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.