For some reason, I had a hard time with this assignment and really thinking of what to write. Do I focus on the fear? the descriptions? the vulnerability? Focusing on a lot of things at once kinda makes my head explode. So here's the result of my brainsplosion.
POV 1:
She was dicing the carrots at two in the morning when she heard it. She stopped mid-dice and cocked her head to one side, one hand on the knife, held up in the air above the chopping board, the other resting on the edge of the board and holding down a half-chopped carrot that was screaming bloody orange.
Silence. She set the knife down and scratched her head, itchy from the red hair dye that was setting and drying against her scalp. It was probably nothing, she reasoned, but her pounding heart told her otherwise. Still, her mind prevailed. Get the onions. She turned slowly, mechanically, forcing herself to swallow away the sense of vulnerability that was choking her. Once she had the onions in hand she whipped back around towards the sink.
Thunk, thunk, thunk. Her knife kept time with her sinking heart. Suddenly--a slip! and she whirled around, back towards the fridge, checking to see if anyone was watching, as her quivering mouth nursed her bleeding finger. Really, she resembled a little kid trying not to wet her pants during a scary movie. Just take away the hair dye and the smeared mascara, and she looked about five-years-old, at the moment, complete with the runny nose. Ugh. She blew her nose and used the glossy refrigerator door as a mirror while she rubbed away the mascara. All the tears were making it run. Probably, it was the onions. But she kept the knife close while she rubbed, just in case the tears were the result of legitimate fear, and not the onions.
She loosened up a bit as the stubborn mascara came off. But suddenly--there it was again! A squeaky swish-swish sound. She almost jabbed her eye out when she heard it, and before she knew it, she'd grabbed the knife, and her ridiculous legs were throwing her forward, heart in mouth, past the corner, and into the hallway that led to her violated house door.
POV 2:
His teeth were....itching. So he'd good-naturedly gotten up, up from the soft spot on the floor where the carpet hadn't been flattened and matted yet. He'd go out to the front yard and grab a stick fallen from the tree in the yard, perhaps. It was a simple enough goal, the kind that you don't plan for. Like how Mommy got up from bed in the middle of the night to make vegetable soup because she was hungry all of a sudden and dyed her hair at the same time, because she wanted it to be nice in the morning.
But he had to belly-crawl his way through the small kitty door. It was growing a bit tight, grabbing his middle a bit on all sides. Eventually he pulled his way through. But again, his feet were still too big for him, and his tail too heavy, and he stumbled down the short cement steps. Before he knew it, he was stuck in the brambles. His breath wheezed and squealed in pain. Forget the stick. He wanted Mommy now. Cowed, he bobbed and staggered back to the kitty door.
Desperately, he nosed the door open a little and began to inch forward a little. It was easy enough, at first. But the thorns and burrs were starting to hurt, and the kitty door made a terrible protesting sound every time he moved, and the middle was impossible, sticking the pointies even deeper into his fur. He was stuck on all sides, uncertain of how to back out or move forward. Not even the smell of vegetable soup was enough.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Just Because
I'm tired. Sometimes I feel like I get so caught up in the "daily-routine-of-the-average-teenager" that I'm not really quite alive. So I think I'll just take some time to blog. Not blogging for homework, or blogging for class stuff. Just blogging, just talking. Just because.
Mentioning the whole every-day-routine deal in the previous paragraph made me think of something. To a certain extent, the "daily-routine" sort of freaks me out. It insights a sort of fear, and when I think about it for too long, I can actually feel my heart rate go up and my lungs start to hyperventilate. hm....I need a name for the thing I'm going to talk about next. So here goes:
The Daily-Routine-Factor. The Daily-Routine-Factor is the part of one's life that makes it like any other day. It might be good, it might be boring.
