So school started on Monday. I'm still on that initial adrenaline rush so I'm not hating it yet. Yet.
Inspiration can come in the most interesting places. I've found it in movie theaters, mirrors, and book shops. But today I came across it while finishing my Latin homework.
"What?" You ask.
Let me explain.
Latin drills are possibly the most boring things in existence. If it wasn't for the fact that it's getting me into college I'd dump the whole course. But I can't.
Today my Latin book arrived via FedEx, bringing me to the depressing realization that I was three days behind in the dreaded subject. So I sat down and began. I copied nouns. I translated nouns. I declined nouns. I was in my hibernating-zombie-on-anasthetics-state until, about an hour into it, I came across the word "mors" and my life would never be the same. Because at that moment, that fleeting instant, I was woken from my stupor by a picture, no, a vision of Benedict Cumberbatch's face.
In that one moment I knew that there was no hope. No turning back. I am a fangirl.
This blog post sponsored by my Latin book.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Just another story
Writing Prompt # 2: You're holding a Dragon Egg. Why?
The heat crept through my gloves as I walked clumsily toward the mountains. My feet, in contrast to my upper body, were frozen through numb because of the new fallen snow they were treading upon. The scent of burned meat filled my nostrils and the temperature rose to a painful degree, but I had to keep walking.
I gasped as the egg finally burned through my leather gloves, but I did not let go. It had been Shakri's last wish that I bring her only egg to this old dragon, and now that I was so close I would not stop at anything.
My fingers blistered, and my feet ached. Had it only been two weeks ago that I was forced to begin this journey? It seemed like an eternity.
I can still feel the wind in my face as I flew through the clouds. They were preparing to dust the earth with snow, and it was a harsh wind, but the dragon beneath me kept me warm. I remember the exhilaration that had elated me. I was arrogant. Naive. Foolish. War was not the time to feel invigorated. Death was not to be scoffed at. But I didn't know.
I can also remember the moment when Shakri was hit and we fell from our lofty height. Even at the last my beautiful dragon thought only of me. She wrapped me in her wings, and the screaming ceased, and she told me what would happen when we reached the hungry earth. I was hysterical, but there was nothing I could have done to stop it. The wing that was protecting me was damaged beyond flight. She would not let me go, until the fatal crash that stole all the resistance from her.
Even in the face of tragedy I had moved reflexively. Sobs racked my body, but I ran, Shakri's only child, the fragile egg, clutched to my chest. In the shelter of the woods I turned, risking everything my friend had died for. And there she was, midnight scales glinting in the light of their own fire.
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So vhat do you think? Is it just too cryptic? Tell me! Tell me!
The heat crept through my gloves as I walked clumsily toward the mountains. My feet, in contrast to my upper body, were frozen through numb because of the new fallen snow they were treading upon. The scent of burned meat filled my nostrils and the temperature rose to a painful degree, but I had to keep walking.
I gasped as the egg finally burned through my leather gloves, but I did not let go. It had been Shakri's last wish that I bring her only egg to this old dragon, and now that I was so close I would not stop at anything.
My fingers blistered, and my feet ached. Had it only been two weeks ago that I was forced to begin this journey? It seemed like an eternity.
I can still feel the wind in my face as I flew through the clouds. They were preparing to dust the earth with snow, and it was a harsh wind, but the dragon beneath me kept me warm. I remember the exhilaration that had elated me. I was arrogant. Naive. Foolish. War was not the time to feel invigorated. Death was not to be scoffed at. But I didn't know.
I can also remember the moment when Shakri was hit and we fell from our lofty height. Even at the last my beautiful dragon thought only of me. She wrapped me in her wings, and the screaming ceased, and she told me what would happen when we reached the hungry earth. I was hysterical, but there was nothing I could have done to stop it. The wing that was protecting me was damaged beyond flight. She would not let me go, until the fatal crash that stole all the resistance from her.
Even in the face of tragedy I had moved reflexively. Sobs racked my body, but I ran, Shakri's only child, the fragile egg, clutched to my chest. In the shelter of the woods I turned, risking everything my friend had died for. And there she was, midnight scales glinting in the light of their own fire.
