Right now in English class, we're reading the classic Fahrenheit 451. Now, I picked up a free used copy of this book a few years ago but sadly barely read the first three lines without dismissing it completely. When Mr. H said what book we would be reading, I was not looking forward to it at all. Only after got my copy did I notice that it was written by Ray Bradbury. I read his short story "A Sound of Thunder" a few years ago and enjoyed it very much.
I am currently about 1/3 of the way through the book and I can't believe what I've been missing out on for all of this time! Mr Bradbury managed to pinpoint exactly what's wrong with society fifty years before it even happened. Everyone is talking. We talk about celebrities, talk about politics, talk about what's for dinner. People are talking today more than they ever have, but what are we actually /saying/? Absolutely nothing. Hardly anyone is up for a good old debate anymore. They would much rather talk about the things that come easily to them.
Also, the book points out how people gradually became too sensitive. We can't portray New Yorkers as having a dirty mouth on tv, no no, because that might offend someone. Can't offend anyone!
Anyway, I'm not sure if any of this made sense, but I just felt the need to put it out there.
Nanowrimo 2010 in a little over a month!
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
You're Not A Writer
I'm going to get straight to the point here. No crap. I have a friend who is also a writer. She writes these little 'novels' that are actually only about 5-7k words. She's my age (15) and really takes pride in her work. She tells everyone and gets people to read what she wrote. I always read her stuff and tell her what I thought about it (although what I tell her is thouroughly filtered so I don't hurt her feelings).
This is all fine and dandy. The only issue is that when I ask her if she wants to read a small bit of my own writing, she kind of laughs and brushes me off. The first time this happened, I was okay with it. But I've asked her several times since about several different pieces and she does the same thing every time. She doesn't take me seriously! A fellow explorer of this craziness called writing doesn't take one of her own seriously! It's driving me insane!
One thing I haven't mentioned yet; her writing isn't good. No, I'm not just jealous or letting the fact that she doesn't consider me a writer get to me. It just isn't good. Every single thing is a cliche and is a different version of Twilight. She doesn't even think she needs to edit. I understand that some people are really fantastic and don't need to edit, but she isn't one of those people. I like to consider myself a fairly decent writer, and I know that if I didn't edit everything would be a disaster.
Anyway, it's starting to really rub me the wrong way every time she has the nerve to ask me to read one of her pieces when she won't return the favor! I don't want to crush her dreams of being a professional writer by telling her that her writing isn't that good but it's becoming quite tempting! What should I do?
This is all fine and dandy. The only issue is that when I ask her if she wants to read a small bit of my own writing, she kind of laughs and brushes me off. The first time this happened, I was okay with it. But I've asked her several times since about several different pieces and she does the same thing every time. She doesn't take me seriously! A fellow explorer of this craziness called writing doesn't take one of her own seriously! It's driving me insane!
One thing I haven't mentioned yet; her writing isn't good. No, I'm not just jealous or letting the fact that she doesn't consider me a writer get to me. It just isn't good. Every single thing is a cliche and is a different version of Twilight. She doesn't even think she needs to edit. I understand that some people are really fantastic and don't need to edit, but she isn't one of those people. I like to consider myself a fairly decent writer, and I know that if I didn't edit everything would be a disaster.
Anyway, it's starting to really rub me the wrong way every time she has the nerve to ask me to read one of her pieces when she won't return the favor! I don't want to crush her dreams of being a professional writer by telling her that her writing isn't that good but it's becoming quite tempting! What should I do?
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Last One Breathing Wins Their Wildest Dreams
This is a short paragraph describing my new idea for a short story/novella.
What Would You Do?
The dark of night. You and eleven other reality show contestants are dropped off on a remote island where your every move will be broadcast live. Only one will leave it. Each one of you will receive an envelope at midnight. Inside will be a single piece of paper. If your paper is marked with a red dot and a name underneath it, you will be the hunter. If your paper contains a black dot, you may be one of the hunted. It is a secret. At dawn, the hunter begins. All he or she needs to do is kill the person whose name is written on their paper by the next morning. It’s simple. If they fail, the roles will be reversed. Last one breathing wins their wildest dreams.
Yeah, it's a bit macabre but I'm really excited to start working on it!
What Would You Do?
The dark of night. You and eleven other reality show contestants are dropped off on a remote island where your every move will be broadcast live. Only one will leave it. Each one of you will receive an envelope at midnight. Inside will be a single piece of paper. If your paper is marked with a red dot and a name underneath it, you will be the hunter. If your paper contains a black dot, you may be one of the hunted. It is a secret. At dawn, the hunter begins. All he or she needs to do is kill the person whose name is written on their paper by the next morning. It’s simple. If they fail, the roles will be reversed. Last one breathing wins their wildest dreams.
