here, out of my own free will, every day. I like tell myself I need to be here, that I need the money, and this almost completely true. But I am always choosing this for myself, whether conscious or unconscious, and that choice always available to me is the option to walk out the door and never come back.

*Big deep breath*

My inner voice is much, much braver than me.

Why Am I Writing This?

2008-11-28T15:10:00.000-08:00

This is the question I grapple with more than any other. I feel like, if I am asking myself this question so frequently, maybe I shouldn't be writing this story. Maybe I should spend my time on something I feel is more meaningful, since I seem to be having issues with the book. I frequently second-guess both my motivation for writing it and the quality of the book. (Who cares about this story? is the question I hear most in my head.) I don't generally have confidence issues so the fact that I'm having so much trouble with this book should tell me something? Or should it? Maybe every writer goes through this.

Usually, when I'm done pissing away a bunch of time worrying about this, I come to the conclusion that I'm writing this story because it's fun. I enjoy the world I created, the characters, and the complete absurdity of the situations they find themselves in. I can't constantly ask myself if this is cliche or if it isn't; I can't be always bothering about whether this is fresh, innovative, or interesting. I just need to write the story, and write it to please myself.

It's ironic to me to discover that my biggest issue is worrying about what other people think of my book. I'm supposed to be the kind of person who doesn't care about that. And if not the kind of person I am, at the very least writers can't concern themselves with those thoughts. I have to just go for it here, and not worry about what's going to happen with it. I have to allow myself to suck if that's what's going to happen. I have to remind myself that everything I write isn't going to be of the utmost important. Some of it will have to be tossed away. I just have to write, write, and keep writing until one or both of my hands fall off. It's the only way I'm going to get anything good.

The Inexorable Pull of Romance

2008-11-26T08:46:00.000-08:00

Now don't get me wrong here. I'm not trying to criticize, though I can't say I haven't criticized it, openly, vocally, and energetically in the past week. But I just don't understand the obsession with Twilight. I logged on to facebook this morning to the astonishing news that one of my friends had become a fan of Edward Cullen. If you don't know (and I don't know how you can't) that is the male romantic lead from Stephanie Meyer's ridiculously popular novel. He's attractive, charming, chivalrous, and drinks blood. Yes, he's a vampire folks. Enter drama, and most of all, angst angst angst.

Wasn't it Poe who said that adding a little tragedy made something even more beautiful? I'm paraphrasing, but it seems to hold true, at least in this case. You can look at any of the timeless classics and see that star-crossed lovers is a story that sells. Better yet, make it teenagers, and we have the added bonus of the novelty of discovering these things anew. High school romance is a pretty shallow pool to play in, but add a little eternal damnation to the mix and you have yourself a story, and a strangely compelling one, at that.

But what is it exactly that makes it so every woman between 13-30 is attracted to this character of Edward Cullen? As I scrolled through the pictures (241 of them posted at the time of this writing) I noticed a certain theme. Many people had superimposed themselves into the picture with him. One person had been so bold as to admit, in textual format, that she was in love with a fictional character. How is such a thing even possible? Can you really love someone you've never interacted with; find kinship with someone who has never (and will never) exist? What is it that these people are looking for?

And then I saw it: eternity.

Eternity is a fucking long span of time. And when you really think about it, it's frightening. They say that no matter who is with you, you come into this world and you leave it alone. If you think too long or too hard about starting on either one of those journeys, it can be terrifying. And we've been trying, for as long as we've existed, to alleviate that fear. There is an obsession on the part of humanity to find permanance in a world that is anything but.

It's difficult to find love, and even more difficult to find love that lasts. The concept of a vampire, an immortal being, in love with you is intoxicating. Think about it: a person who has existed for hundreds of years, met thousands of people, and never fallen in love. And then he meets one person, one clumsy, imperfect, everywoman (and here's where we all can relate) and he's in love. And not just any kind of love, but the kind we know will last. He knows all about eternity; he's had that long and longer to think about it. And he loves me--I mean her-- how amazing is that?

It's incredibly amazing. Especially now, in a time where cheating is expected if not condoned by much of society. I'm not religious by any definition of the term but I do find the degredation of the sanctity of relationships extremely disturbing. It's as if the entire human race is afraid to believe in permanance anymore. The closer we get to answers about the universe, the farther we get from believing we are an important part of it. We are tiny, we are inconsequential, and our actions don't matter. But this is where we're wrong.

This is why people (and women in particular) reach out to these characters and fantasies that they find in books and movies. They crave this kind of love, need it as badly as breathing or eating. They are waiting for the great sweeping romance that will change their lives and make everything different. They want permanance, even if it's not for the world. Permanance for them is good enough.

Women want an Edward Cullen to make them believe that love can last for eternity. They want to be the most important part of someone else's world. The problem with though is when they finally do encounter someone who possesses the ability to love like that, they run away from it. Society programs you to think that these kinds of feelings are silly and inspid. Obsessiveness is frightening. So herein lies the problem: the very thing they desire is the thing they are made to find fearful.

It's interesting to me that we live in a society full of such contradiction that someone could "love" a character in a fantasy novel but look down on a man who loves someone with the same kind of ardor as "suffocating" or "boring."

We love you Edward Cullen. As long you remain a fantasy.

Breaking Through

2008-11-25T10:08:00.000-08:00

This is blog one. I am hoping there will be blogs 2, 3, 4, and 1005 someday, so it's a good place to start. This is a place for me to try to sort out the ideas that come around in my head; for me to get the insignifica out of my way and concentrate on what matters. And that's writing.

It's funny to me to think of writers who didn't intend to start out that way. Writers who had an idea and just lived with it; thought about it and cared for it like it was a child. And then to have it actually work out in the end. To have someone look at that carefully tended thing that wasn't meant for outside eyes, and to say, "That's something to share."

I want to make something to share.

Do I need to think of it more like it was something personal of mine? Some part of me that can live without ever seeing the light of day and that would all right? Because I don't see that way. My writing has never been any more mine than the ideas that came to me. I don't make up things. Whenever I do, they seem small and ugly in comparison to the things I uncover. I see stories like they are truths, previously unexamined and unexplored areas that come to light with the assistance of a knowing guide. I don't write these things. I discover them, and then I show them to everyone. They're not mine to keep, and so it becomes a responsibilty to share them. And that's where the burden comes. They live! They live without me, they existed before me, they'll exist when I'm gone. They want me to tell their story, if I can. But I don't have control over them. I'm just the spectator who stumbled across them one day when I wasn't paying attention. I see them, I write about what I see.

But what happens when I don't see? When the difficulties and stress of the life I only grudgingly live (the monotonous and unforgiving office job, the bills I pay without understanding why) are too much to slough off in pursuit of my escapist land where my characters live? What happens when a wall starts to get built there, and brick by brick, it's more difficult for me to see into their lives and their hearts? What happens when I forget them for awhile? Do they forget me too?

I have a strange land inside my head. That's nothing new. Tolkien did too; a great sweeping middle earth, filled with language and culture and stories, so many of them that you couldn't see every layer if you tried. CS Lewis created a world too. Madeline L'Engle. Piers Anthony. It's their place, it's where they live when they're happy. I have that place too. But what if I can't always get in? What if the wardrobe doesn't always open for me? What then?

What then for me?