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So vhat do you think? Is it just too cryptic? Tell me! Tell me!
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Sorry for all the Gloom and Doom
I've been writing a ton of really depressing stuff lately, and it hasn't been helping my actual mood, so I'm gonna write a happy one. Or at least try.
Now that I think about it, sadness must be one of the easiest emotions to portray in writing. Maybe it's because it's so easy to sympathize. I don't know. But all my favorite books not only contain that cheap bonding experience, but I also share in the character's joys too. You know the feeling, when you're so happy for a charrie that you think you might explode. The butterflies in your stomach. Bubbly happiness welling up inside you. It just feels sparkly.
Well, over the next few posts I'll be aiming at that. Don't expect perfection at first (even from me ;) ), but do post a comment and say what you think.
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Writing Prompt #6: Waking up in a Hospital
The first thing I noticed was the smell. My eyes were still shut tight against the morning light streaming through the window, but the absence of this sense enhanced the remaining ones. It made the stench all the more notable.
I awakened another degree as my next sense kicked in. Someone was bustling about the room, humming under her breath. She brought another scent with her: bleach. It burned in the back of my throat, and that feeling sensation brought the uncomfortable position of my neck to my attention.
The possibility of sleep was passed, and I cracked my eyes open gradually, taking in the alien room slowly.
I was seated on a piece of metal that must be a chair in a room already teaming with life. My eyes must have remained in that unflattering half open state, because I don't recall opening or closing them. My attention was racing back to the night before.
I remembered a phone call. Yes...that was it. Jane had called. I remember the fleeting fear that the baby was already born, and that she was calling to announce it. She was calling to announce it, but not in that way.
"Becca, the baby's coming. Bill's on his way, but the baby's not going to wait."
Fifteen minutes later I had been parked outside the hospital, watching Jane wheeled into the maternity ward.
I returned to reality. The rest had been filled merely with waiting and comforting Bill, who had been banished to the lobby, too.
"Can I see Jane Wilson?" I asked the receptionist.
"Are you family?"
"Well, you see..."
Luckily I was spared from the attempted explanation by Bill's entrance.
"Becca! I was just coming to find you! You haven't seen Jerome yet. Why didn't you come in sooner?" He led me through several identical corridors, his sleep deprived eyes glowing with excitment.
Jane smiled as we entered and approached the bed. The baby was sleeping serenely in her arms, his little breaths intensifying the silence.
"Jerome Anthony Wilson, meet your godmother."
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So. Yes. Ahem.
So long, farewell, stay warm and well fed.
Now that I think about it, sadness must be one of the easiest emotions to portray in writing. Maybe it's because it's so easy to sympathize. I don't know. But all my favorite books not only contain that cheap bonding experience, but I also share in the character's joys too. You know the feeling, when you're so happy for a charrie that you think you might explode. The butterflies in your stomach. Bubbly happiness welling up inside you. It just feels sparkly.
Well, over the next few posts I'll be aiming at that. Don't expect perfection at first (even from me ;) ), but do post a comment and say what you think.
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Writing Prompt #6: Waking up in a Hospital
The first thing I noticed was the smell. My eyes were still shut tight against the morning light streaming through the window, but the absence of this sense enhanced the remaining ones. It made the stench all the more notable.
I awakened another degree as my next sense kicked in. Someone was bustling about the room, humming under her breath. She brought another scent with her: bleach. It burned in the back of my throat, and that feeling sensation brought the uncomfortable position of my neck to my attention.
The possibility of sleep was passed, and I cracked my eyes open gradually, taking in the alien room slowly.
I was seated on a piece of metal that must be a chair in a room already teaming with life. My eyes must have remained in that unflattering half open state, because I don't recall opening or closing them. My attention was racing back to the night before.
I remembered a phone call. Yes...that was it. Jane had called. I remember the fleeting fear that the baby was already born, and that she was calling to announce it. She was calling to announce it, but not in that way.
"Becca, the baby's coming. Bill's on his way, but the baby's not going to wait."