Yeah, it's a bit macabre but I'm really excited to start working on it!
Sunday, September 5, 2010
This is the first part of a short story that I am writing using writeordie.drwicked.com. It's a website that literally forces you to keep writing no matter what. I wrote this in a little less than a half an hour, so there will be spelling/grammer mistakes. It is a sort of re-telling of the classic tale of Cinderella. I will probably be posting the last part of it either tomorrow or possibly later tonight.
Everyone is masked. The sequined decorations carefully attached to them sparkle in the light of the chandelier hung straight above them. Figures twirl around to the violin's shrill melody with startling elegance. Lady's dresses trail behind them as they mingle about, playfully trying to guess which one of the masked gentlemen belong to them. A banquet table full of rich food stands right by the window which overlooks the lake. Couples laugh and eat and wish this night would never end.
He is here somewhere. I know he is. My soul mate, my master, my own personal demon. His face lurks under one of these handcrafted masks. I walk around carefully, holding my dress up so that it does not drag on the floor. I want to be able to sneak it back into Madge's closet tomorrow in perfect condition so that she won't suspect a thing about it's nighttime adventure. I have to find him before he finds me. It's the only way I can get out of here alive. I have to find him and do what I hoped I would never have to. He was forcing my hand, though. For a moment, I let myself slip back into that old daydream. That far off daydream of a different future, of a future that would never be able to come true because of what he had done to me.
Why did this have to be? I thought for the third or fourth time that night about why exactly I was doing this. I was not a murderer. I couldn't kill the one person I truly loved! But ever since I discovered his true form, the way he really was when no one else was watching, I decided that I couldn't let myself be alone with him again.
I remember it well. It was right after the king's ball, one very much like this one, when he had chased me down to my step sister's home.
"Are you certain that there's no one else in the household who could possibly have been at the ball last night?" My love's voice was soft with worry. I watched him from my hiding place in the broom closed. I cracked the door and peered out. My oldest stepsister, Millie, scoffed and said, "Of course not, your highness! It's only Madge and I who live here. We were both at the ball last night! Isn't that a coincidence!" "Yes, I suppose." "You should try the slipper on the both of us!" My love bent down and tried to jam the class slipper on Millie's ugly, fat foot that was so swollen from her pinching shoes that she had been dancing in at the ball the night before. "It won't fit." My love's advisor, Herbert, shook his head and both of them headed for the door. "Wait!" I had shouted, emerging from my secret hiding place. "I was there! I was at the ball last night. I was the one who you danced with." My love's eyes shimmered as he stared into my own. He knew. I sat down on the chair in the corner of the parlor and allowed him to slip the glass onto my own petite foot. It fit perfectly.
My sisters gasped with horror. "That's a lie!" Millie screeched. My love stood up. "It is not a lie. I have paid a visit to every single female in the entire kingdom and Cinderella is the only one who has been able to fir into the slipper. I shall be taking her as my bride now." Millie's mouth opened and closed rapidly like a fish who has just been flopped on the dock. "Do you have anything that you wish to bring with you?" I fingered the locket tucked into my petticoat. "No, nothing."
Our wedding day had been utterly perfect. Perfect weather, perfect guests, perfect food, perfect everything. Even my first kiss had been perfect. I thought I would finally her my happily ever after during the wedding, but that wasn't to be. That night, right after the wedding ceremony had ended, was when it all started going downhill. My love and I had just finished making love in our soft, lush bed. We were both covered in a light sheen of sweat. I slipped on an airy nightgown and stepped out onto the balcony where the night breeze would cool me off. My love followed close behind me. He put his hands on my waist protectively. "I love you," He whispered. "I know," I answered absently, paying more attention to the clear night sky than to him. "I'll never leave you," he said. "I know," I repeated. "Do you love me?" he asked. I thought about this carefully to myself. Everything had happened so quickly. Only two days before I had been a lowly maid, scrubbing the stains out of my step sisters' dresses and sweeping the cinders from the fireplace without complaint. He has saved me from a terrible life, hadn't he? Wasn't I grateful? Wasn't being grateful the same thing as being in love?
"What a silly question to ask on our wedding night, my love! Of course I love you."
