The If is the Why

If my blog were a garden, it would be over run with weeds.

If life were a sundae, I would ask who ate the cherry.

If I were a hippo, I would float gracefully instead of sink as I thrash wildly.

If a hand were a claw, it would pinch people a great deal more often.

If a book could speak, he would always tell the same story.

If a tree grew down instead of up, digging holes would be even more of a pain.

If holes filled themselves, I'd dig more holes.

If I dug more holes, people would think moles were mutating.

If lawyers were honest, perhaps justice would be done more often.

If you tickle me, I may scream.

Confessions of a Quitter

I... QUIT!

Oh how liberating.

I quit NaNoWriMo! Yippee! I missed the precious time it stole from my blog, and it was naught but a tiresome chore on my part and my novel was ghastly. I had lots of good reasons, you see. I quit for myself, for the greater good of novels and novelists everywhere and for the aliens.

I'll get back to you on how this benefits the aliens. As soon as they get back to me.

Are you a quitter? I often am. It's one of my worse qualities. I usually only quit on myself though. If someone else is counting on me, I'll keep at it. I'm a coward who likes to avoid conflict.

I think there is something to be said for knowing when and how to quit and when and how to keep going, even when the going gets tough.

When to call it quits though? For me, it's time to stop when it's not helping anyone anymore and the pain has no purpose. This describes my NaNoWriMo novel perfectly.

Free at last. I gave it a week of my life. Tried and failed. C'est la vie. A part of me screams to get back up and try again!

But most of me knows when to quit.

Thoughts on a Wednesday

Yes, I dare call them thoughts.

I almost fear opening my mouth right now, or at least letting my thoughts appear on this screen, because I am really not at all sure what I am going to say. I feel vaguely full of words and my fingers keep moving so I suppose I shouldn't try to squelch the muse and just let the dang thing happen.

Ah control. That tentative thing we all try to grasp. That security we all like to pretend we have.

(I say "we all" all the time. In case you had not noticed. I like to identify with humanity and yet I feel as though I am selling you all short in a way. Like I expect you to be as imperfect as I am. If it comes off that way, I apologize. It has not escaped my notice that many exemplary people exist and many of them to not have the vices I portray "us all" as having. I know I have them and, in my narrow scope, I like to think maybe those good and wonderful people once had them too, but they outgrew them. It's a very optimistic view and it gives me hope, so let it be. Just know that I am condemning no one but myself when I make overgeneralized statements about "us all.")

And that was a tangent! But it felt good. Today I just want words on paper (or blog as it were.) These short posts, as I mentioned before, seem so incomplete, so half hearted. I need some sustenance. So I will ramble and maybe something semi-readable will emerge and I will feel better and you will be like "Whoa..." (There are worse things than shocking people with your strangeness. Better than shocking them with your cruelty or your bad breath, for example.)

I may have failed to mention I am home schooled. It may or may not have been on purpose. We shall delve into my feelings on this subject at a later date, because while I feel like posting something long, that deserves it's own header instead of being lost in this free write of randomness which is basically me trying to get a grip and let the words loose. (Hey- we came back to control again! Why does this excite me?)

Returning to the sentence the home schooled thing was supposed to support, I am loving the Literature program for Senior year. Like, seriously. Where was this stuff all my life? You know, back when I was too young and (because I was/am not a child genius) stupid to read it? It was there, I assure you. (Dickens is a lot older than I am.) They are so deeply refreshing.

I won't lie (this time), I read a lot of what is best classified as crap. (Sorry, Mom.) It's light and the stories are trite, recycled and... mediocre. Not to say this stuff isn't popular, because it often is. But many times, it just isn't quite art. I realize that in order for the artist to get paid (a.k.a. pay the bills, not starve, keep the electricity to run his/her computer) he needs to sell a product. It's basic economics (yeah! I am learning something from that loathsome book!) But when the product becomes our main goal in art, sometimes the creativity and quality of that product is compromised. And so, we have lost the meaning of art. True artists often don't get paid and those who write to sell do get paid. 

