Hesitations...

(Warning: Possible rants on Eragon ahead...again. Forgive me.)

There are several characters along with a vague story arch bouncing around the confines of my imagination. It is a fantasy-like tale, although I'm not into the heavy magic stuff prevalent a la Harry Potter. I have tried multiple times to either sketch an outline (which I've never been good with) or begin actually writing the story, but every time I feel exceedingly...unprepared, and I've narrowed this sensation down to a few key factors:

For anyone who knows me or has read my reviews (eh, more often critiques than reviews), you know I am extremely critical of...well, just about every form of art and entertainment. I demand originality, intensity, subtlety, and details. God really is in the details, especially when it comes to storytelling (be it in verbal, written, or cinematic). I like to be surprised; I like the unexpected. But I over-analyze and it takes quite a twist to catch me off guard. (That said, I can appreciate a cleverity, even if I see it coming.)

So originality goes a long way with me. That is not to say everything in a book must be completely unheard of. But, I'd like to view the commonplace or cliche from a different direction, or have new dimensions added. I also know there are only a few general story lines in the human imagination; again, I like to see new dimensions to give it depth. I simply don't know that I have the ability to do that. I do not want to write something trite or unstimulating.

Above all else, a good book reflects the writer; and if the writer doesn't know anything, the book won't say anything. For me, the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back in Eragon wasn't so much the writing as the storytelling. The naivete of the author was brutally apparent in his tale. Yes, that was part of his hero's character, but the immaturity permeated every aspect of the story. That's a vital lesson I learned from Christopher Paolini: don't write what you don't know. If I haven't explored the world I'm in, how am I to create an entirely different one. (I'm not just referring to fantasy here; a historical setting could apply, as well.) If I haven't discovered the intricacies of the world surrounding me, how am I to weave literary gold from the straw of inexperience?

Anyway, it comes to this: I demand quality. And I don't know whether or not I could be satisfied with the quality of my work. I don't know that I am ready to begin the telling of an epic (or not so epic) tale. Sure, there's no way to know unless I try, but I'm thinking I'll start with something more...familiar. Since the time I was rolling around on the floor at two years old, listening as my mother read Little House on the Prairie to my brother, this lesson has been reinforced: write what you know. Of course, as I said, all writing is a reflection of the writer somehow, and one should begin with something that doesn't necessitate stretching too far.

I'm young. I haven't traveled far. I have a lot to learn about...well, everything. I don't think I'm ready to write about someone else's life, when I've barely lived my own. So, fleeting delusions-of-bestselling-grandeur aside, I'm testing the literary waters. I'm writing short stories, practicing basic skills, dabbling in poetry, and continuing in my songwriting. And for now, it will have to be enough.

I Knew It...

You Belong in London

A little old fashioned, and a little modern. A little traditional, and a little bit punk rock. A unique woman like you needs a city that offers everything. No wonder you and London will get along so well.

What City Do You Belong In?

Tomatoes and Medals

I generally don't have much appreciation for sports of any kind on TV, but I like the Olympics. Really like the Olympics. Mostly because of gymnastics in the summer and figure skating in the winter. My interests in the Olympics have branched out since then, and I enjoy watching most of the primetime events. When I was a (younger) kid, I had these pastel pink unicorn slippers that I would don and slide around on the kitchen floor, pretending I was an elegant skater, and I liked to imagine how I would choreograph songs on the radio.

Concerning real skating, however, my favour (hey, what better time than the Olympics to enjoy multiculturalism?) is shifting to the East. I've always liked the Russians. I liked the couple that won (along with the Canadians) in Salt Lake. But, honestly, I haven't been too impressed by their showing this year. The Chinese couple, Zhang & Zhang, that took silver were, in my opinion, better skaters than the Russians, Totmianina & Marinin, even though they had a fall. Their choreography was timely and artistic, whearas the Russians were more like machines, albethem, grantedly, elegant machines. I realize, of course, I have untrained eyes and there were probably many technicalities that I failed to notice. Still, as far as I'm concerned, the Zhangs quite golden.

I didn't see the beginning of the men's short program, but Plushenko must have had one outstanding performance to have such an impressive lead. I'll be interested to see the finale tonight.

Hmmm. I wonder if "albethem" is actually a word?

Delusional

I've been spelling that word wrong for years.

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milium (n. A small, white or yellowish cystlike mass just below the surface of the skin, caused by retention of the secretion of a sebaceous gland)

Editor's note: This was the only interesting word I could find today. I'll never use it. But I'll know what it means.

Of Dreams and Driving

Since we're on the topic of dreams (well, two posts ago)...

Since as far back as I can remember, I've had recurring dreams about losing control of a vehicle while driving. (I suppose these should properly be called nightmares, but I don't consider them as such.) Most of them followed the same pattern: I, the unlicensed passenger, am sitting behind the wheel while the driver leaves the car running, and sometimes in gear (more times than not, it just shifts unexpectedly and inexplicably). The car (it was always the old, navy Celebrity we used to have) begins to move forward and I can only steer and hope to evade other cars and stop signs as I can't stop the car, only slow down. Or, sometimes, the brakes have gone out completely. I usually crashed into the nearest non-fatal looking object I could find after a long, relatively uncontrolled escapade through town.

The last dreammare I had like this was late this spring, before I began driver's ed. It was much more detailed than most of the others, set in particular (high-traffic) streets, with police following and no brakes. I ended up practically crawling back to Fred Meyers where I had left my parents with the police trailing close behind, the sky black against the parking lot lights. The car ran out of gas just before I crashed into the building. It was quite depressing, really.

