Question

So I guess I should write up some sort of a post before I leave for five days. I don't like to say that ten days went by between my posts, even though they basically have and I don't have much to say. But I guess...I owe it to you? I dunno. I started this back when I was thinking of pursuing writing as a career and wanted to dip a toe in the water. Since then, through both the blog and general events in my life, I've realized that that is not the course for me. I'm not supposed to live that way, whatever 'that' way is.

Of course, I'll never stop writing. I just don't want to be pressured. I want to enjoy the process and take as long as I want. I have to like and care about what I'm writing or I won't have the fuel to finish a story. That doesn't work for a career writer.

Not to mention, my lack of muse is about to skyrocket as an endearing eight-week-old puppy enters the household this coming monday. I'll be very tired and very busy, and I already have commitments to friends and other sites. This just isn't a priority for me anymore. Nothing extremely useful, deep, or important goes up here anymore, and I'm not good at writing fluff pieces. I don't enjoy them, at least.

So...yeah. This is my question: Does anyone still read this? Do you care about what I'm saying, or are you reading as a courtesy? Would you be duly devastated if I told you I'm scrapping the blog? I ask because I never get any feedback and I do spend a lot of time of each post, and it's sometimes discouraging when you come back and no one has anything to say to you. Blogs aren't supposed to make you feel that way.

Yup. If you want me to continue this, you'd better comment or Email me or something. Because I like writing, but if no one's reading it I might as well write on my own time, without trying to maintain a site.

To Satisfy

What exactly does that verb mean? To make content? Or is it to fulfill until there is no more room for improvement? Is it to make happy or just to make at peace? Is it merely to quell the distress of the heart? Are you truly satisfying a person if you have to 'keep' them satisfied? If you have to go back every once in awhile, and prove your worth again?

I have heard this verb used in so many ways in the world. Good ways and bad ways. The ability to be satisfied has moved from a virtue to a defect and back so many times that really I tend to stay away from the word altogether. At least, in any original form. Any writer in the room must raise their hand and admit that they have fallen into cliche's from time to time, using weary phrases and techniques as well as developing their own.

Anyway, I only thought of this because I used this particular word in my facebook status only a few minutes ago and...well:

'Good day, then bad day, then worse day, then busy day, then great day, then complicated day, then wonderful day. Funny how the most satisfying days are the ones you can't quite define.'

Obviously, to my deeper self, to satisfy is not strictly to make happy. Today was not a happy day, for the most part. It was filled with disappointment and irrational anger and trying to vent to a friend who had to leave soon (No, I don't blame the friend at all. In fact, I'm thankful that he tried to help during the little time he had.). In all honesty, the only excuse I have for being so out of sorts today is that the entire household has been tense for several weeks now.

This is, I learned quite a lesson today, and not from any particular thing. Just...the entire day. I was so miserable at the beginning, and the end was so helpful and fun and relaxing, showing me that love lasts forever, even if you lose the person you love for a time. Showing me that no matter how hard things seem at first, God always has something wonderful coming for you at the end of it. That he does have a plan and he does want you to be happy. And really, things aren't as dire as they appear in the moment. Things pass. Everything passes in this life. That's what makes the bad bearable and the good precious.

So yeah. Tonight, I am satisfied. I am satisfied because I have given up everything, all my rights, and allowed both good and bad to happen and pass and shape me. Because no, I'm not important, but I am sustained. I am loved.

Character

So, here I am again. I've been writing a whole lot more this week, which is unexpected, but it's late right now. I don't want to get started on another part of my story without full control of my consciousness. Also, I just watched two of the worst movies known to man. Well...I fell asleep during the second one. Twice. That's ok. I don't sleep enough at night, I feel like it's a good thing that I catch up on it during the day.

See, friend-whose-name-shall-remain-undisclosed? I only said I don't sleep at night very well. That's why I take cat naps almost every day. So there.

Anyway, I figured I'd ramble on here for a few minutes, maybe drain some of the writing-itch I'm feeling. I don't really have much of a deep discussion to lay out for you today, so I'm sorry. Most of my deep thought these days have been about matters best not thrown willy-nilly into the internet. You understand.

You know what's good therapy? The ability to throw words into a story without much thought of quality or continuity. Don't believe me? Well, have you ever been really, really angry with someone but unable to confront them? Did you ever vent by, say, staging a conversation and shouting into thin air? or figuring out long-winded arguments that of course pin down your side of the issue perfectly? Or just dwelled on it until it got so old and worn out that you just got over it yourself?

Honestly, that's what writing is half the time. It's taking your pent-up emotions and giving them to characters and situations and creating confrontations until you've completely worn yourself out on the subject and can look at it with better clarity. I've done it several time. Feeling overly romantic/lovesick? Slap down a two-page love story. Feeling murderous? Write about...gory battles. Evil, angsty, or angry characters. It's not coddling the emotion, really. It's putting it on the page, reading over it, letting the badly written work show you how illogical it all is, and calming yourself down. It also separates the emotion from real life, which helps you control yourself in the moment better.

"You" being me, of course. I know there are several people who just don't work this way. But even if you are not a writer, per say, you should try it out. It may just help. And then, you can show me your work and let me steal all your ideas, because everyone knows that's what good writers do.

*ahem* Just kidding.... >.>

Me, I write epic novels with all of the above enclosed within. You'll find, if I ever show people anything I write, that most of my characters reflect several of my deepest beliefs in one way or enough. My life goes into what I write, especially the way people relate to each other. Allow me a few seconds to brag, and I will say that I have been highly praised by several experienced and successful writers on my dialogue flow and character definition. It makes me happy--characters are, in my opinion, what make the story. If the characters grab you, it doesn't really matter what the story is about--you'll want to read it.

To a certain extent, of course. Plot is a big part of any story. Give it thought.

Interesting

Listening to music, two specific songs came one just after the other, and I just thought I should share:

Broken by Lifehouse

Wait Til You See My Smile by Alicia Keys

I don't know.... if you listen to the lyrics, it sounds almost like a question and then an answer. I've always found this specific song by Alicia keys very beautiful and uplifting, even though it isn't upbeat.

In other news, I have a picture of my puppy to show everyone. Denver, youngest of a five week old litter. Well, almost five weeks. I'm very, very excited to bring this little guy home. I mean, who needs a boyfriend when you've got a loyal, unconditional fuzzball of love?

Eh...for those of you who don't know, dogs are my first love. I am at my happiest when around a happy dog. Or a happy litter of nine puppies. :)

Renovations are going slow, but still...the chaos of the house has my brain in a scramble. I have literally written zip nonfiction for sixish weeks. I'm just journaling a whole lot and (rarely) posting here. I should try to post here more. I apologize for the long overdue post.

Hopefully the next will be sooner in coming.

Well Hello There

So I'm sure you've noticed that I haven't been posting as much recently. Well, I'll tell you why. First of all, a friend of mine is fostering a litter of nine puppies, one of which I am going to adopt. That'll be in about five weeks, but considering they live within walking distance, I want to get to know them, and they are so dang cute, they are taking up a deal of time and thought process. I mean, I could write about them up here, describing them to every single and boring detail, but it's just not the same over a blog. I might post pictures, should they decide to work on here.

Also, my sister and her husband are moving...tomorrow. My sister is freaking out. I am going to be helping out and the stress level (not mine, but it's sort of infectious) is skyrocketing. Rather, it's bouncing between absolutely relaxed and insanely intense. Ah well.