For me, it is terrifyingly boring. I think this is sort of at the heart of me not wanting to grow up. When I see adults, working from 9 to 5, with wayyyy less vacation time and wayyyy more stress, it makes me wonder. Is life this way for everyone? Is this the way life needs to be run? It seems like people spend the prime of their lives so they can spend the last few in satisfaction. But shouldn't there be another way to live, a way where not only the retirement years are enjoyable, but also the working years?
I guess the answer is yes, there is a way, but it's highly unlikely for anyone to be completely satisfied. So this really gets to an issue that's been on my mind since last year. Science or art?
Both things I enjoy, to some extent, both with their benefits and faults.
I can understand Science. In science, I think there's less of a risk, it's just about guaranteed you can find yourself an educated steady income in medicine. Research helps people. Science has a defined answer. You're right or your wrong. No uncertainty.
I can also, on the other hand, understand art. Art is risky, though. No certainty, 'cause it's based upon opinion, right? An artist puts him or herself onto a blank canvas, people look at the artist, splattered across the medium, and reach a decision. Art is subject to gaping, praising, disagreeing, burning, vandalizing, copying, inspiring, adoring, hoping, dreaming. But I'm drawn to art. Although pursuing art would probably make me worried about having to live on the streets and whatnot, over the years, I've found art to be increasingly amazing!!! Art's not just drawing, or painting, I think. It's writing, photographing, sculpting, doodling, sketching, folding origami, scribbling letters. It's creating, and creating is a powerful thing. You take an object, hold an idea in your mind, and try to inject the idea into the object to the best of your ability. You place a teeny weeny bit of your soul into each piece, and then the piece has a life of its own.
I think I really want a life that is open to constant change--always something new to look forward too, an adventure. But I also want to be able to fight for something that will help other people--cures to diseases, research on maintaining better health. Maybe somewhere the two overlap. I hope so.
Mentioning the whole every-day-routine deal in the previous paragraph made me think of something. To a certain extent, the "daily-routine" sort of freaks me out. It insights a sort of fear, and when I think about it for too long, I can actually feel my heart rate go up and my lungs start to hyperventilate. hm....I need a name for the thing I'm going to talk about next. So here goes:
The Daily-Routine-Factor. The Daily-Routine-Factor is the part of one's life that makes it like any other day. It might be good, it might be boring.
For me, it is terrifyingly boring. I think this is sort of at the heart of me not wanting to grow up. When I see adults, working from 9 to 5, with wayyyy less vacation time and wayyyy more stress, it makes me wonder. Is life this way for everyone? Is this the way life needs to be run? It seems like people spend the prime of their lives so they can spend the last few in satisfaction. But shouldn't there be another way to live, a way where not only the retirement years are enjoyable, but also the working years?
I guess the answer is yes, there is a way, but it's highly unlikely for anyone to be completely satisfied. So this really gets to an issue that's been on my mind since last year. Science or art?
Both things I enjoy, to some extent, both with their benefits and faults.
I can understand Science. In science, I think there's less of a risk, it's just about guaranteed you can find yourself an educated steady income in medicine. Research helps people. Science has a defined answer. You're right or your wrong. No uncertainty.
I can also, on the other hand, understand art. Art is risky, though. No certainty, 'cause it's based upon opinion, right? An artist puts him or herself onto a blank canvas, people look at the artist, splattered across the medium, and reach a decision. Art is subject to gaping, praising, disagreeing, burning, vandalizing, copying, inspiring, adoring, hoping, dreaming. But I'm drawn to art. Although pursuing art would probably make me worried about having to live on the streets and whatnot, over the years, I've found art to be increasingly amazing!!! Art's not just drawing, or painting, I think. It's writing, photographing, sculpting, doodling, sketching, folding origami, scribbling letters. It's creating, and creating is a powerful thing. You take an object, hold an idea in your mind, and try to inject the idea into the object to the best of your ability. You place a teeny weeny bit of your soul into each piece, and then the piece has a life of its own.
I think I really want a life that is open to constant change--always something new to look forward too, an adventure. But I also want to be able to fight for something that will help other people--cures to diseases, research on maintaining better health. Maybe somewhere the two overlap. I hope so.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Put me in, Coach!
ehehehehe.