Since I started driving, I haven't experienced any more of these dreammares, which I'm glad of. There was a point when this subconscious fear became almost wholly irrational. I remember last fall, my friend left her car door open as she went to go inside to grab something; I went to sit down behind the wheel because of the chilly day, had a flashback to my latest dream, and nearly screamed. It was ridiculous. My parents remain firm, however, that I am not blocking any memories from a traumatic childhood car ride. I don't really think I am, either, but it would certainly make a good Dear Abby letter.

"Dear Abby,
My parents have hidden a terrible secret from me my entire life. When I was three and a half, we went out for a nice Sunday afternoon drive. Then the brakes went out, and..."

Eh, oh well. Abby receives enough mail, I suppose.

American Idol

I am not addicted to American Idol.

I am not addicted to American Idol.

I am not addicted to American Idol.

I will not be ruled by it.

I probably won't watch it again.

It is pointless and brain-numbing.

I am not addicted to American Idol.

I had a dream...

Well, I actually went back to school today. Not that there was reason to, since we did basically nothing in class. It made for good letter- and song-writing time, though.

Last night (actually, it was closer to this morning) I had a very drawn-out and vivid dream. It was connected, yet very random. It started with the Autodaughters and I (my family might have been there, but I don't remember them) heading to the hills to look for a Christmas tree. I don't recall anything particular, but we meandered about for awhile.

*flicker* (I'm stealing this from Qalmlea)

We were walking down a certain country road toward the canyon, past a stop sign Beth inadvertently blew through once. Now we were part of a large migration of people, mostly Jews (similar to the final scene of Fiddler on the Roof, set locally), and we were all going to the canyon for a Passover celebration that was, for some unexplained reason, unusually important. We got halfway down the road to the canyon when my aunt and I realized we had to go back to my house (again, unexplained). So we turned back.

*flicker*

Following the same road back, it suddenly became a corn maze and my aunt became a dark-haired girl who plays on my friend's basketball team. And the girl was wearing a patterned head scarf. We walked straight for some time, then finally took a side path.

The walk was long, with scattered conversation about the urgency of our return to the canyon. But we had to get back to my house before doing so. So we walked and walked my sense of direction was nothing but a memory. This was all very vague and tiresome.

*flicker*

This is where the dream became quite vivid. Along the pathway we were wandering on, we passed a mountain lion sleeping in the entrance of a path leading in a different direction in the maze. I saw it and my stomach clenched, but I'm certain my companion didn't notice it; she didn't respond, regardless. We walked on, and on, and it began to snow lightly. Now we were in a generic country setting, altogether unfamiliar. I think it was at this point that I became vaguely aware that I was Laura Ingles Wilder, and I had to get home before the blizzard came.

*flicker*

There are voices of children in the distance; they are, perhaps quite close, but the corn has grown taller than our heads and we can't see anything but the pathway ahead. Again, we pass a mountain lion. This time, the girl notices and nearly screams but bites her lip, grabs my hand, and continues walking. We haven't gone far when we hear the lion stir and the children scream. There is a fence ahead, and the snow is deep on the other side. We start to run; I glance back and the children are also running toward the fence. We can see a house in the near distance now. Once we are over the fence and onto the snow, we find we can run on top of it without sinking; the mountain lion cannot. Undefeated, it turns around and heads toward a road that leads to the house.

*flicker*

We are on said road now, having left the children in the house, and walking inside a fence-like enclosure set up to protect the villagers from the lion, which apparently has quite a reputation. I am not Laura anymore, nor am I myself. The head-scarfed girl is still beside me, and we are aiming for something that exists on the other side of the village entrance. Home is out there somewhere. So we walk, passing bearded blacksmiths, farmers in checked shirts, and children in dirty, pioneer-era clothes. It is a poor village, but the people seem content except for the lingering fear and suspicion etched into their faces. Several times, we see men on the fence shooting tranquilizers at the cat outside the fortification. We finally reach the entrance and there has been no sign of the lion for several hours. So, the chubby blonde girl in dirty over-alls on watch unbars the gate, but we never leave because we hear a scrimmage at one of the other gates. The lion has entered the town because the little boy set as sentry didn't lock it right. Thus begins a long and bloody battle to kill the mountain lion; the dark-haired girl and I run about with the gate-keeping blonde, trying to avoid the lion and get the children into safe places. We jump fences and run through houses, but it is nigh-on impossible to escape the rampaging lion. Nearly everyone is injured by the end of the ordeal, but it eventually limps away from the village, mortally wounded. My companion and I understand that our mission--the mission we didn't know we had--is accomplished and we walk through the gate into the great beyond...

Then I wake up.

Generally, when I have a dream this long, I alternately participate in the dream and watch it on a theater-like screen. I never left this dream. I was never a third party. That's quite unusual. Anyway, it's getting late and I had best get some sleep, and perhaps it shall once again be dream-filled.

Upswing?

I finally think I'm getting better. There are longer intervals between coughing spasms and nose-blowings. I can only taste fruits, come vegetables, meats, bread, and chocolate, due to my congested allergies, and cough syrup is suprisingly delicious. Dairy products, potatoes, and sauces like mayonaise are fairly bland or flavorless, and cereal has taken on a new dimension. It's rather fun tasting things, actually, just to see how different it all is.
My friend Kari has been sick this week as well, and she actually had a reaction to some medication and had to go to the doctor for hives. Her mom was sick first, then her sister caught the illness (her fever peaked at 105!), then Kari, and now her dad is thinking he's catching it. It looks like the same thing will be happening here, since my dad has a sore throat now.

Little Green Alien

The maniacal Yoda of Episodes 5 & 6 like I better that he of 1-3.