It's Been a Long Time -- Or, a Serious Blog Talk.

The time, my friend, has come 
To talk of other things --
Of shoes and ships and ceiling wax,
Of cabbages and kings --
And why the sea is boiling hot, 
And whether pigs have wings.
~Alice in Wonderland (1951) (Disney)

So, I know it has been months. You've stopped noticing. Stopped caring. Moved on with your life, as it were. I'm real sorry about that.

Right now, instead of bits of my own poetry or a book review or some fluffed out rant on romance or summaries, I want to have a Serious Blog Talk. Not the serious talk of I'm-About-to-Quit-Forever. It's the talk of the future and the past, of where I want things with this blog to go, and how I'll keep to a posting schedule.

Because I like this blog. I want to keep it. It keeps me sane, sometimes, to flick through my own sometimes childish or clumsy writings, and to write some more. And goodness knows, these blog posts are easier to read through than 50,000 word manuscripts, or my painful-to-look-at poetry.

My problem is posting it in the first place. I have a hard time getting up the urge to post. I shouldn't listen to "urges" or "the Muse" or anything else -- I know that. I should sit my butt in the chair and work. But this is a lot harder now, at college, where there is a ton of other work that needs to get done -- for example, the two papers I have due next week, or massive amount of textbook reading I haven't gotten to because I've been attending classes, working on shorter, more immediate homework like translating Greek sentences, or attending cool things like the Fall Festival, where we got free mason jars to decorate and popcorn and candy to eat, while sitting around having a normal conversation with friends.

The list goes on and on. And, to make things worse, my life has gotten sticky and sad. I don't want to do much of anything anymore. It was like that before -- before November, before college life, before high school, even. But it's gotten worse, because my sister died.

Chelsea, my older sister, was 22 years old. She got her Bachelor's degree in Biology this past May -- my mother, her, and me all graduated at the same time. We got to stand up at the podium, at the front of the sanctuary at our church, while a line of people came up to congratulate us. She had just started working toward her Master's this semester. She loved bugs, and free food, and drawing, and Dumpster-diving.

She died in a car accident November 2nd, 2014. A couple weeks ago, now. At times, it doesn't hit me -- I sit there and smile, and the thought begins to form -- Chelsea would love this -- and then I choke. What does random Greek sentences matter, in the face of that? What does posting on a blog matter, or reading a book, or attending class?

It's only been a couple weeks. It's as clear and bright and painful as the slowly-growing-colder air. Everything has to keep being arranged, when I want to go back in time -- to 2013, 2012, 2002. Some other time, before such a horrific event, before any of us knew this was coming. When we could have a measure of peace. When we were a whole family, complete -- because we can heal, now, after the event, but we will never be whole without our Chelsea.

But we have to deal with the future, no matter how much we want to go back in time. Life moves forward. My parents have to clean out her apartment. I have to continue my studies, make up the week I lost when I went home for the visitors and the funeral. I have to eat meals, and take showers, and pull out all these blasted sweaters and scarves and fingerless gloves. I got a work-study job, Monday afternoons -- I'll only be making around $22 to $27 a week, but it's money. I need to start thinking about Christmas, of what I'll get my family.

I have a mountain of laundry to do, and blog posts to write. I have a weekend to look forward to -- a trip on Sunday to Richmond, to see the Agecroft Manor or VMFA (Virginia Museum of Fine Arts). Later tonight, my friends are going to the movies, and they invited me.

All of this leads up to my main point, that this blog is going to look a lot different. I didn't want to bring my personal life into this, but it's a personal blog -- it's about books, which are as close to my heart as cats or my family. Well, maybe a bit less, as I've found myself more inclined to stare out windows and feel numb than reading books.

I don't think I can stand, right now, cheeriness and book reviews of lighthearted novels. I can't be enthusiastic about anything, not characters I love or fantastic worlds. I still love them -- I may still gush about them -- but I think that I need to take a step back, and talk more frankly about more. About my own writing. About the books I'm reading for class -- like English Women and War Literature. About the ways I'm keeping track of everything, from my personal reading to my class reading to my writing and personal time.

Poetry, I'll post -- most of it is spur-of-the-moment, stream-of-consciousness, which almost defines my writing. That's what this blog post is, after all. I'll probably still post book reviews, and things I find aggravating in books, like how ridiculous it is when authors try to cram a romance in their novel, for no other reason than to do it, and then don't even mention such a thing in the summary.

Right now, I have many things to do. I want to post, say, once a week. I'll try to do so. It's hard to do anything right now, but I want to try. So, I'll leave it here, and see what comes next week -- if I can keep to my word about this.