Fifteen minutes later I had been parked outside the hospital, watching Jane wheeled into the maternity ward.
I returned to reality. The rest had been filled merely with waiting and comforting Bill, who had been banished to the lobby, too.
"Can I see Jane Wilson?" I asked the receptionist.
"Are you family?"
"Well, you see..."
Luckily I was spared from the attempted explanation by Bill's entrance.
"Becca! I was just coming to find you! You haven't seen Jerome yet. Why didn't you come in sooner?" He led me through several identical corridors, his sleep deprived eyes glowing with excitment.
Jane smiled as we entered and approached the bed. The baby was sleeping serenely in her arms, his little breaths intensifying the silence.
"Jerome Anthony Wilson, meet your godmother."
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So. Yes. Ahem.
So long, farewell, stay warm and well fed.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
It's only my third post and I'm already slacking!
I think that I'm not actually a Writer at heart. Yes, it's the truth, pure and simple.
Luckily the truth is rarely pure, and never simple. Modern culture would be nothing without it, and modern literature a complete impossibility!
You see, I'm a showoff through and through. I really can't write unless I know that I'm going to show it to someone and they'll enjoy it. I like definite goals.
It's funny how the mind wanders. With those first few sentences I was starting to feel guilty for writing a rant, but now I've seen that this blog is my reason for writing.
Well, as of right now I'm determined to get out of this non-writing-ness slump. My friend Josie has been posting some great writing prompts lately, and my aim will be to use one every day. If any of you feel like helping, the best thing would just be to comment. Tell me what you liked and what I should change. I love feedback!
So. Here we go.
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You're holding a stack of letters addressed to you.
"I've got your mail, Mandy. Want me to leave it in your room?"
I looked up from my notebook and cereal at my older brother.
"No," I said, the usual rush of elation flooding through me. "I'll take it now."
Working to contain his grin, he lugged in the hefty bag of mail. All fan mail. All to me.
My novel had only been published last month, but since them these short notes had been arriving on my doorstep with surprising regularity.
Mom's eye lingered affectionately on the letters. She had taught me everything there was to know about writing, but had never been published. Now she looked proudly at me, and resumed combing through the newspaper.
Blake looked over my shoulder as I opened the first letter. Two pages fell out, and, attracted to the young handwriting as opposed to the experienced one on the other page, I read it.
Dear Miss Vance,
I liked your book very much. I wish I knew Hazel so we could have adventures too. Sometimes I want to talk to her. Please write back.
love,
Ella
I smiled. Every other letter was like this, but the enthusiasm expressed in each never grew tiring. Reluctantly, I turned to the other page. Sure enough, it was from her mother.
Dear Miss Vance,
I was delighted to read your story, and even more delighted that Ella enjoyed it too.
I am afraid to say that I have a request.
It looked as though water had dropped on the page, and the next few words were hard to read.
Ella won't be with us for very long. She has been fighting cancer for a year now with no improvements. But I haven't seen her so happy as she was when I read her your book. Thank you for the hope you've given her.
I was startled my the tears coming to my eyes. Could this be true, or was it a prank? Blake reached for the envelope that had fallen and scanned the front.
"It's from Montford Hospital. That's the return label." His voice was shaking too.
Ten minutes later we were driving. Blake rode shotgun, navigating for Mom, while I looked out the window of the backseat. The little girl's writing looked as though she couldn't have been more than nine. Nine years old. Unbidden, a tune came to mind. Only the good die young.
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Disclaimer: I wrote the first half of that a few days ago, but I still hadn't ended it, so here it is.
What do you think? Does it make sense? Too corny?
Monday, August 12, 2013
The long awaited post.
Now that Fair is over I'm able to look back on it with fond memories. Funny how time does that. Overall, though, I believe that it was one of the most rewarding Fairs I've been to and I'll tell you why in this extremely long post that was written over the course of four days.
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August 8th:
After a week of being there for nine hours a day, the Fair gets pretty boring, so my friends and I started shaking things up from the get go.