Lastly, we are going to do major renovations to our house once the sister and husband are away, and I'll be moving to a different bedroom, at which point I'll get the puppy and start training it and taking care of it. Sometimes I get little moments where I just have to write or I'm going to explode, and hopefully I'll be in a position to do that using the blog. But hey, what can I say? Real life comes first, and posts are going to be spotty the majority of the time.

Have a good one.

Oh

I got an email from someone random that I don't know telling me they liked my blog. Obviously, if you look to the side, they are not a follower. Why not? Oh, they just liked the way I wrote and wrote consistently and wanted me to join this random fashion website. I looked, saw the word 'sexy' about fifty times, and passed it by.

But hey, at least I know people...read this. Sometimes. >.> Maybe I should be worried.

Don't Think Of Anything

I ruin my vacations by wanting desperately for them to be over. I mean, what would you do if each day that passes brings you closer to getting a puppy, getting your own room, and seeing one of your best friends ever again. Well, all of them, actually. I also hate being uncomfortable. You wouldn't think it, but I don't like strange situations, places, people. It's more difficult for me than I think it is for most other people. When with relatives, that's one thing. I've known and trusted them all my life. But out here, out in Charleston, where I've already seen everything I want to see and really don't know where anything is, I just don't feel right.

Don't think of anything.

At least I'm feeling about ten times healthier, right? I mean, I can breathe (mostly) better and I'm not as physically exhausted as I was at home. Constantly. At home. And it's likely allergies set off by dirty dirty carpets and cats and plants and stuff. So I have all that to look forward to again. Feeling like I'm getting over nausea over and over and over again. And only three separating me from more of that.

Don't think of anything.

I've learned lessons, though:

1) Don't kick mushrooms on hot, humid days. They splatter.

2) If you do choose to kick mushrooms on hot, humid days, don't wear shoes with holes in them.

3) If you both kick the mushrooms and wear holey shoes, just go inside and put on a different pair. Don't desperately try to clean them in the two minutes before you leave on a very long trip.

4) No matter how hard you try, you are never going to be able to get a full nights sleep on the first night. Better just plan ahead and put yourself in a comfortable, quiet, entertaining place before you settle down for a sleepless night.

5) The door isn't jammed. It just hates you.

6) Forty bucks isn't enough for souvenirs, no matter how stingy a person you are, no matter where you go or for how long.

7) Sometimes the best days end in panic attacks. Just look over it and move on.

8) The shower doesn't only spray boiling or freezing water. It just hates you.

9) Always bring spares.

10) If you forgot the phone charger, go back and get it. Now. I don't care if you are already there. You won't survive without your cellphone. Rather, you will go insane. Because...

11) Family drives you crazy. There must be outside contact.

12) Go ahead and buy it--you /didn't/ spend 20,000$!

13) Lastly, you really can't help it. On every trip, at least one stuffed animal is going to find it's way home with you.

Also, just don't think of anything. This is your time away from reality, for better or worse. Relax.

Fall Down

'Break me out of my complacency, breathe your breath of life into my soul.'

I'm broken with No Regrets

Everyone, just raise your hands. Both of them, because I know you've done this more times than you can count. Y'know what? Your feet too. If you can, wiggle your ears. 'Cause I have a question for you. How many of you have knowingly done something very wrong and stupid? Raise your hands if you have. All of you? Oh.

Hello.

You can put your hands down, now. I forgive you for everything you've done. You may glare at me and say I don't have the right to claim that you need to be forgiven by me, but that's just a cover. People, in their insecurity, are desperate for someone to tell them that it doesn't matter. That there's nothing they can do to make you love them less. They want that assurance, and they want it to be real. Only then can it assuage any pain, or self-destructive hate. It really doesn't matter what you did, even if you did it to another person.

I swear, the person you are hurting the most is yourself. Because half the people out there have thick enough skins to be able to brush stuff off. The other half learn soon to surround themselves with tons of people who will help them heal. When it comes to deeper things--things that touch the soul--everyone may fall to it. But still. You do that to them, and no matter how it destroys them, they are the victim and they are going to have a plethora of helping hands to fix them. Who's gonna fix you? Who's gonna look and see the pained, dilapidated soul that would allow itself to do such a thing, and say that they feel sorry for it?

See, the thing about this is that in order to get better you have to pluck up the courage to surrender and let yourself be weak. People who have been hurt already know weakness. The first barrier was already broken down for them--by you.

You know, sometimes I want to just walk up and kiss the people who've hurt me on the cheek. I want to thank them for the many many lessons I have learned and the friends I have gained because of them. But when I do something wrong, all I want to do is kick myself or throw myself out the window. What right do I have to forgive myself, I say, Why, if I know now that it was wrong, didn't I know it then? I have no answer. Except that I am human. I am inherently evil, and I am in no way powerful enough to be good on my own.

Praise God for God. If it weren't for Him, I'd be completely and utterly in deep yogurt right now and forever, and life would be meaningless. Oh, I thank Him all the days of my life for what He's given me! I thank Him for the wonderful friends that always listen and always forgive what I've done to myself. I thank Him for one more day where I've eaten, smiled and laughed, exercised and cried. I thank Him when I'm dumb enough to eat cheese or drink milk and I don't feel any pain afterward. I thank Him when I make a fool of myself, if only because it helped make my friends laugh a little more than they would have without my company.

I thank Him when I write in my journal for giving me a gift in writing. I thank Him for my horrible memory which has driven me to use the gift of writing. I thank Him that I feel every desperate, agonizing emotion of everyone around me, and that I have a chance to understand enough to help.

So why? Why did I do what I did? Why did I look away? Why did I wander off? Why did I give Jesus reason to cry for me?

I am human, inherently evil, and in no way powerful enough to be good on my own.

Humbling, isn't it?

Liberating. I no longer have to worry, because I no longer have to try on my own. God does everything. I just have to let Him and follow. And when I choose not to, He doesn't even give me a slap on the wrist. He doesn't even look at me angrily. He cries when I cry. It's terrible, seeing Papa cry. But all I have to do to stop it is approach Him with a contrite heart and willingness to change, and He'll do the rest. He'll smile and pull me close and let me feel like the smallest, weakest, most vulnerable thing in the world, and yet completely safe.

So now you know why I don't worry. Going out in the sun without sunscreen increases my risk of cancer? Not true. If God wants me to get skin cancer, I'm gonna get it no matter how careful I am. And if He doesn't, I really don't have to worry too much about it. No, I'm not going to jump in front of a car and tell Him to save me if he wants me to fulfill his plan, but c'mon. I'm not going to let fear cripple my life. Beauty is fleeting at best and in no way key to doing what God wants. Health's much more important, but you still don't need to be in peak physical condition to be God's super-soldier.

Just don't worry. Do your best and give yourself breaks and don't worry. "'For I know the plans I have for you,' Declares the Lord, 'Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you a hope and a future.'" Jeremiah 29:11 What God wants will fill you with His joy and His love. Straying from Him will only hurt you more.

God forgives you for everything you've done. Every step you've taken outside His path. And you know what? He's forgotten about it. You should, too.

Go and Sin No More

Wow

You know, physical health has much more of an effect on the mind than I would have thought. For instance, I have been dealing with major stomach and lung issues since I wrote the post before the previous one, and I haven't been able to concentrate enough to write anything, be it a chapter of my story or another post. The only thing I have been doing has been writing a couple pages in my journal every night, but that was more for the sake of remembering and organizing in my mind everything that's been going on than for the sake of writing.