Mariana “Mari” Ni twirled a lock of her fading red highlights, her glinty, deep carmine nails shooting off light in all directions as the real-estate agent blah-blah-blahed on and on about the paperwork she’d need to fill out. Mari just kept smiling and nodding, smiling and nodding, as her attention drifted off to what felt like the other half of the planet. She sat leaning strongly to the right, her elbows supporting her and her sharp jaw ensconced firmly in the palm of one hand. As soon as she detected a break in the agent’s word-vomit, she got up, quick and agile, like a big cat, smiling her most charming, glossiest, and fakest lollipop smile as she wrist-flicked her phone open in one fluid motion.
“Sorry, excuse me. I think I need to make a quiiick phone call.”
She scooted out of the room, as quickly as anyone can manage when they’re wearing blazing red 4-inch pumps.
To tell you the truth, she kind of died a little inside when she saw the house. As soon as the door closed she slapped her phone shut and sighed. She was moving into a dump—a dump with dumpy neighbors and a dumpy yard growing pitiful, dumpy weeds in a heavy, dumpy atmosphere. She winced. Times weren’t good. With the economy splatting its guts all over the place, the country’s stockbrokers started freakin’ out.
She needed a break—needed to get away from the cutthroat world of unpredictable business and enjoy some nice weather in a place that was close-by and affordable. But who knew? Nice weather doesn’t mean everything else isn’t dumpy.
Assigned Blog Post #4
...so now I need to make suggestions for our town....This really notches up my freak-out factor. It creeps me out a lot more now that I'm contributing ideas to a class thing....which means what I write might be *gasp* exposedddddddddddddd. oh dear.
hm....I think it's already implied, but it would be interesting to intensify the semi-rivalry between the two halves of the town. It kind of creates a source of conflict, which also implies that there should be a resolution later, right?
...maybe the rivalry can be intensified by something like class differences (although i guess that would be sort-of controversial? I don't know) or maybe the town is decisively divided by something ridiculous like VEGETARIANS vs. MEAT EATERRRS (roar) or just an issue that tends to divide people into two major categories. Greenpeacies vs. BP Oil drillers (jk, just emphasizing the idea of duality)
The most dangerous part of town is in the south side, where the two halves connect a little bit. Under a dumpy, gray highway all of the violent fights and confrontations of the town take place. Although Carillon Point has a reputation as a wonderful, quaint vacationing spot because of its wonderful weather, the shadow of highway bridge 78 goes unmentioned to outsiders. It's the town's dirty little secret. And town members simply hope that no unfortunate tourist goes wandering there...
hm....I think it's already implied, but it would be interesting to intensify the semi-rivalry between the two halves of the town. It kind of creates a source of conflict, which also implies that there should be a resolution later, right?
...maybe the rivalry can be intensified by something like class differences (although i guess that would be sort-of controversial? I don't know) or maybe the town is decisively divided by something ridiculous like VEGETARIANS vs. MEAT EATERRRS (roar) or just an issue that tends to divide people into two major categories. Greenpeacies vs. BP Oil drillers (jk, just emphasizing the idea of duality)
The most dangerous part of town is in the south side, where the two halves connect a little bit. Under a dumpy, gray highway all of the violent fights and confrontations of the town take place. Although Carillon Point has a reputation as a wonderful, quaint vacationing spot because of its wonderful weather, the shadow of highway bridge 78 goes unmentioned to outsiders. It's the town's dirty little secret. And town members simply hope that no unfortunate tourist goes wandering there...
Monday, September 27, 2010
Another Character Sketch
I like these. I have problems crafting stories, but I think I like focusing on small things, like a particular character :)
This is an old one...really rough, I think it's the first one I did. It was during class.