On the second day, after showing Mozy, I ran wildly around the carnival for five hours with Josie (formerly known as Molly) and Evelyn, finally finishing the day off with In-N-Out and a Doctor Who marathon. Pure bliss.
Wednesday was uneventful, but fun. We sat around the barn playing cards and I wrote my first short story (you may have noticed by now that I'm extremely please with myself for this. I suppose it's best that you learn now, but I'm quite conceited.)
And now we come to the REALLY exciting part yet. Thursday I went with a gang of four of my friends to the Hamburger Habit for lunch. It was just us kids, which always makes these outings four times as much fun.
So we ordered our burgers, waited a bit for the nifty buzzer things to frighten us to death, and finally prayed and ate, and boy, was that food good! Nothing like some good beef for a starved stomach. Mmm-hmm! But moving on. About halfway through gorging ourselves a big, six-foot-something, mustached cowboy walks up to our table very deliberately and asks if he can interrupt.
Being the anti-social, unsuspecting homeschoolers that we are, we sat there, dumbfounded for about six seconds before all of us spluttered something along the lines of "Um...sure...ok"
"I saw you praying," we all prepared for the worst. One of my friends said that he was just about ready to jump up and fight the guy off, but he continued. "And I just wanted to say that I appreciate that. It's great to see the younger generation getting involved like that. God bless."
So the moral of the story: your faith doesn't just affect you. People around you see it and are reminded.
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August 12th:
That last part turned out a lot deeper than I thought it would. It doesn't always seem like it, but I like to think of myself as a philosopher at heart. [end sarcasm]
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August 9th:
I just came from a celebratory concert, but I simply HAVE to tell someone the news.
Now please, don't think I'm tooting my own horn and judge me. I am, in a way, but it's really just excitement talking.
Today my lamb went to auction and was sold for $25 a pound! Just to put this in perspective: my lamb is 120 lbs, lamb prices were at $10 average, and the resale price for lamb meat is $2 a pound.
I went up to the man who bought my lamb to give him a gift basket and thank him personally afterward. He said that he had gotten my letter* and that it was the best he's ever seen and that he was honored to buy my lamb! And not only that, but as I was talking to my mom a few minutes later a lady came up and said that she was sorry she didn't buy my lamb, but was pleased that I got such a great price and complimented my letter writing skills profusely.
So the moral of this story: when a girl says that she's writing 50 lamb letters, go home and write 60.
*I send out "lamb letters" to people to ask them to come and bid on my lamb at the auction.
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August 12th:
On...well, I don't even remember what day it was, the Fair held their annual exhibitor knowledge test for the first time. I was quite keen to win, seeing as the first place prize was a belt buckle (the highest sign of rank at the barns).
Luckily, I had known about it ahead of time, and studied up on lambs, reading some really great [end sarcasm] 400 year old vet guides. It scarred me for life. I really did NOT want to know that the only effective way of removing maggots from a sheep's wounds (I hear that it can happen frequently, though I have been fortunate enough to escape the plague) was to remove them with tweezers or drown them with cleaning solution.
Unluckily, the test asked no such question.
They wanted me to answer odd, random sorts of things that I probably should have known, but had no clue what they were. How was I supposed to know that the flight zone of a lamb is it's personal space bubble of calmness, when the thing was invented within the last decade??
Even so, I didn't feel horrible about it. It had been fun, in it's own stressful, choose the right answer, sort of way. Plus there was no chance of me winning, seeing as about 30 dedicated lamb raisers were taking the test also.
Last night, just for the fun of it, I was reading over the Fair bulletin board, and there it was.
Exhibitor's Lamb test Winners: Ebelline Hunt.
.........
AND ABBY BAGGINS!!!!
The moral of the last story: just be like me and you'll win some pretty great prizes.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
First ever short story!!
So, because this is new to me, please feel free to comment corrections and suggestions and just plain comments!
Writing prompt: What if you were stuck inside a mirror? What would it feel like?
I raced across the surface of the windows which glinted in the morning sun. It was exhausting, but at least my gir was tired too, so I was allowed to pant. Finally she slowed to a walk and noticed me there. She looked concerned and hope surged through me. Had she noticed me? Would she set me free?