I also realize that the above paragraph, while of good size, is only three sentences long. That's...not cool. I should be able to do better than that. Really, though, it seems I become a whole lot more long-winded when I'm as continually exhausted as I have been in recent days. I also choose on a whim to say things in very odd ways. Bah.

So yeah. Wow. This is sort of a status check-in on yours truly. I've been stressed out by several issues. Physical, mental, relational.... And I'm not sleeping very well, even though I doze off every time I lay down. So, hopefully I'll feel better soon. But until then I decided to put something up here in order to keep this particular site from dying.

Whisper, by A Fine Frenzy

Whisper, by A Fine Frenzy

'Running the race
Like a mouse in a cage
Getting nowhere but I'm trying
Forging ahead
But I'm stuck in the bed
That I made so I'm lying

But if you keep real close
Yeah, you stay real close
I will reach you

I'm down to a whisper
In a daydream on a hill
Shut down to a whisper
Can you hear me still

Eager to please,
Trying to be what they need
But I'm so very tired
I've stopped trying to find
Any peace in my mind
Because it tangles the wires

But if you keep real close
Yeah, you stay real close
I will reach you

I'm down to a whisper
In a daydream on a hill
Shut down to a whisper
Can you hear me
Can you hear me still

The sound tires on my lips
To fade away into forgetting

I'm down to a whisper
In a daydream on a hill
Shut down to a whisper
Can you hear me
Can you hear me

I'm down to a whisper
In a daydream on a hill
Shut down to a whisper
Can you hear me
Can you hear me still?'

Life gets crazy sometimes, you know? I don't think I can say anything about what I feel that isn't covered in this song.

Secrets of the Sands by Leona Wisoker

Ah...where do I even start? I met Leona Wisoker at a writers conference in march, where I learned that she would have her first first book published and distributed by the end of the month. I was very, very happy for her. She was a nice person, a wonderful conversationalist and a wealth of knowledge all rolled up in a person who knew their way around the English vocabulary. Leona was never afraid to give her opinion and share her wisdom. At the same time, she never--ever--made me feel bad for being wrong or of a differing point of view. That's hard to do. I'm a bit too sensitive for my own good. Meeting Leona was a wonderful experience. I have to say, however, that reading her book, Secrets of the Sands, was even better.

World-building. I was stunned by the end of the book at the details in dress and speech and culture and language and history and myths and legends and misnomers of the world wrapped up in that book. I have read few books that compare in the sheer effort involved in creating a world that lives and dances off the page. Unbounded imagination only could have created something so spectacular. The best part, though, is that you didn't have to sit through paragraphs and chapters and pages of explanation for everything that was going on. Leona managed the show the reader her world through the telling of the story, and she never leaves them behind or bewildered. That is true skill.

Plot. Epic. I can't really tell you what it is besides that. Two parts grand quest to three parts mystery, one part romance and fifty parts can't-wait-for-the-next-book-so-you-can-get-more-of-the-picture. It resolves well, but there is so much more to find out about everything in the world, as well as the journeys of all the characters. Regardless of all other adjectives, this was one of the most unique stories I've read in a very long time.

Characters. I knew by the end of the third chapter that Leona put her self into and delved deep into the minds, emotions, and histories of all her characters, big and small, so that there was no flat, stereotypical one among them. There are genuine surprises, irrational behaviors that all people display, and a real connection every one of them that you don't find in many stories these days. I absolutely loved the main male, Idisio, and his oddly developed friendship with a Desert Lord named Scratha.

Anything else? Well, if I told you everything I wanted to say I'd still be sitting here typing three days from now. Needless to say, I am eternally thankful that we met Leona at the conference. Not only because of her book--although that is a big part of it--but because of the honor of a friendship with a person who so devotes themselves to and excels in her work. And I want you, my reader, to go find Secrets of the Sands right now and read it, because you'll love it instantly. Someone this talented deserves appreciation.

Letter--Wait For Me

Wait For Me

Dear Mister ---,

I am going to marry you someday. Just thought you should know. I also thought you should know that in preparation for that moment, I'm waiting. I'm not gonna rush off with every cute guy I take a fancy to and make huge mistakes. I not going to train myself to always look for the better, cuter, funnier, more successful guy. I'm not going to expect everyone else to be perfect and pull all the weight of the relationship by themselves. I'm going to train myself to be humble and caring and kind and serving and hard to offend and eloquent and understanding and strong and flexible and honorable. That is not to say, however, that I don't expect something from you. No, I'm raising my standards too high, and holding myself up to them. Here's a few examples.

First of all, you love me right? Okay, cool. Tell me that sometimes. The most important thing about they way I act in relation to other people is how I feel about myself. And I'll tell you now, I have a hard time with confidence. I get jealous, and then I blame myself for everything someone else does wrong. So you know what? You've got to take some time out of your hectic life and tell me you love me every once in awhile. And you have to mean it--I'll know it you don't mean it. I'll know it you're just saying it to fill the air, or to get something from me. Trust me, it doesn't matter how much it'll hurt me; I'll up and leave if you become disloyal or disrespectful.

That's not to say that the first time you disagree with me I'll blow off the handle. I like to think I'm fairly patient. Trust me, I'm working very hard to cultivate a loyal and forgiving personality for you. I also know that everyone makes mistakes--big mistakes--and everyone needs chances for forgiveness. I'm not going to be one of those people that will hold a lustful thought over you until you've worked yourself raw and blistering. At the same time, it's hard to earn my trust. It may take you a few years just to get me to call you my boyfriend. That's ok. I like to think I'm worth it. The point is, there's a difference between an accident and a habitually wrong mindset. You have to try, very, very hard, to love me and only me and be happy about it. This sort of thing doesn't just happen. You have to be smart. You have to put the other person first.

When it comes to respect, sometimes it's even harder. What if you know in your heart that I'm the one for you, but it's just not the right time yet? If you make the argument that true love with prevail and me can make it through the bumpy times to a brighter tomorrow so long as we hold onto each other and shun everything else, I will hit you. I know how difficult it is! Don't you think I know? Don't you think I wish everyday for that right person to come and for me to be happy? But the fact is that you have to keep your eyes on God. And you have to wait for me. If I say I'm not ready for a relationship, I'm not completely turning you down. I'm following God. And it's hard for me, too. Wait for me.

Oh. Right. You know what? You can't just talk to me and tell me and trust me with everything. You. Must. Listen. If I disagree with you, it doesn't make me stupid. It makes me different. Who knows? I might be right. Who knows? It might not even be important enough for us to decided someone's right and someone's wrong. It may be that I just want you to respect me enough to let me say what I think. Consider it. Openly. I'm not going to bite if you say no, so long as you say no kindly. You owe it to me to be completely understanding and completely honest. I can't stand people who won't allow others to debate their answers. I know for a fact that when I find you, I'll adore listening to everything you have to say. About anything. There's so much that I haven't even considered, and that's saying something.

And even if you love me for the way I don't mind bugs and mud, even if you love me for belching in public, for not being afraid of a fight, for playing video games and kicking your tail into next month, you have to remember a very important fact. It's very sad, and very humiliating, but it's something I cannot and will not change for anyone, so you'd better not even go there. I am, very deep down inside, a girl.

Yup. Scary.