She has a strong, straight nose. Dark eyes shadowed by darker lashes, and a thin face framed by straight, dark brown hair. The styling is austere, hair cut straight across on the back. Only a few, loose strands that slip across her face unnoticed indicate that really she's still a child despite the solemness in her gaze and unsmiling, chapped, cupid's-bow lips. Sometimes, the eyes look so dark, the pupils aren't distinguishable from the iris. All these aspects don't make her look stern, however. There's something about her, perhaps it's her skinniness, that makes her look more delicate than stern.
She wears a school uniform, most times, neatly and smartly, expertly starched, crease-less perfection. She's known how to iron clothes for ages now, and the skill's embedded itself into her hands; it's an art. Putting that all aside, neatness doesn't imply form--the suit isn't flattering. It's purpose is entirely academic. All uniformity.
Anyhow, beyond the ironing, she doesn't focus on her clothes very much. But her shoes are old and kind of too small, and her skirt has gotten slightly short. Not in a miniskirt way, just awkwardly, because she's grown too big for it.
When she's nervous, her eyes flicker this way and that. She keeps looping and relooping her hair back, back, back behind her ears, or if she's standing, she stiffens up like a board, looking at hole worn into the top of her left shoe. When she feels daring at times like this, standing in front of the 62 pairs of eyes that make up her 6th grade class, she'll bring up her hand by her ears again, carefully, deliberately. And reloop her hair.
So she's quiet and reserved, keeping to herself. But she's not standoffish. She's kind--disposed to being sympathetic, and merciful when others do her wrong. And her quietness--it draws other people to her, makes them curious. Who is this child with the silent manner and the silky, solemn hair? Who is this child who seems so curled up, into herself?
She trusts herself the most. Or perhaps her dad because they're the most alike in the family. She used to trust her best friend, but then she was disappointed severely, and though they're still friends, she can't bring herself to put ultimate faith in others anymore. She doesn't quite trust her mother. She doesn't distrust her mother consciously, but inside she's aware that her brother comes first in Mother's eyes.
She doesn't really argue. But when her parents fight, she always sides with her father because she truly believes he's right, and she tries to maintain objectivity. Her older brother and younger sister side with her mother. This is how the family always divides.
Her circle of influence is rather small. She has simple hobbies. When she's bored, she loves to read. She's read just about all the books that the teachers call the "classics." She often rereads Wuthering Heights because secretly, she's a romantic, and she likes emotional stories, whether they end happily or not.
Her sadness is not so simple. She doesn't get sad about things at school, or involved in tangled reality-TV show dramas between her friends. But it makes her sad that her mother needs to work to support the house, and that her father always makes the mistake of trusting his friends with his money. It makes her sad that her father majored in politics and business when he should have been a skilled doctor or lawyer. It makes her sad that her most treasured memory is of her mother, when she came all the way to school once to bring her lunch. At the time, she was embarrassed and pretended she didn't know the woman in the gray apron, running after the school bus with her hair flying everywhich-way, in a messy ponytail.
This is an old one...really rough, I think it's the first one I did. It was during class.
She has a strong, straight nose. Dark eyes shadowed by darker lashes, and a thin face framed by straight, dark brown hair. The styling is austere, hair cut straight across on the back. Only a few, loose strands that slip across her face unnoticed indicate that really she's still a child despite the solemness in her gaze and unsmiling, chapped, cupid's-bow lips. Sometimes, the eyes look so dark, the pupils aren't distinguishable from the iris. All these aspects don't make her look stern, however. There's something about her, perhaps it's her skinniness, that makes her look more delicate than stern.
She wears a school uniform, most times, neatly and smartly, expertly starched, crease-less perfection. She's known how to iron clothes for ages now, and the skill's embedded itself into her hands; it's an art. Putting that all aside, neatness doesn't imply form--the suit isn't flattering. It's purpose is entirely academic. All uniformity.
Anyhow, beyond the ironing, she doesn't focus on her clothes very much. But her shoes are old and kind of too small, and her skirt has gotten slightly short. Not in a miniskirt way, just awkwardly, because she's grown too big for it.