Her hand shot up to her brow where she pushed away some hair which had fallen over her eyes, and I was forced to follow. The short lived hope faded as she gave a satisfied smile and continued along the street toward the school.
At least at the school I could have a break. Nothing but gray walls, lockers, and desks. I would tail her, or course, but I wouldn't need to be seen.
The other reflections gave small nods in greeting as we passed them and their owners in the hall. My eyes strayed to the tall, lanky boy entering the library. A familiar emotion stirred in me. Would it be safe to follow him?
For a moment I was undecided, but one more look at my vain girl gave me the little push I needed to make my choice. I left her and followed Dean. She could live without her reflection for an hour.
I searched the library as I did every time I entered a room, but this time I care less for mirrors and more for the boy sitting in the chair across the library. It didn't matter too much, though. I'd been in the library countless times and the main difficulty was avoiding the long mirror that lined the far wall. No prob.
As I walked toward Dean I wondered why my girl never noticed him.He obviously liked her. My mind raced along the same path it took every time I thought about him. Maybe he would notice me. Maybe he would accept my shallow girl's reflection in place of her. Maybe he would tell her...maybe I could be free.
Dean was lost in his book, brown hair falling over his face. I sat next to him and watched his eyes flitting across the page. What didn't she see in him? He was cute. Funny. Smart. Kind. And why was I the only one who saw this?
The bell rang. Had it already been an hour? He got up, shoving his fingers through his hair and glancing up at the mirror. I looked up too. My girl had just walked in. Jealousy flared through me. She didn't deserve him. I doubt she even knew his name. Why couldn't he see that I loved him?
See me.
I jumped up as he made his way back to the door. I felt the irrepressible urge to do something rash; unpredictable. Here was my chance. I walked into the mirror and waved. He looked confused (probably because She had never looked twice at him) then looked over his shoulder. He was searching for the girl who was surely causing the reflection. When he looked back I beckoned him closer. Looking over his shoulder again with suspicion in his eyes, he came closer.
"Where are you?"
I had never succeeded before, but all the same I opened my mouth the way the people do when they speak. Like every other time no sound came out. I looked frantically about; he was confused and had started walking back. I pleaded and he paused.
Like my girl, I had a backpack slung over one shoulder. Ignoring warning glances from the other reflections, I proceeded to fish out a pencil and notebook.
I glanced back at Dean every few moments as I wrote out a message in their strange backward writing, but he was now totally absorbed and was staring at the page too.
"Don't go," I finally wrote. "I love you."
A scream echoed through the library, shattering the silence and the moment.
Every head turned, and there, at the door standing in front of the mirror was my girl; she was missing her reflection.
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So I'd love to hear back from you about this. I'm really excited. Since getting this blog I've been writing TONS more. Coincidence? I think not!
Writing prompt: What if you were stuck inside a mirror? What would it feel like?
I raced across the surface of the windows which glinted in the morning sun. It was exhausting, but at least my gir was tired too, so I was allowed to pant. Finally she slowed to a walk and noticed me there. She looked concerned and hope surged through me. Had she noticed me? Would she set me free?
Her hand shot up to her brow where she pushed away some hair which had fallen over her eyes, and I was forced to follow. The short lived hope faded as she gave a satisfied smile and continued along the street toward the school.
At least at the school I could have a break. Nothing but gray walls, lockers, and desks. I would tail her, or course, but I wouldn't need to be seen.
The other reflections gave small nods in greeting as we passed them and their owners in the hall. My eyes strayed to the tall, lanky boy entering the library. A familiar emotion stirred in me. Would it be safe to follow him?
For a moment I was undecided, but one more look at my vain girl gave me the little push I needed to make my choice. I left her and followed Dean. She could live without her reflection for an hour.
I searched the library as I did every time I entered a room, but this time I care less for mirrors and more for the boy sitting in the chair across the library. It didn't matter too much, though. I'd been in the library countless times and the main difficulty was avoiding the long mirror that lined the far wall. No prob.