I like romantic comedies, and I like the color pink, and I can't help, in a weak moment, enjoying the song Girlfriend by Avril Lavrigne. No, I'll never make you listen to it. I promise. But here's the thing that I really want you understand: I cry sometimes. I mean I sometimes break down bawling. You don't have to fix it, and you don't have to understand it, but you do have to be sympathetic. If you start saying 'whatever' and disdainfully watch me as I cry about something you did of something that's bothering me, this isn't gonna work. Mind you, there are many times when I'm going to be over-emotional and crying for a stupid reason. But making me feel like an imbecile isn't going to make anything better. All you need to do is hug me (if I let you) and tell me everything's going to be okay. We'll figure everything out, you'll stand by me through anything, and we'll pray like crazy. But don't try to get me to stop crying. Crying isn't a bad thing.

Lastly (I think), I don't want you nit-picking my looks. I do enough of that myself. My legs are pale? Well that's odd. It's not like the rest of me isn't a glorious bronze hue. Oh no wait, it isn't. I'm a fair person, one of the fairest of the lot, and you've just got to deal with it. Think of it this way: any fair person can go out and tan and get all pretty and brown and cancerful, but good luck to African who wants to get white. I mean...well, Michael Jackson doesn't count. I'm unique. I want you to love my personality first, yes, but woe to you if you don't love the rest of me as well.

By all means, you may push me toward more healthy habits. I want you to want me to be healthy, so telling me (nicely) that I should probably exercise more or stop eating so many donuts or the like will be fine. Accountability is key to any endeavor.

The Blessing

As I said, I hold myself to every standard I've outlined here. I want to become the best and wisest and prettiest and kindest and most loving wife you can imagine or ever want. I want to be perfect for you. I'm trying so, so very hard. Please, please try for me, wherever you are. I love you already.

Bless You,
Rebekah

Sickness

You know what I think about when I'm sick? What I could be doing if I weren't sick.

You know what I think about when I have a fever? Rainbows and unicorns. I know this because I doze off at a whole lot of random times during the day out of sheer exhaustion--even when I'm trying my hardest to stay awake--and when I wake the only thing that I remember is the merest though of dancing around with unicorns in that cliche and overdone fantasy land of pink cotton candy clouds and rainbows.

So, since this doesn't make very good blogging material, I must ask you all to reply with a case study: What on earth does this say about the way my mind works?

I Wish

Yeah, so in case you don't know, I like to occasionally read through those gossip magazines. You [don't] know, 'M' and 'J-14'. I know. You're completely ashamed of me. Whatever. This has a point. The fact is, it's helped me realize how much people care about what random people are doing in their lives. It's helped me respect celebrities--especially underaged ones--for keeping their cool when there's a mob after them. At the same time, I am so ashamed of some of the majorly twisted secular influences the magazines have on ditzy young girls. Really, let's cheer Zac and Vanessa on for moving in together. Let's spray in front of the whole world how horribly bashed and flamed Miley Cyrus was by her ex.

All I hope is that most of that information is accurate. All of it, ideally. I imagine myself as some sort of celebrity looking at the cover of a magazine and reading the lies that the entire public now believes about me and I squirm inside. I'd learn to handle it--they all do, in their own way--but I'd never be happy about it. You lose a lot of freedom as a celebrity.

I know none of us like his music, but did you know Justin Bieber has to cancel a concert because a mob hurt one of his fangirls? Correction, a mob of fans rushed the stage and hurt someone whose only fault was being in the way at the time. Sorta makes me never want to go to a concert again. At least not one with fangirls.

I wish I had the ability to reach lots of people with my words. I wish there were a whole lot more people who followed this blog. I wish I knew for sure what I'm going to do with my life. I wish there wasn't still this desire within me to somehow, miraculously become a superstar. I wish I didn't realize that if I did, I would have just as many haters as Miley Cyrus and the others. Someone out there would think I'm a fake. Or a ditz. Or a bad musician.

I wish I were gentler. I wish I were harder to offend. I wish I didn't judge based on half-truths and incomplete knowledge. I wish I wasn't a hypocrite. I wish I prayed more often for those I despise. I wish I thought more of others. I wish I worked harder. I wish I believed in myself as much as all my friends seem to. But you know one thing I wouldn't change?

I wouldn't change one person out there. Not under my own power. I wouldn't asked any one of my friends to change, and I wouldn't ask my Lord and Father to change. THat would be bad.

"A gossip magazine made you think of all this?!?!?!?!"

Yes. Puts things into perspective, doesn't it?

Time Stops

That time just after a huge storm--
A torrent of wonder, routine surprise
And mundane experience.
Things seem so quiet; the world
Is tired, as if hours beyond
The truth have passed.
Fatigue.

The weary have come and gone,
But their impression stays.
Even as the sun moves lower
You see them as they were
Only so long ago.
Their images, frozen yet moving
So fast.

When you worry that things will end
Yet feel them just beginning,
When you cannot see past the fog in your eyes
Yet you feel you know what comes,
When nothing moves, finished
But only halfway through,
Time stops.

Silence

Really, this thought has been tugging on me for quite some time. I'm not sure why I resisted the pull. Perhaps it is because silence frightens me--it closes the doors to distractions so that the tiniest tremor in your mind, the most insignificant blemish, seems like a mountain to you. A tsunami. An earth-splitting fissure.

While I write this, I forego my usual routine of listening to calming, centering music. It seems a hypocritical thing to do while you contemplate the unmoving. If I am to control myself and truely grasp what it is to be overwhelmed by nothing, I must first experience it. For silence can be far more horrible than most people realize. And it can be far more beautiful.

As I said before, silence is a removal of distractions. It is a tool that one may use to understand what is really important to you. Without the confusing, spinning, whirling stimulation of a world whose only concern is to brainwash you, what are you? It scares some people to even glimpse. There are monsters that blankets of other cover. Even if you do not nurture these beasts, even if you try your hardest to pretend they're not there, they will grow on their own. And soon the creatures are far too big to be totally covered by games and pleasure, and they strike at all you hold dear.

Introspection takes time, and takes effort, but most of all, it take bravery. Are you courageous enough to face the monster while it is still small? It will be easiest that way. Why do you think Therapists have nothing around them but stress relievers? Do you think it would work if they were playing music in the background? If they had a movie on or went to a restaurant? Silence is a tool, just like anything else, for understanding oneself and what is inside.

I know it's scary. It's lonely, sometimes, when you can't get away from it. You know where other people are--worse, you remember the feeling you get when you are around them--but you cannot reach them. Even when they're a mere few feet away. There is a barrier, and they won't speak. They don't know, or they don't care, how much you need them to.

But silence can be heard. I used to listen to it all the time--I still do, but not as much. I can hear the harmony of the content. I can see the crescendo of the joyous and I can feel the discordant strains of those that suffer. I don't know how to explain it to someone who does not know, but it is there. There is nothing wrong with not having anything to do every once in awhile. Why must we fill everything with warped mindlessness? I am at my best, inwardly and outwardly, once I have taken the silence into perspective.

Letter

This was done as three things; a venture into the art of first person, a experiment created to provoke thought, and a style of writing tuned to mean nothing and everything at the same time. I can't tell you the significance of it, but I wonder if anything I say pertains to your life or situation...?

Dear ---

If you understand something, you know nothing. We aren't made to understand but to learn. There's so much you cannot know about the world; can you really assume that a thing is one way merely because you have seen something similar before? Imagine the danger of assuming authority on a whim and messing with a situation as you please. What if you're wrong? Ever if you are right, what if you fix it the wrong way? What if, in fixing it, you lose the trust and integrity of a friendship involved?