Martin Luther King Jr. Day

Hello, people, and happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day. :)

To be honest, I know little about him, only as much as any average public school student might discern from your average history class: that he was a famous civil right's activist, he did this great speech in which, at some point, he says, "I have a dream!" Etc.

It makes me a little sad, that such a name, spoken with such awe and respect as it is, is barely known to me. Sometimes, I just want to look him up, study every inch of his life: why, what made this man stand up and say something, when so many others didn't or couldn't? What makes his name so famous, when others, just as great, blend into the background of history?

And other times, I think to myself, Why can't I remember him as I like to remember historical figures, as little things all mixed up together -- why can't I see the things like what he had for breakfast every morning, and how much or little he loved his kids, and what sort of job he had for a living, besides writing speeches and standing up against the white folks, since I can't imagine either of those pastimes making a lot of money.

This is my major problem with learning a limited amount of what-happens-in-the-real-world: I end up split two ways, between studying the emotionality of his public persona and the tiny details that make up every inch of his ordinary life. Why they can't teach such stuff in classrooms, I don't know; all I know is the limited amount of information I am given, the amount you would expect history classes named such vague terms as "world history" and "AP US history."

I suppose I have a dream, too, and that's to learn more about the people behind the historical figures. And I wish I could say I will start with Martin Luther King, Jr., as he seems like an interesting, bold sort of person to have known, and even after his death there must be accounts somewhere. But I grudgingly have an AP biology test on cellular respiration, an AP government test on the presidency, and other such non-specifically-person-oriented things to study for.

Happy remembrance, people. And have a blessedly free day.

9/11 and Terrorism

It's the 11th of September... and in America, that means remembering tragedy.

I cannot remember the day this actually happened. It was 2001; I was five years old, a kindergartener whose only thoughts belonged to curiosity and books. But as I grew up, I heard the story, over and over, every year: the planes, the crash, the death and terror and mourning. Especially of the heroes, the firemen and police officers, and the civilians all doing the right thing when it was far from easy.

Sometimes, I am glad I am young enough that I do not remember that. That on such a terrible day, ignorance was bliss. I lost no one but fellow countrymen. Which, now that I'm old enough, I realize is bad enough. Can you imagine it? Just for a second? Being buried under rubble, your breath catching, smoke trying to cough its way out of your lungs? I am lucky not to have any relatives who died in the 9/11 attacks, but I am sorry and horrified by the deaths of strangers.

And that might sound strange, to be sorry for the deaths of strangers, when I can't even remember the attack. This is a desensitized culture, after all -- we aren't sorry when we hear of the Bubonic Plague, when 2/3 of Europe's population was wiped out. But we are also a culture that becomes outraged over the death of one boy; in the age of digital information and digital personal relations, we freak out over smaller disasters. And, of course, I am not immune to culture. It probably doesn't help that I have an over-reactive imagination and a writer's tendency to dwell on internal conflict.

So, yes -- on this day, of all days, I can feel both sad at the deaths of strangers over ten years ago, and very lucky that I do not remember it. It's a strange feeling, to be sure -- it's not distant, like hearing of the earthquake in Japan, but it's not as immediate as a death of a family member.

And what compounds such a feeling is the fact that another human being is behind this. I will not add my opinion about Osama Bin Laden and whether he's dead and whether that happened in the ethical way. I do wonder, though, how a human being -- a person who breathes, or breathed -- a person who knows or knew that we are also humans, that we are also sentient creatures, could knowingly cause such harm. It's hard to wrap my mind around. He's like a storybook villain, the way he's portrayed to Us Youngsters. But what is the psychology behind such a thing? What went on in that head while planes crashed and people died? It's morbidly fascinating question, one where you know the behavior is wrong but you still have to wonder why the person is doing it, what past experiences made this sort of behavior a viable option.

Which, while I'm sure the information is out there somewhere -- published in some book or science journal -- I'm not perfectly sure I want to know. It's enough just to feel, for one profound Moment of Silence after the Pledge of Allegiance is spoken, the full ramifications of actual human suffering. My cynical side tells me that there is no justification, and anyways, I am generally not one for searching out information. But my nicer side just wants to spend a moment remembering heroes, and a moment of humility remembering how easy I could be remembering more than a stranger's death on this day.

But now, I do not want to be profound and deep-dark-thoughtful. I want to live a life free and deep. The life I can live, because terrorism failed to terrify us for long. Because it just saddens us once a year, and because it can seem like a faraway event, a world away.

So, instead of continuing to pontificate upon personal feelings, I found a couple of my favorite songs. Old favorite songs, that I knew in childhood and occasionally still listen to, especially on the day they're written about.

 

Letters to life: Independence Day

Dear world:

Today's the day America started her revolution. Through years of suffering, of a sort of Stockholm Syndrome: can you imagine the cries? "We can't go to war against Britain! They're so much more powerful. And anyways, it's where we CAME from. We can't fight our birth country!"