When she's nervous, her eyes flicker this way and that. She keeps looping and relooping her hair back, back, back behind her ears, or if she's standing, she stiffens up like a board, looking at hole worn into the top of her left shoe. When she feels daring at times like this, standing in front of the 62 pairs of eyes that make up her 6th grade class, she'll bring up her hand by her ears again, carefully, deliberately. And reloop her hair.
So she's quiet and reserved, keeping to herself. But she's not standoffish. She's kind--disposed to being sympathetic, and merciful when others do her wrong. And her quietness--it draws other people to her, makes them curious. Who is this child with the silent manner and the silky, solemn hair? Who is this child who seems so curled up, into herself?
She trusts herself the most. Or perhaps her dad because they're the most alike in the family. She used to trust her best friend, but then she was disappointed severely, and though they're still friends, she can't bring herself to put ultimate faith in others anymore. She doesn't quite trust her mother. She doesn't distrust her mother consciously, but inside she's aware that her brother comes first in Mother's eyes.
She doesn't really argue. But when her parents fight, she always sides with her father because she truly believes he's right, and she tries to maintain objectivity. Her older brother and younger sister side with her mother. This is how the family always divides.
Her circle of influence is rather small. She has simple hobbies. When she's bored, she loves to read. She's read just about all the books that the teachers call the "classics." She often rereads Wuthering Heights because secretly, she's a romantic, and she likes emotional stories, whether they end happily or not.
Her sadness is not so simple. She doesn't get sad about things at school, or involved in tangled reality-TV show dramas between her friends. But it makes her sad that her mother needs to work to support the house, and that her father always makes the mistake of trusting his friends with his money. It makes her sad that her father majored in politics and business when he should have been a skilled doctor or lawyer. It makes her sad that her most treasured memory is of her mother, when she came all the way to school once to bring her lunch. At the time, she was embarrassed and pretended she didn't know the woman in the gray apron, running after the school bus with her hair flying everywhich-way, in a messy ponytail.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Oh hey there
I haven't legit posted in this blog for a long time. All of the posts have been stuff I've written for class, or assignment posts. I kind of want to keep a steady flow of voluntary posts in here too...BUT SCHOOL HAS DECIDED TO FIGHT MEEEEE. yeah.
I think I like this course more and more as it goes on. Truthfully, I was kind of dreading it before the school year started. I opened up the letter from school and my heart dropped down to my stomach when I saw "Writing Fiction." I can write literature analysis. I can write journal entries (cause no-no-no-no-nooooooooooobody else can see them). But fiction is a whole nuther planet, darling. And the idea of sharing my creative writing just made me cringe. Literary analysis is more professional, it's based off of another person's work. But something that I bring life to myself seems....much more likely to appear deformed, wrong, weird, boring, dull to others. I'm still dreading the writing workshop. I have no idea what kind of short story I'm supposed to write. I'm used to responding to prompts and whatnot....As you can probably tell, my writing gets pretty incoherent once I decide to write voluntarily and RRRRRamble away to the stars!!!
oh dear. unbelievable.
This is also sort of how I am with my college essay. I don't know how i'm supposed to write this darn thing. And it's awkward when I need to share it with other people for edits. It's supposed to be such a personal, "this is me" sort of piece, but the more people look at it, the more they ogle it, I feel like i need to make it less and less and less personal so I can shield myself from their laser-eyes.
I wonder when I stopped writing fiction. That last sentence implies that at one point and enjoyed and consistently wrote made-up stories....which i did! I was cleaning out my desk, and I found my book of ridiculous stories from when I was 4 or 5 or 6. Haha, it was amusing. but haha, if anyone saw it I think I would be quite, quite humiliated.
My stories were crazy (awesome)! But i am not posting them on the internet. Oh-no, no-no, no-no-no-no-nooooooo. I suspect my stories reflect my state of mind at the time. I also suspect, from the sort of drawings I still draw on the computer, that my mind has not left it's childish state.
...I like my mind that way :)
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