There have been times when I've suspected jealousy. I've told the story, and others have picked jealousy as well. But why would jealousy make people act so? Can't one just approach me and explain how he feels? My goodness! Can you not merely tell me the truth! Talk to me! I listen! God put you in my life as a support and part of my guidance. Don't you owe it to me to tell me what you see me do wrong? Do you think I want to do wrong?

But if it were jealousy, I imagine there would be more silent enmity. The tactile sense, which sends shudders down my spine. If it were jealousy, you would appraoch me, and you would do wrong. I don't believe this is the case.

Indeed, the fact that I have seen neither hide nor hair of you shows me that even you understand. Somewhere deep inside, the reminder of your limits grows stronger the closer you come to me. Something stops you when you speak to me, and even though you don't know what it is, it closes up your throat until you change the subject. That's the Holy Spirit, tell you that you don't have the right.

Buy why? Why do you not listen to it sooner? Why must you ignore it just long enough to harrass my friend? Don't you know me at all? If you stopped for one moment and walked around in my skin you'd understand; the worst torture is burdening those I love.

I must admit, I have begun considering again my worth to other people. I begin to realize the pressure my mere existence puts on others. You're not helping. Fact: You don't know what you're messing with. Fact: You're hurting me. Fact: I'm so very sorry. I hate being angry and I hate speaking the unwavering, unforgiving thoughts in my mind. Fact: You're still young, and yet you act like you have the whole world in hand. I don't pretend to know any better, but this is my life. You're not the one who'll be hurt if I'm wrong. Respect me.

Trust God.

I forgive you.
-------

Watermelon Gum

I was writing when I made this realization. At the time is was merely a fabrication--an image of the deepest, greatest happiness in the fictional life of one of my fictional characters--but when I thought back to it, it all struck me at once. It was so simple! It was an embodiment of what I've always wished I had, of the comfort and security and peace I always strive in vain to achieve. However, I believe I'm getting ahead of myself--will you take a walk with me?

”I was six. It was a few weeks after my birthday, and to celebrate, my mother took me to Myrtle Beach, in South Carolina. Just me and her. We'd been driving all the day before, so she was tired, but I wanted to explore. I ran off up the beach without her, and I didn't stop for a long time. Eventually, I got lost, and forgot where she was. But a young man had noticed me, and before I was able to panic he came up to me and asked me if I liked watermelon gum. I said no, and he said that was good, cause he didn't have any. After that, he told me jokes and played little rhyming games with me while he led me down the beach, every once and awhile reminding me to keep a look out for my mom. He didn't touch me, and he didn't ask me what my name was or give me his. All he did was entertain me for an hour or two while we found my mother again. I don't even know why, but I was happier that day than I've ever been. Sometimes I wish I could take a break from my life and go back to walking along the beach, laughing at stupid jokes.”

...It's hard to start. Have any of you ever been so worried about the future, hurt by the past, and fearful of the present that you had no room to breath? That anxiety creeps into your very soul spreads and mingles with all of you triggers--your fears, your desires, and those thing which you despise deepest of all. You can't think, and you can't breath, and finally you succumb to the feeling, just enough so that you can keep your head above water--just enough so that you've created wall inside yourself. And you think you're ok, for awhile. Whenever that memory, or subject, or worry comes up you just stuff it behind your wall and build it higher and stronger. You can laugh, and think, but some of the foulness you've been keeping within yourself will inevitable leak into everything you do and say and see. You get so that you don't even think about it anymore and you run as fast as you can, hoping you can just leave it behind somewhere. But you can't.

That story there? It came from somewhere inside of me. A longing for a distraction, elevated beyond my world and my troubles, brought this into what I wrote. And now I see: that young man is Jesus. He steps into my life when I feel I'm about to collapse and distracts me--with a friend, with a joke, with a game, and especially with himself. And I trust him, though I don't know him. I'm so small, and couldn't possibly know him. But I love him, and I love his jokes and his smile, and the way he keeps me safe keeps reminding me to look for my 'mother', who is my Father, who is God. Everything'll be better when I'm with God.

So right now, I'm walking along the beach with Jesus. Every so often, like the tiny child I am, I'll turn away from him for a second to look at something else. Sometimes, even, I'll leave his side completely and try to do something else to entertain myself, and just when I'm starting to realize that I've gotten myself into a horrible mess, he asks me whether I like watermelon gum. I say no. He says good. 'Cause he doesn't have any. He just has the good, healthy, satisfying stuff.

Being with Jesus is being a small child. In that moment, you're just looking at Him and enjoying Him, and trusting that nothing around you can hurt you while He's there. Nothing in your past or future could ever matter or bother you--He loves you. And He doesn't force you into anything, He just stays by your side, watching when you wander, and smiling while you're with Him. He is ever patient, always kind, all knowing, always loving, forever smiling, amazing comfort. The only thing that could ever hurt me while I'm with Him is knowing that someone else isn't.

So let me ask you: Do you like watermelon gum?

Well that's good; Jesus only has the good stuff.

Choir

Listening to: Emma Wallace

I like this song. I've never heard one of her songs before (that I know of), but this one has a fun jazzy side to it's somber melody. As many of my friends are already aware of, I'm in such a jazzy mood right now. I can often be found on my piano adding a swing tempo to the most classic baroque. It's not technically correct, but I honestly don't realize I'm doing it half the time. The other half I'm bored. Or...stubborn.

I like to think I have a good taste in music. Then I dance to Party in the USA.

No, please! Stay friends with me! I know my own shortcomings all too well.

Anyway, what I really wish is that I was familiar with more choral pieces. John Rutter's Requiem is perhaps the most moving, emotional, ingenious work of art I've ever had the good pleasure of listening to. If I hadn't joined choir, I would have never heard it, and I sincerely doubt I'd have sung soprano in the piece. Hardest thing I've ever learned. And guess what? I get to sing it again! Well, most of it.

Not to mention, my choir does fun songs. For instance, we are currently in the process of learning an African song. It's so fun, and for something so simple and tempo driven it's really hard to get! We even have permission to sway a little and tap the beat (double-time) with our hands during the concert just so we'll stay in time. Funny how slurring an up-beat song can suddenly turn it into a dirge.

Lastly, I must add in this note: My choir director is the best in the world! She makes everything fun and she forces us to push ourselves farther than we'd ever thought possible. I owe everything I've learned about singing (and for those of you who don't sing, it's not nearly as simple as it seems) to her. Hard work trumps talent every time.

Connections

Listening to: Owl City

It's very odd, the times you realize things. I've heard it said (and said it myself) that it's a writer's job to observe, but sometimes we are so insistent on watching everything unfold that we forget to experience it. You need to understand body language, yes, notice details and understand thought process'. But you also need to understand the in the moment. You need to be emotionally invested in...something. Otherwise your writing will not engage, no matter how technically skilled you are.

I had a panic attack today.

Yes, this had a point. And no, I'm not delving for sympathy.

That is, I was the receiver of so much love and little kinds acts that most people didn't even realize they were doing all this evening as I recovered (I get bad panic attacks). It opened my eyes to how amazingly caring most everyone I know is, and how each one will comfort a person in their own way. Truth be told, some of the ways attempted just don't work well on me. But they tried, and that in itself helped.

Moreover, I saw how much I lean on everyone else. I recognized how I could go up to some I know only passably well and be the only one to realize he was bothered by something. I noticed that he trusted me with what it was, even though the level of personal recognition was mutual. Mostly, I felt keenly how much his hurt affected me and how much I needed to help him. Not wanted. Needed.