Assuming, of course, that it was a former Englishman speaking, since in that period of time, Englishmen were the most common. Of course there were PLENTY of other immigrants, but a lot of them (the majority?) came over from England, or their ancestors did.

What do I want to talk about? Fireworks? Some rant on how corrupt America has gotten since that glorious, morally audacious revolution some centuries ago? Perhaps even give you a "little" history lecture?

No. But I do want to mention something else: some days, when the world seems like a horrible place every day, you just need to celebrate even a seemingly small or distant thing like a war that happened centuries ago. That's sort of why we have holidays -- so we can focus on the good things, even when the world seems like a terrible, awful, nightmarish place.

Sure, I've got the number of stripes wrong and there are no stars...
But we don't need to focus on those wrong, trivial things!

I mean, I could goon about society's gender inequality... the obsessive consumerism... the financial burdens... But I don't need to, on a day like this. I can focus on how the Rev War must've seemed to a simple little Englishman who came over to be a farmer. (See improvised dialogue above.)

That is what we're about, right? As Americans, as human beings... we can focus on one little human's struggles and triumphs, than on a world of trouble. That's why we have story, right? In every corner of the globe. Because of days when we make distant, trivial things a thing close, personal, and worth celebrating.

So that little Englishman -- dead for three centuries, forgotten or maybe even purely hypothetical -- can Rest-In-Peace, because we created a day for people like him, where we can toss gunpowder at the sky and watch it explode as we imagine the cannon-fire to some battle we forgot the name of. AND where we can imagine impossible, highly-modernized people of that era being scared of their very lives.

Have a blessed day! (Even if, or maybe especially if, you are not American -- in which case, you can read this post like I'm from your country, and conveniently ignore trivial things like the flag picture and immigration patterns in the 1700s.)

Sincerely,
JDM -- a decently proud American, a human being, and a lover of good stories.

P.S. I haven't actually been reading a Revolutionary War novel that would prompt such an unusual imagining. I'm just like that. Hypothetical Englishman is actually just another voice to my growing repertoire of character's voices (not that he'll be part of a historical novel anytime soon; though maybe a fantasy novel set vaguely in a Rev War-type setting).

Happy Easter Sunday!

Happy Easter and last day of March! I also believe it's the end of Lent, so happy that, as well!

Easter is so much more than bunnies and Easter eggs. It's so much more than candy, gifts, and going to church in your best clothes.

Today, of course, is a blessed day: it's the day of that most central event of Christianity, the resurrection of Christ. It's that symbolic day that Jesus came back to life.

The Easter bunny and eggs are symbols,of course: the white bunny for innocence and purity, the eggs as a symbol of rebirth. But they are poor substitutes for the real story behind the holiday. It's one of the reasons I am glad I am not atheist: because it's a holiday with meaning behind it.

(Not that I have anything against atheists. I'm just kinda sad that holidays like Christmas and Easter mean nothing to them, because they don't believe in the story behind them.)

It's the day Jesus came back, guys. For the three days He was dead, Christians died for Him. There was no quabble between Catholics and Protestants, no debating the methods of baptism. There was a single type of Christian: those who upheld the belief that God's Only Son died for them, and would come back.

And He did. He rose from the grave on Easter, to show the world that He is God's Son, and death cannot hold Him.

If you're not Christian, that's cool. If you don't believe, then that's fine. But I do believe, so I wrote a short post on why this story means a lot to me. It's Easter Sunday, and a Christian holiday, so I feel entitled to write a post on my Christian beliefs.

Have a truly blessed day. And here's an Easter song from Veggietales ('cuz that's how I roll) for you to listen to. =)

Flygirl by Sherri L. Smith

All Ida Mae Jones wants to do is fly.
Ida's daddy was a pilot, and when he took her flying, she never wanted to come down again. But after his death, the sky is off-limits to a young black woman such as herself. When America enters World War II, the Army forms the WASP -- Women Airforce Service Pilots -- and Ida has a chance to join, if she's willing to use her light skin to pass as a white girl. She wants to fly more than anything, but Ida soon learns that denying one's identity and family is a heavy burden. Can she fulfill her dream without herself?

~Print copy, 271 pages
Publsihed: 2010 (copyright 2008) by Speak

I can't seem to find the place to begin about this novel.

I came into this novel expecting the author to be one of those authors who heavy-handedly dole out political lessons on racism and sexism. Not that I am for either of those; indeed, I am so against racism and sexism that I feel no more words should have to be said on it, and certainly not to me.