He appeared to be satisfied at my answer and kissed my suddenly trembling lips lightly before returning back to bed. I crept up to the edge of the balcony and peered down at the grassy lawn below me below following my love to bed. We made love until he was exhausted and fell asleep right next to me.
The next morning, which dawned bright and early, brought a hearty breakfast and some new. "I'm going to go to the Duke's estate for a meeting, Ella. Do you want to come with me?" I didn't and I told him so. His brow furrowed and he frowned slightly. "I wish you would accompany me, Ella." "That's alright, my love. I'll just stay here and wander about in the gardens if you don't mind. It's too nice of a day to stay indoors." "Of course." He continued with his breakfast and left only moments later. I could hear the clop of the carriage pull out. Then, I went upstairs and dressed for the day. I tied a scarf around my hair to keep it from getting wind blown and set off to explore the grassy lawn I had only ever seen from my balcony the night before.
By the time I was ready to get out the door, however, I found myself with a splitting headache that seemed to be coming from my very core. My teeth chattered and my head pounded in time with my heart. Suddenly, everything went black and I awoke on the ground with a gardener standing above me, worried expression on his face. He led me to bed only after I assured him that a little rest was all I really needed to be alright. I lie there, unable to even move without a stabbing pain going through my entire body. I shook with chill though it was the middle of summer and humid within the palace. My eyes strained to stay open and I feared I was going to die. I didn't die.
For some reason, my love came back from his meeting just one hour later. The instant his carriage pulled into the palace driveway, my chills stopped and my headache was dulled to an annoying ache. When he came up the stairs leading to our bedroom, I could sit up. And when he finally opened the door to the room and sat on our bed, I felt as well as I had during breakfast.
Everyone is masked. The sequined decorations carefully attached to them sparkle in the light of the chandelier hung straight above them. Figures twirl around to the violin's shrill melody with startling elegance. Lady's dresses trail behind them as they mingle about, playfully trying to guess which one of the masked gentlemen belong to them. A banquet table full of rich food stands right by the window which overlooks the lake. Couples laugh and eat and wish this night would never end.
He is here somewhere. I know he is. My soul mate, my master, my own personal demon. His face lurks under one of these handcrafted masks. I walk around carefully, holding my dress up so that it does not drag on the floor. I want to be able to sneak it back into Madge's closet tomorrow in perfect condition so that she won't suspect a thing about it's nighttime adventure. I have to find him before he finds me. It's the only way I can get out of here alive. I have to find him and do what I hoped I would never have to. He was forcing my hand, though. For a moment, I let myself slip back into that old daydream. That far off daydream of a different future, of a future that would never be able to come true because of what he had done to me.
Why did this have to be? I thought for the third or fourth time that night about why exactly I was doing this. I was not a murderer. I couldn't kill the one person I truly loved! But ever since I discovered his true form, the way he really was when no one else was watching, I decided that I couldn't let myself be alone with him again.
I remember it well. It was right after the king's ball, one very much like this one, when he had chased me down to my step sister's home.
"Are you certain that there's no one else in the household who could possibly have been at the ball last night?" My love's voice was soft with worry. I watched him from my hiding place in the broom closed. I cracked the door and peered out. My oldest stepsister, Millie, scoffed and said, "Of course not, your highness! It's only Madge and I who live here. We were both at the ball last night! Isn't that a coincidence!" "Yes, I suppose." "You should try the slipper on the both of us!" My love bent down and tried to jam the class slipper on Millie's ugly, fat foot that was so swollen from her pinching shoes that she had been dancing in at the ball the night before. "It won't fit." My love's advisor, Herbert, shook his head and both of them headed for the door. "Wait!" I had shouted, emerging from my secret hiding place. "I was there! I was at the ball last night. I was the one who you danced with." My love's eyes shimmered as he stared into my own. He knew. I sat down on the chair in the corner of the parlor and allowed him to slip the glass onto my own petite foot. It fit perfectly.
My sisters gasped with horror. "That's a lie!" Millie screeched. My love stood up. "It is not a lie. I have paid a visit to every single female in the entire kingdom and Cinderella is the only one who has been able to fir into the slipper. I shall be taking her as my bride now." Millie's mouth opened and closed rapidly like a fish who has just been flopped on the dock. "Do you have anything that you wish to bring with you?" I fingered the locket tucked into my petticoat. "No, nothing."