Economics. You give the people what they want, they pay you, you make money and can support yourself. Yay! Good things! But should art be sacrificed for its sake? Perhaps it shows how the focus needs to shift. In a materialistic world, material (product) is the goal. We forget about the means and the people behind them. But... (Here comes the impossible, riduculous, idealist statement: run!) prehaps we can balance these two? Maybe one does not have to die at the feet of the other (wow, Anna, that was graphic). Maybe the two can co-exist and... maybe... they can even strengthen each other.

I do apologize for the scatterness of this post. This was more for me than for you. Though if you ever glean, like, loathe or laugh at anything in this blog... you're welcome.

Notice About Plots and Motives

NOTICE

Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.


BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR,
Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance.

I found these inspiring words at the beginning of a book entitled The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, written by a fellow named Samuel Clements, more commonly known as Mark Twain. I found it to be quite inspiring and also highly applicable, not only to Mr. Twian's words, or even my own, but to many. To all.

I think that sometimes the greatest motives, morals and plots are found in the stories that don't boast of them. That hide them, carefully and cleverly so that only the people who care and dare to look will find them. The greatest works of Literature are real and simple, yet masterful. They are relatable to us, narrowing in on purely human insights that become apparent to us through the simple act of living, yet they also teach us. They allow us to see through another's eyes with our own.

Don't go looking for a motive in this narrative. It will find you. Looking for a moral? Than you are going about this all wrong. Stop attempting to find a plot. Follow the Mississipi on a river raft.

You might be shot at anyway, but then you will have found everything you were looking for and more.

Ships, Planes and Paper Possiblities

While assembling (okay, more pretending to help while someone else assembled) a bookcase for the Library I work at today, an interesting thought struck me (yes, I actually had one and I lived to tell the tale.)

Bookcases are like treasure chests.

Solid walls of wood encase the diamonds, emeralds and rubies of the literate and cultured world. (Some of us are capable of reading, but do not enjoy it. There are those who love reading for reading's sake and those who like reading for the subject's sake. I am the former and I will tolerate the latter. But those strange people who loathe reading in general, I pity.)

The best bookcases are the ones that are filled, top to bottom (what is an empty bookcase, after all? A crime, that's what. A sad and sorry lack of that which is good. A dull emptiness, begging to be filled.) stuffed, squeezed, glutted, bursting, full up with books, books and more books. The fuller the chest, the greater the treasure, no?

Glorious books. Ships that always have an extra spot for an eager stowaway. Planes that beg you to climb aboard and lift you into the sky of imagination. Dreams that envelope you and offer you endless possibilities. They are escapes, and yet they are grounded in humanity; men cannot write things that do not speak of men.

This makes books both windows and mirrors. They open up the horizons of other worlds and offer more insight into your own. The offer both insight and introspection.

So what else could a bookcase, loaded down with these marvelous thing, be but a treasure chest?

And so, being the good little library employee that I am, I would encourage you to go forth and find a bookcase. Library, bookstore, your neighbors house, I don't care. Find one and take a look. I guarantee it's a worthwhile investment. And speaking of investments, it is also a worthy and wonderful endeavor to build your own bookcase. Collect the jewels that mean the most to you and allow them to occupy a chest in your own home. (That way, when you're neighbor reads this, he can just come on over to your house to find a bookcase.)

And the more chests there are out there... the more likely someone else is to find one.

Ten Things

1. I read Mockingjay today. I cried about five times throughout. I shall not breathe a single spoiler, but it was amazing and you should read the series immediately. The rest of my life has been determined and I am at peace.

2. Life is simply complex. So are people. You should not allow yourself to be dissuaded from this fact.

3. I am going to have foot problems when I am an old lady. All the abuse I put my poor, aching feet through by running around wearing unsupportive flip-flops and flats or no shoes at all will one day take it's toll upon me as I sit on my porch swing, drinking lemonade reminiscing about the good old days. In a hideous pair of orthopedic tennis shoes.

4. I am a sucker for cake. It's up there on my ultimate weaknesses list (which is another post for another time). I simply cannot resist it.

5. I used to forget the numbers 5 and 15 when I counted. I have no idea why.

6. Distinctive laughs are like sprinkles. They enhance what was already sweet and beautiful.

7. <--- That's my favorite number right there. Say hello. Despite the rumors, he didn't really eat nine. It was just a friendly disagreement.