I said something. I'm not sure if it helped or not, but I hope it did.

The thing is, even with all that going on, I noticed so many other things that people were doing: How excited my wonderful friend was that my brother came back to lead Youth Group, how one girl soothes herself with a drooling baby and another with the company of her boyfriend. It was all so amazingly clear, and my entire life just hit me with acute detail. Even when I'm hurting the most I can help other people. Even when I'm having a revelation I can be annoyed at a sibling.

This is the key to writing. Getting the words down on paper? Easy. Simple. Mundane. Understanding and unveiling the meaning given to you in life? Slow. Agonizing. Wondrous.

My Flighty Muse

How many of you know what a muse is? No no, don't answer that. It's different for everyone. I know someone who calls her muse her broccoli. Another calls it a dolphin, and another calls it a big man with a hammer who hits her whenever she does something he doesn't want. She's a little eccentric, and the best writer I've ever had the good pleasure of collaborating with. I find those two things often come hand in hand.

Anyway--whatever you call it--a muse is just a pet name for a writer's inspiration. Some of them are constant and unwavering, but more often they leap from one shiny new idea to the next will little rhyme or reason. Imagine, for instance, that you're in the middle of a huge project that you're absolutely in love with. You wrote a whole thirty pages in a week, and you're hyping yourself up for more. You're a little nervous about the next scene--you don't know whether to make it a conflict of a well placed letdown--so you watch a movie.

Now imagine that you often write with other people as well. And the character you use happens to be a young woman whom you've always imagined looks like Katherine Heigl. She gets a boyfriend whom you imagine looks like...Lets go with Brad Pitt. Everyone knows him. And you fall in love with the messed up dynamics of the relationship and just can't get enough of it.

Now, you are preparing yourself for this next scene--remember? Yes, that's it. You've tried walking, slowing your breathing, taking a nap, drinking caffeine, and nothing helps. So you give up and you watch a movie. The movie has Brad Pitt in it. You can't help it. You like Brad Pitt. If you're a guy, he's a fun actor. If you're a girl, you just think he's cute. Watching this movie gets you considering the character dynamic between your character and your friend's character. You get this wonderful idea out of the blue, and you start thinking it out in detail in your mind. You dream it, you day dream it, you think it, eat it and really everything except actually writing it. You know why?

'Cause you are no longer able to write alongside your friend.

Oh, and guess what else? You can't possibly focus on anything else until your Katherine muse fizzles out, which is unlikely until you finally write something. You try to get in touch with your friend, but she's either not getting it or ignoring you, and nothing comes of it. Are you screwed?

Well, no. The situation is dire, but there is still hope. There is something--one thing--which you can do. It's ugly, it's grueling. It's depressing, difficult, loathsome and agonizing: You continue to write this story you've been working on personally. Sure, it'll be crap for the first few paragraphs, but once you hit your groove it both speed up and becomes wonderful and fulfilling again. Just don't go back in the middle of your thought process to fix the three of four crap paragraphs. You do that later, once you've left everything alone for a few hours and come back.

Patricia Briggs Mercy Thompson Series

I know, I've already stated my general aversion to first person novels in great relief. Why, you ask, are all my reviews on first person novels, then? Honestly, I don't know. It's basically because the ones that are shoved upon me by others are in first person, and I read slowly. It's such a weakness, I know. However, this time it was the newest book in the Mercy Thompson series which caught my eye: Silver Borne by Patricia Briggs.

Mercy Thompson is a car mechanic with ties to a Werewolf pack, a powerful Fae, and a kindly Vampire. The books describe all the troubles she gets herself into, as well as develop her as a character and as a Skinwalker(human who can turn into a coyote). The premise, as well as the bare information she cunning weaves into her books, are all that kept me going, at first. My first impression of the main character was that she was stupidly stubborn, and I honestly didn't get much more than that until I was almost through with the first book. However, I enjoyed the roles and persona of the supporting characters, and that carried the story for me.

By the second book, however, I was interested in the main character and her conflicts. Things only got better from there, as the plot centered around the Vampires and then, in the third book, around the Fae. I was engrossed and immersed in the story by the end of the first three, and couldn't wait to read the fourth.

Unfortunately, the fourth was mostly a let-down. The plot was thin, the conflict simple, and the story took the main character away from all the relationships that made her an interesting person. Not to mention, Briggs switched up her writing style for that book, and it seemed rough and unpolished more than anything. Luckily I was full of enough steam from the preceding books to fight my way through it and continue on to Silver Borne, which was back up to par and highly satisfying.

Go ahead and pick them up at the library, if you're interested. I don't recommend buying until you've read at least two and made sure you really like them. That said, if they are your kind of book, they're going to be some of your favorites.

Happy Easter

I have no time for a full on post
It's sad but you'll have to endure
I just thought I'd take time to boast
That my eyes are a deep shade azure
I'm too much concerned by my rhyme
But I'll likely lose meaning in time
So I'll wish you a happy first Sunday in April
And mention that nothing I find rhymes with Easter.

Uh...yeah. Basically an instant poem to treat (or punish--you can decide) those who come here on Easter. It is true, though, that I have no time for a long post, so I admonish you to remember what this day commemorates and I wish you great joy.

Writings

I suppose it's time I updated again, huh? I've been working rather hard on my personal writing projects, leaving less time for this. It's a little exhausting, actually. People can easily see twenty pages of text and underestimate the time it took to write it, but that's a serious amount of work. Not to mention, I'm odd in that I think double-spacing my documents is cheating, so I only 1.5 space them, meaning my twenty is actually closer to thirty. Logically speaking.

'But Rebekah, why can't you just post some of the stuff you've written and call it a day?'

Simple. Putting things up on the interwebs is a form of self-publishing. If I were to publish something, I can't very well approach an agency and ask them to take, produce, and advertise it no matter how amazingly complex and in-depth it is. No, not even if it's a crossover. As someone who's really hoping she can have things in print one day, I'm not even willing to risk a teaser. Sorry.

'What about that stuff with the cats?'

Also simple: That's my cat. That really happened, and I really did start laughing hysterically when my sixteen-pound tabby was chased around by a paperweight. It's also not something I think I'll ever really want to publish, unless I'm asked to write some children's collection about cats. I don't think I'd do well with children's books, though. I use too many big words.

'Ok, so what about random stuff you've written for fun. Can we see that?'

Uh...Sure. As soon as I write some.

See, I'm really bad at writing short stories. I'm concise enough, but I just have a whole lot to say, and I enjoy digging deep. I'm still working on packing my punch into a smaller fist. That's half of what this blog is for, actually. The other half is getting a reading base who will actually care if and when I get something truly published.

'Ok, one last thing. What on earth is a crossover?'

Speaking the marketing language, it's what every writer should strive for (not that I'm all that bothered by my marketing statistics at this point in time). See, approximately 80% of readers are female, leaving the remaining twenty to be male. Most books either interest one gender or the other, but not both. A crossover hits the 'sweet spot' between both groups, intriguing and entertaining them both. A crossover, in most cases, makes more money and reaches more people. Publishers are always on the lookout for crossover novels.

Requiem Aeternam

Yesterday I and my choir performed John Rutter's Requiem piece. It's by far the most difficult thing we've ever done, and it went perfectly. I mean to say, after a few of the movements I had a hard time staying still for want to laugh out loud or burst into joyous tears. Not only was it a wonderful stretch for a Legato Soprano like me, it was a vibrant, nuanced piece of emotion set down in lyrical, expressive notation. I don't think I've ever felt so fulfilled after a concert before in my life. Nor have I felt so disappointed.