Our wedding day had been utterly perfect. Perfect weather, perfect guests, perfect food, perfect everything. Even my first kiss had been perfect. I thought I would finally her my happily ever after during the wedding, but that wasn't to be. That night, right after the wedding ceremony had ended, was when it all started going downhill. My love and I had just finished making love in our soft, lush bed. We were both covered in a light sheen of sweat. I slipped on an airy nightgown and stepped out onto the balcony where the night breeze would cool me off. My love followed close behind me. He put his hands on my waist protectively. "I love you," He whispered. "I know," I answered absently, paying more attention to the clear night sky than to him. "I'll never leave you," he said. "I know," I repeated. "Do you love me?" he asked. I thought about this carefully to myself. Everything had happened so quickly. Only two days before I had been a lowly maid, scrubbing the stains out of my step sisters' dresses and sweeping the cinders from the fireplace without complaint. He has saved me from a terrible life, hadn't he? Wasn't I grateful? Wasn't being grateful the same thing as being in love?
"What a silly question to ask on our wedding night, my love! Of course I love you."
He appeared to be satisfied at my answer and kissed my suddenly trembling lips lightly before returning back to bed. I crept up to the edge of the balcony and peered down at the grassy lawn below me below following my love to bed. We made love until he was exhausted and fell asleep right next to me.
The next morning, which dawned bright and early, brought a hearty breakfast and some new. "I'm going to go to the Duke's estate for a meeting, Ella. Do you want to come with me?" I didn't and I told him so. His brow furrowed and he frowned slightly. "I wish you would accompany me, Ella." "That's alright, my love. I'll just stay here and wander about in the gardens if you don't mind. It's too nice of a day to stay indoors." "Of course." He continued with his breakfast and left only moments later. I could hear the clop of the carriage pull out. Then, I went upstairs and dressed for the day. I tied a scarf around my hair to keep it from getting wind blown and set off to explore the grassy lawn I had only ever seen from my balcony the night before.
By the time I was ready to get out the door, however, I found myself with a splitting headache that seemed to be coming from my very core. My teeth chattered and my head pounded in time with my heart. Suddenly, everything went black and I awoke on the ground with a gardener standing above me, worried expression on his face. He led me to bed only after I assured him that a little rest was all I really needed to be alright. I lie there, unable to even move without a stabbing pain going through my entire body. I shook with chill though it was the middle of summer and humid within the palace. My eyes strained to stay open and I feared I was going to die. I didn't die.
For some reason, my love came back from his meeting just one hour later. The instant his carriage pulled into the palace driveway, my chills stopped and my headache was dulled to an annoying ache. When he came up the stairs leading to our bedroom, I could sit up. And when he finally opened the door to the room and sat on our bed, I felt as well as I had during breakfast.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
This is just an excerpt from the NaNoWriMo website's FAQ. It basically sums up why I want to do this.
"NaNoWriMo is all about the magical power of deadlines. Give someone a goal and a goal-minded community and miracles are bound to happen. Pies will be eaten at amazing rates. Alfalfa will be harvested like never before. And novels will be written in a month.
Part of the reason we organize NaNoWriMo is just to get a book written. We love the fringe benefits accrued to novelists. For one month out of the year, we can stew and storm, and make a huge mess of our apartments and drink lots of coffee at odd hours. And we can do all of these things loudly, in front of people. As satisfying as it is to reach deep within yourself and pull out an unexpectedly passable work of art, it is equally (if not more) satisfying to be able to dramatize the process at social gatherings.
But that artsy drama window is woefully short. The other reason we do NaNoWriMo is because the glow from making big, messy art, and watching others make big, messy art, lasts for a long, long time. The act of sustained creation does bizarre, wonderful things to you. It changes the way you read. And changes, a little bit, your sense of self. We like that."
"NaNoWriMo is all about the magical power of deadlines. Give someone a goal and a goal-minded community and miracles are bound to happen. Pies will be eaten at amazing rates. Alfalfa will be harvested like never before. And novels will be written in a month.
Part of the reason we organize NaNoWriMo is just to get a book written. We love the fringe benefits accrued to novelists. For one month out of the year, we can stew and storm, and make a huge mess of our apartments and drink lots of coffee at odd hours. And we can do all of these things loudly, in front of people. As satisfying as it is to reach deep within yourself and pull out an unexpectedly passable work of art, it is equally (if not more) satisfying to be able to dramatize the process at social gatherings.
But that artsy drama window is woefully short. The other reason we do NaNoWriMo is because the glow from making big, messy art, and watching others make big, messy art, lasts for a long, long time. The act of sustained creation does bizarre, wonderful things to you. It changes the way you read. And changes, a little bit, your sense of self. We like that."
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