But this novel was so much more than that. This wasn't a lesson, or some fantasy adventure story, or some essay. But it tackled some important lessons on the topic of The Future and of the very definition of black and white and man and woman, and I am still a little bowled over.

How to define this novel in my own words: Ida Mae wants to be a pilot. But the war starts, and her brother enlists, and she's stuck at home, cleaning houses and saving bacon fat for the war effot. So when her little brother hands her a newspaper article for the WASP, giving her hope for a future in flying, she takes it.

This is a story of one woman, searching for not just a future, meted out to her by society; but for her future, the role she was born to play.

Honestly speaking, I cried at parts in this novel. It brings you close to the heart of the story, the way all the best books are written. I felt for the characters; I felt for Ida, I felt for her friends in the WASP, I felt for everything and everyone.

I finished this book in two days. Actually, I literally finished it about an hour ago. This isn't some fantasy book like Narnia or Eragon, where you're a little distanced and feeling for a wole cast of characters and their meanings; Flygirl gives you the perspective of one colored woman, fighting against a world that's intent to drag her down, and you begin to love her friends as she loves her friends.

Another thing to note is the tone, the colloquialism, of the novel. Not that I've ever been to Louisiana, but it sounds plausibly Deep-Southern-Authentic. A good writing style, casual and flowing yet still digs deep to the meaning.

Overall, I loved this novel. I kind of hated it, too, for the way it made me cry. But that makes me love it all the more, because there are so few novels that can do so. Five stars, definitely.

    

Weekend Melodies #2: Accusation

Happy first day of September! Don't you just love the uncertain feeling in the air, as if nature is wavering between the end of summer and the beginning of fall?

Weekend Melodies is a weekly feature here at my blog, started because of a love of words and music. Over the weekend (depending on how busy I am on Saturday), I share a random word and a song that connects to this word in some way. Anyone can comment on this post with a link to the song they thought of.

This week's word is: Accusation.

(I created a list of words a few weeks ago as a writing prompt, and I'm pretty much following that. It's not that I actually feel like making accusations. :D)

[How does this connect?] This song is sort of an accusation against a king. It asks this king, "what will people think of you when you're gone? I know they'll think of me as a hero." Heather Dale has such a beautiful voice and sings these rather fabulous songs about medieval times. This one stands out to me as speaking up against someone in power and accusing them of what they're doing wrong. [My favorite Line] I know what they'll remember in the words of every song What will they say about you... when I'm gone? What song do you think of? I love feedback!

Monday Musing (Book Covers, P2)

(Before I start my post, I want to express my love for the heroes of this world. Thank you to all of the people who've died or risked death for another person's life. The world could not keep turning without their selflessness and courage. I even took the time to draw my own picture, and then find a nice-looking one on photobucket.)

And now, back to my (somewhat) regularly scheduled post.

Everyone knows the phrase "Don't judge a book by its cover". Sadly, this isn't always true. We all have picked up a book and thought, "who would pick this as a cover?!" At least, I know a majority of people do at some point.

So what makes a good cover look good? This varies from person's preference to person's preference. Some people love thos covers with a girl in a dress. Some love the close up of a girl's face. Some like a supernatural feel to it. The point is, there's no one way to make a cover look good.

Here are four pointers to remember when you are looking at your cover:

1. Make sure the cover has to do with the book. If you are writing a general fiction novel about an abused girl, don't pick a vampire chewing on someone's neck. If you're writing some dystopia about evil unicorns taking over the world, don't pick a happy meadow cover with girly handwriting font. This seems like common sense, but some covers convey a different meaning than the story. Be careful.

2. The colors generally correspond with the mood of the story. Like I said, a bright, happy-looking scene with lots of blues and yellows and pinks are NOT good for a creepy dystopia novel. A disturbing, grays and blacks would not look good on a children's book. Etc, etc, etc.

3. The font is a big one, too. Like color, it should match the mood. From what I've seen, handwriting-style fonts are mostly general fiction romance, the antique-style font is for fantasy-type cover, and the arial fonts (the kind you use in English class) is for... well, it suits a simply designed cover. I assume it'd be fine for any cover, as long as it actually looks like it belongs.

4. The composition needs to be right. Composition is where and how everything is placed. A lot of times, the picture is what catches your eye first. It can be placed off center, or in the middle, but it is still one of the first things you see. The title is second-noticeable. It's usually placed at the top or in the middle. Overall, it doesn't really matter where it is, it's just the how. It should look cool to a lot of people, not just the designer of the cover.

This all seems pretty simple to me, but my main advice is to get a second opinion. You are biased towards it; we get that you love it. But it's not appealing to everyone, and if the fifth or seventeenth or eighteenth opinion still hates it, you should consider a new cover. 

Have a blessed day, remember the heroes, and enjoy life! <3