All the friends I asked to come save three missed it because I was stubborn and got the time wrong. I had a hard time getting into the mood of the piece at the beginning because I'd just found out that half of them would be arriving moments after the concert was over. Worse, they all blamed it on themselves. They wouldn't even make me feel bad about it. I'd expected them to be angry--annoyed, at the very least. But hey, I have wonderful friends. I suppose it was high time life gave me a reminder. I merely wish those fateful reminders did not take the form of my own personal blunders.

Our director told us that this morning someone came up to him, speechless at the performance. They tried to say something and then just began to cry. It's...awe inspiring to know that we did that. That's what ever artist strives for. I believe I learned more, about my ability and about myself as a person, while working on this piece than on any other one.

"For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

Other Blogs

Haha! Life is so busy right now I barely have time to think of something to write up here. Well, I must apologize. I'm actually resting up for a major choir performance tomorrow whilst practicing guitar and figuring out my new phone and trying to get over my stupid allergies enough to carrying a tune. I'm not worried, though; I always pull through during a performance. I've sung successfully through laryngitis before. Um.... I don't recommend it, though. You have to work you diaphragm so hard that your abs are on fire afterward. No lie.

Anyway, I have two blogs that you can look at instead, to appease yourselves. Write Badly Well by Joel Stickley is a wonderfully hilarious satire for differing writing methods. The other, Writing for Sanity, is actually done by my father. Before you cringe and walk away, let me remind you that he got first place in the first writer's contest he ever entered. That's gotta say something.

Anyway, I hope to bring another review to you soon, at which point I'll need to have the book read. -gulp- It'll be far easier to do that when not writing. You gonna do something, do it right.

Excitment, The Tragedies Associated with

Ever had those times where you're so excited about something you can't concentrate on anything else? Who am I kidding? Of course you have. Well, you could be a miserable miserable being with no aspirations or even mundane hopes, but I sincerely doubt that. After all, why would you be reading this? No no, check that. I suppose if you didn't care about anything you wouldn't care what you read, either. Am I right? Of course. I'm smart like that.

Anywho, as you can probably see by now, I'm having one of those aforementioned moments. I really want to work on my book, but I have this funky little story rolling about in my head about a werewolf and a schizo girl who can turn into a wolf (there's a difference, trust me). It was, oddly enough, inspired by my watching of New Moon last night, which sickened me so much I just had to...change it. You know? Omit the vampires entirely, make Bella a minor character and focus on the wolf pack? I'm sure you have no idea what I'm talking about. Don't worry. By the time I'm through with it it won't look anything like the original story anyway.

Only thing is, I have to get it out of the way before I can work on my book. I have to get rid of my constant headache to do either, and even if it goes away I'll have to do the school I'm putting off (for this very reason) before I get to anything else. Thus, by the time I have the time and capacity to write anything worth reading my excitement will have waned, and I will no longer have the motivation to write. Life is sad that way.

Also, my Macaroni tastes a bit like barbecue. Anyone wanna hazard a guess as to why?

Acquire the Fire

So, that trip this weekend? That was a church youth event called Acquire the Fire, with a whole lot of worship, messages, bible, alter calls, and love. At the risk of sounding dramatic and enraptured, there was a real presence of God's love, especially friday night. I couldn't not cry as I felt it, and I can't not mention how great my wonderful friend, Evan, was to me in my weakness. But I didn't really want to go on and on about the personal things God did within me.

No, what I wanted most to mention was the drama. Friday night there was a drama production called Surrounded, with many intersecting paths and stories. It touched on everything, from betrayal to deep hurt to love to guilt. The intensity was such that, even as I curled up as tight as I could manage, I had to cuddle a bit with my neighbor just so I wouldn't start hyperventilating. (No, I'm not a wimp. Prone to panic attacks, sadly, which triggers my asthma.)

At the same time, they managed to be extremely funny in parts.

On saturday, there who two things that really got my attention. First was a message by Nick Vujicic, who was born without arms or legs and has a website: Life without Limbs. There's really nothing I can say that would describe what it's like to meet him in person. He swims, he's happy, he's rejoicing in God's plan. Seeing him, and what he'd managed to do, I could no longer believe that God could never use me for His purpose.

The second was a talk on romantic love. Rather, a skit. The premise was this: what would foreign countries think of love in our culture if all they did was listen to our love songs? Songs like 'So What' by Pink and 'Bleeding Love' by Leona Lewis. The skit was five people acting out love songs in the same fashion as Whose Line is it Anyway. I tell you, there is nothing that puts the twisted, noncommittal version of infatuation of this country better than a literal analysis of our popular love songs.

School

Mood: Cumulus by Imogen Heap

I suppose that says it all. Today I realized that I have to switch geometry books again (I've had to twice already this school year), because the one I'm using doesn't prepare me at all for the SAT. As I am staking my life and future happiness on attending Christopher Newport University for college, I need a good SAT score. And, just to be clear, I'm not good at math.

Fine. Moms says I'm very able to pick up and retain the fundamentals of math. But let's face it: It's so boring! I want to write, and dance, and sing, and play guitar or piano (whichever is nearest at the time) even more than usual when I'm sitting down and trying to do math. Unfortunately, the world seems to view math as an important subject, and will teach us far more than we will likely ever use in our adult lives whether we like it or not.

On the other hand, I have basically everything else I need to get into college set, and a good idea of what I want to do. Multi-million-dollar author, anyone? Well, a girl can dream. In the absence of that, I'll be a psychologist. More specifically, a counselor for teenage girls, 'cause we definitely need more of those in the world. Not to mention, I'm a good listener. And I'm nosy. Well...not really. Merely an indomitably curious being.

In either case, I most definitely will not need very much higher math skill.

And while I write this I am wasting the precious little time I have to pack for a trip this weekend. I suppose I should get to that.

Great Hunter

He could remember it all. He'd been so tiny back then; no one had thought he could grow to be such a talent--such a power. He'd showed them. There was no greater hunter in the land, even with those two newcomers. Spoiled, both of them, they would follow their masters around and beg loudly for attention, grovelling and licking, purring and praising. Every once in awhile they'd digress into mini skirmishes with each other, growing more and more fierce before one would exclaim loudly and disentangle himself in a torrent of flying fur.

Neko wasn't like that. He was a king among cats--at least those of this household. For what other reason would he hold the honorable position on the top of the shelf? For what other reason was he always allowed on the top bunk of his masters' bed, while the other two were shoved to the bottom? None. He was king. He was powerful.

The sleek orange cat kept telling himself this as he stalked lithely from room to room. His bright orange eyes surveyed the surroundings, keeping tabs on the other two cats, Fiddlesticks and Jasper, while completely ignoring his human 'masters'. He slunk under the piano bench, crouching low to the laminate flooring as his thoughts began to blur in his mind. His ears splayed back like the wings of and airplane, and he felt himself shivering with excitement. He was a great hunter.

Fiddlesticks walked stately into the room, petite if it weren't for the fat he had accumulated during his time here. He was lazy, and rather laid back if it weren't for that timid streak. Neko kept his eyes fixed on this gray tabby--his target. Fiddle meandered around the other side of the room for a few minutes, considering the couch, the large cushioned chair, and the patch of sunlight equally before one of the humans stepped into the room and surprised him a bit. Then he began to walk toward Neko's hiding place, completely unaware of his impending doom.