8. Is it just me, or do buttons beg to be pushed? Particularly the big red ones with big words like "DANGER" or "SELF DESTRUCT" ?

9. Are zebras black with white stripes, or white with black? I have always thought the latter.

10. That is all.

Mockingjay

Today the final installment of the trilogy I have fallen in love with came out.

Mockingjay. The final book of the Hunger Games.

I wasn't planning on reading the Hunger Games. I like sad, tragic and romantic novels. Under no means should there be extreme danger, chew your nails off suspense and or mystery of any kind.

But one day, for inexplicable reasons, I caved. I read the Hunger Games. (I had nothing better to do, plus everyone else seemed to like it...) I was riveted. I. Could. Not. Put. That. Book. Down. I finally wrestled my eyes away at Midnight and threw it into the corner so I could try and get some sleep that night. The next day I finished it.

I was enthralled.

But I was also terrified.

I resolved I would not, could not read the second book. For the sake of my sanity. I wasn't cut out for the Hunger Games. Sure it was an amazingly complex plot and I was in love with every single one of the main characters and the writing was superb and the ending was a total cliff hanger and I was completely hooked... but I couldn't read the second one. Too scary. Not for me.

And then I told this to my friend.

"WHAT?!" he says "YOU HAVE TO READ THE SECOND BOOK!!"

And then he drops a spoiler that completely twists the whole thing up, as if that series needed any help in the plot department.

I caved again. I read the second book, Catching Fire. And if I thought the first book was good... heaven help me. It was amazing. Again. It captured everything the first book had and stacked a layer or two on top of it.

Of course, the ending of Catching Fire was even more of a cliff hanger.

And today, finally, finally, finally, the third book comes out. Mockingjay. The book that will determine what I do with the rest of my life (read as: if character who shall remain nameless (because I loathe spoiling books for other people and this is supposed to entice your curiosity so read them) dies, I will write Suzanne Collins angry and heartbroken letters every week till the day I die.)

Sadly, I shall not be reading this book today. Or probably tomorrow. I'm being a cheap-skate and borrowing it from the library. (Please, please, please hurry up and get it to me!!) But believe me, I shall read it. And when I do, I will be a changed adoring fan girl.

I'm still not cut out for the Hunger Games. The game/quiz found at the site linked above is proof of that. I tried that game ten times and lost every one of those.

But I still can't wait to read that book... and be caught up again in that masterfully told story and see it through to the end.

I wasn't planning on reading the Hunger Games, but I'm glad I caved.

Bob and I Are Out of Luck

My name is probably inscribed in a massively large and appropriately dusty book entitled: The Official List of Boring Names. I'm thinking Anna probably lies somewhere before "Jane" and right after "Bob". But at least Jane can call herself Enaj. Bob and I are are out of luck.

Aside from the fact that I have been cheated out of that name made up of an unpronounceable jumble of constants by spelling it backwards, Anna is incredibly difficult to nickname (and I love nicknames). Yet even Bob has some consolation, because he has a charming full name (or at least he should. Heaven forbid someone just put "Bob" on a birth certificate. It's Robert.)  which can be nicknamed in a variety of ways. He could always shake things up and be Rob, Robbie, Bobby, Rob-Bob, or even Bobert for a day. Ann? Ana? Different names entirely.

It also doesn't really rhyme with anything good, unlike Jane which rhymes with Spain, plain, pain, gain and grain, and Bob rhymes with cob, rob, lob, sob, knob and mob. After a while you get sick of being called Anna Banana. I don't even like bananas. (No one should, but that's obviously just my opinion since those loathsome yellow things with a nauseating taste and texture continue to find their way unto a shelf wherever fruit is sold.)

Yet in spite of it's boringness (yes, that's a word), it could be worse.

No one ever has to have me spell it, which would happen if my name was Kathryn. Or Catherine. Or Katherine.

No one says "Wow... that's a very unusual name." like they would if my name was Mercedes.

When I have to write my name on a tiny little space, I don't have to squish the letters like I would if my name was Victoria.

So even in it's dull state, Anna is not so bad a name. Not the best, but at least it's not in a book entitled "Who Would Name Their Kid That? The Book of Strange and Embarrassing Names."