As I walked toward Dean I wondered why my girl never noticed him.He obviously liked her. My mind raced along the same path it took every time I thought about him. Maybe he would notice me. Maybe he would accept my shallow girl's reflection in place of her. Maybe he would tell her...maybe I could be free.
Dean was lost in his book, brown hair falling over his face. I sat next to him and watched his eyes flitting across the page. What didn't she see in him? He was cute. Funny. Smart. Kind. And why was I the only one who saw this?
The bell rang. Had it already been an hour? He got up, shoving his fingers through his hair and glancing up at the mirror. I looked up too. My girl had just walked in. Jealousy flared through me. She didn't deserve him. I doubt she even knew his name. Why couldn't he see that I loved him?
See me.
I jumped up as he made his way back to the door. I felt the irrepressible urge to do something rash; unpredictable. Here was my chance. I walked into the mirror and waved. He looked confused (probably because She had never looked twice at him) then looked over his shoulder. He was searching for the girl who was surely causing the reflection. When he looked back I beckoned him closer. Looking over his shoulder again with suspicion in his eyes, he came closer.
"Where are you?"
I had never succeeded before, but all the same I opened my mouth the way the people do when they speak. Like every other time no sound came out. I looked frantically about; he was confused and had started walking back. I pleaded and he paused.
Like my girl, I had a backpack slung over one shoulder. Ignoring warning glances from the other reflections, I proceeded to fish out a pencil and notebook.
I glanced back at Dean every few moments as I wrote out a message in their strange backward writing, but he was now totally absorbed and was staring at the page too.
"Don't go," I finally wrote. "I love you."
A scream echoed through the library, shattering the silence and the moment.
Every head turned, and there, at the door standing in front of the mirror was my girl; she was missing her reflection.
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So I'd love to hear back from you about this. I'm really excited. Since getting this blog I've been writing TONS more. Coincidence? I think not!
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Fair ramblings
I raise a lamb. Yes, the barnyard animal. No, not all the time.
Every summer I buy a market lamb (which just means that they'll be sold for their meat), feed and exercise it for five months, then take it to the county fair to be shown and sold.
So now it's fair time, and I think I'll never survive. In two days I've consumed a funnel cake, corn dog, candied pecans, kettle corn, cotton candy, two lemonades, a tater twister, and half a bag of Family Size sour cream and onion chips. Bleh.
But on the other hand, I'm able to spend some quality time with my lamb. At first Mozy was super skittish (she always been paranoid, and the new habitat didn't help), but over the last few days she's become a whole new lamb! Now she doesn't mind people petting her, she loves walks, and...and...I can't think of a third improvement.
My friend Josie (aka Molly from my last post. Don't ask) posted a writing prompt the other day on her blog. It sounded pretty cool, so while I was hanging around the barns at the fair I whipped something up. Unfortunately I left my backpack there, so I'll have to post the short story tomorrow.
And I know that it's pretty irrelevant, but I'm thinking of renaming the blog. How do you like Ramblings of a Writer? Something similar? I'm open to suggestions.
Over and out.
Every summer I buy a market lamb (which just means that they'll be sold for their meat), feed and exercise it for five months, then take it to the county fair to be shown and sold.
So now it's fair time, and I think I'll never survive. In two days I've consumed a funnel cake, corn dog, candied pecans, kettle corn, cotton candy, two lemonades, a tater twister, and half a bag of Family Size sour cream and onion chips. Bleh.
But on the other hand, I'm able to spend some quality time with my lamb. At first Mozy was super skittish (she always been paranoid, and the new habitat didn't help), but over the last few days she's become a whole new lamb! Now she doesn't mind people petting her, she loves walks, and...and...I can't think of a third improvement.
My friend Josie (aka Molly from my last post. Don't ask) posted a writing prompt the other day on her blog. It sounded pretty cool, so while I was hanging around the barns at the fair I whipped something up. Unfortunately I left my backpack there, so I'll have to post the short story tomorrow.
And I know that it's pretty irrelevant, but I'm thinking of renaming the blog. How do you like Ramblings of a Writer? Something similar? I'm open to suggestions.
Over and out.
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