Neko was truly shivering now, but he waited until Fiddle was only a few feet from him before striking. He was like a viper--he leaped forward, meowing viciously as his declawed front paw shot forward and slammed into Fiddle's unsuspecting face. Neko backed up two steps, staring menacingly at his prey. Fiddle sat there blankly for a moment. After a few seconds, Neko had mustered enough courage to have another go, moving forward threateningly, chirping in the most malicious way.

But before he could get another hit off, Fiddle made his move. He was like lightning, and Neko barely had time to register being tackled and batted twice in the face before he was mewing in panic and scrambling away from his assailant. Fiddle followed, tail held gaily in the air, batting at the retreating form that was easily twice his size.

Finally, Neko had escaped to his personal and safe ledge at the top of the shelf, watching Fiddle--who was sitting below him and staring at him innocently--and listening resignedly to the hysterical laughter of his master, who had witnessed everything.

Wolf Tower by Tanith Lee

Now, I'm not much into first person, and I'll tell you why. In first person, you only have one perspective, and thus the main character must be extremely observant and intuitive or the reader will have a highly limited point of view on the story. Thus, every main character is usually wrought from the same mold. I get tired of this.

However, this is not the case in Wolf Tower (or the subsequent books in the series, Claidi's Journals). Tanith Lee has created a character who is being swept up in a cascade of events beyond her understanding and yet manages not to be lost or confused the entire time. Claidi is a wonderful character with depth, fear, failure, and vast development throughout the story. She shares all her thoughts and wonders, and yet the action flows quite well. The perspective in this story walks a thin line, and there is little stumbling.

Another joy in this book is the imagery. Tanith Lee's concise use of words builds a world around the reader without pulling them out of the story itself. One of my favorite lines has been from the beginning: "And from it's mouth there burst an impossible ear-shattering thunder that was a scream." That sentence exemplifies the way Tanith Lee has woven imagery and action together.

Tanith Lee is an expressive writer, and she knows how to tell an entertaining story. However, there are many better writers, as far as mechanics. She chose a style of writing that spouts fragmented sentences as often as not, and it only works because the character herself is so identifiable. Also, since you only see the rest of the characters through Claidi's eyes, you do not get to see the depth of their thoughts and actions nearly as well, and may only interpret what they say through the biased view of the main character. While Tanith Lee does this very well, I must point out that because of this, I would not have read the books if Claidi herself hadn't been as fantastic a character.

Overall, however, Lee's plot is creative, premise is original, and characters are engaging. I highly recommend this book.

Fissures in My Mind

I suppose I'm really tired, or I had some sort of revelation, or something, because I have such a will to write right now. I get that a lot, but I don't have any stories going on in my head, or novels I want to express in four or less paragraphs. I just want to vomit onto the page and read it back tomorrow, laughing at my funky thoughts and whims. Everything i write, I don't have to look back and fix, or edit, 'cause I know I'm the only who's going to really read this. Unless, by a whim, I set this note to be open to the public. But even then, not many people care enough to look over the inner working of my mind when they try and fail to explain themselves within the boundaries of a single note. I suppose if they want to get a dumbed down version of me, they could look at what other people have said about my notes. But if everyone did that, I wouldn't have any comments at all. And that would make me sort of sad.

Single file, my thoughts roll down the ramp of my fingers and into the computer, popping up as neat little lines of letter on the screen. I think I'm doing pretty well until I get three or four extremely oppressive thoughts at once, and they tumble all over the path of my hand, and then I forget where I was going in the beginning. My train of thought is then struck by a curve-ball, and I must pursue it miles along this new track before I can get myself straight again, and by then I have forgotten most if not all of what I wished to say. Unless, that is, I didn't really wish to say anything in particular, at which point my ramblings will eventually follow themselves in circle, and my reasoning and beliefs will all follow back to the same point.

What I love the best is when fifty trains of thought are running around simultaneously. I have sometimes manged to be thinking coherently about five or six things at the same time, though I must admit that this is mostly the case only after i have been babysitting two or more children. It is remarkable how a woman can train herself to multitask when necessary. Even though, it seems, the mind cannot truly focus on two things at once, I believe multitasking is merely the pursuit of getting along with more than one goal and arriving at it passably well. Or, if worst comes to worst, in a way that has barred most major catastrophe's. After all, you will still get paid and thanked for babysitting even if you managed to get the young one locked in a room by itself, so long as you manage to get them out before it hurts itself or the parent arrives.

Mind you, this is not what we should strive for in our lives. Just as you are likely to cross any or all of your personal boundaries in your life my mistake, you are likely not to completely reach all of your goal. Thus, you must give yourself some 'wiggle room', holding yourself to a higher standard but not kicking yourself about your occasional failures. One the other hand, holding yourself to be perfect is an absolute trap, because then you become so worried about your goal that you give up many other things, such as enjoyment and attachment, in order to achieve it. No human is perfect, I believe, and I very much doubt any will be able to sway my perspective, for I have seen those little specks of evil in even the most saintly of my acquaintances, and much more than a speck of it in myself.

Then there come the times when your thoughts do not move at all. Your fingers and tongue are on their own, and until you can think again you must improvise everything you do and say, often making an enormous fool out of yourself in the process. I find this happens most often when a person is thrown headfirst into a new situation, and they look around blankly while their minds try and figure out exactly how they really feel about the situation. Either that, or they understand right off the bat that they are very uncomfortable, and therefore their minds just hide away, and refuse to work until they've had the time to rid themselves of the overload of the senses they were just experiencing. Some people are very adaptable. Some accept it, but are slow to change. Some resist most indomitably. Others, like me, very much dislike change in any way, but have grudgingly accepted the it's not the end of the world, and thus adapt quite quickly.

Lastly, there are distractions. It doesn't matter how focused and smart you can be if you didn't get enough sleep, and everyone has those days. As I write this, I fight the urge to answer a friends post on one of my sites, and my muse is flying about crazily in my mind, spouting out theories and dialogue and many other essential elements of word crafting. They come in all shapes and sizes, especially when one is thinking whilst on the computer. They never end, in fact, for one has toys and books and board games and Internet and console games and friends and TV and music and many, many other things. For one so tired as I, who got a maximum of five hours of sleep last night, this is all too much for me to handle, and I am apt to launch myself in one thing for fifteen minutes before realizing I had before been halfway through one thing or another. Listening to mood music helps, but sometimes it just makes me emotional and irrationally introspective, my logic warped by lack of rest.

I suppose the aforementioned was not lastly. Lastly is when I am alone, or with a small group of friends, in a world without distractions. We are together with God, and we are listening and praising him, and feeling contented and peaceful and not at all trying to quell our thoughts for want of hearing those of our friends. I suppose I have done it a dozen times or more, but I am always truly surprised at how much worry and panic my Lord can and will take away from me when I go to him. I realize which desires of mine are from him simply because they are not snuffed out first thing. I realize where I have been thinking and acting wrong, and I do not fight myself over it. I make it a part of myself, removing the old fiber and weaving in the new, improved one. And then I realize the most important thing of all: I am not the most important. I am the least, the last, and the smallest, and I am merely there to help others when they need it. I do not seek out others so that they may faun over me, but so that I may be their support and experience their laughter. It is most important to me that I am serving others, acting as unspoken guide and support. I draw more happiness from this than from any other activity I've ever ventured to try.