I know, I know. It's a New Year.

Welcome to 2015. Enjoy your stay!

Last year, I made a list of resolutions to keep for 2014. Do you want to know how I did?

1. Finish at least half of my TBR pile. (The whole pile is numbering close to fifty, now.) 
2. Paint my room over. (It's my little sister's old room, and the most atrocious yellow color. Also, she left a few foul-mouthed messages written across them.)
3. Get my driver's license. (I've only got my learner's permit right now.)
4. Turn 18 years old in April. (That one should be easy to keep.)
5. Graduate in June. (Also easy. I'm pretty much guaranteed it at this point, as long as I keep showing up to school.) 
6. Work on my knitting. (As in, at least every week. Right now, it's looking pretty sad.)
7. Work on clay. (Something I've always wanted to do, but now that I have clay and space to work with it, I find myself reluctant to start.)
8. Put up some puzzles. (I have half a dozen of them sitting around my room.)

#1 -- No. My TBR list grew, if anything. Sadly, my local B&N has closed, as of a few days ago, and now my source of books has become mainly libraries. Happily, there is a library in the small town not too far away from my college, and they have an agreement with my college library -- so I don't even have to leave school grounds to turn in/pick up books!
#2 -- No. It is still yellow. But now that room is my mom's office, and so it is her problem now.
#3 -- No. I still have my learner's permit. Perhaps I shall always have it.
#4 -- Yes. I did manage to turn 18, at least.
#5 -- Yes. I did manage to graduate, It was great, somewhat.
#6 -- No. They even have a knitting group at my college, and I never remember to go. I keep thinking, maybe next week.
#7 -- No-ish. I worked on it once. This past December. And it never came to anything, because my parents are too busy to dig out the kiln and help me fire it.
#8 -- No. They are still here, waiting to be put up. Maybe I'll get around to it this week. Maybe not.

So there you have it. 2/8 of my resolutions last year. Aren't I wonderful at keeping promises. So, what's new this year? My resolutions? They are not quite new, I suppose, they are the same things I have been resolving to do for a long time. Namely:

1. Exercise more. (Say, more than once a month.)
2. Go back to college, study more. (Incur even more debts in the process...)
3. Blog more often. (It's been awhile -- where did December go?)
4. Eat healthier. (Not too hard at college, but near impossible in my own home.)
5. Get out of my (dorm) room more often. (There are plenty of concerts and such like at college.)
6. Play more video games. (Which does not usually feature on people's resolutions, I gather.)
7. Make some jewelry. (I have plenty of pendants, not enough chains, wire, or pliers.)
8. Keep my living spaces cleaner. (Everything I come into contact with becomes cluttered.)

I have a nice schedule next semester, so I'm looking forward to it. Only 13 credit hours, instead of the 16.5 I had last semester. (12 is the lowest required number of credit hours to be considered a full-time student.)

What else? My blogging, I hope, will flourish under a lesser school load. It doesn't seem likely, though, since as you can see, video games is another one of my resolutions. I think I might be able to keep more of them this year. My college is pretty big, land-wise (over 3,000 acres), though there aren't many people (the Class of 2018, my class, is less than 150 people). That means it takes exercise to get anywhere -- it takes about a 5 minute walk to get up to the library, for example, but it's quite hilly and there are a great number of steps in the way. (Did I mention those 3,000 acres are nestled a penny's throw from the mountains?)

The one I think I will have the most trouble with is the last one. I can never summon up enough energy to clean things, unless I am feeling sick. It's odd, I know, but if I am nauseous I will feel this urge to get up and clean the bathroom, or organize my desk, or do my laundry. Luckily, by the end of fall semester I found a new study place that I love -- the laundry room in the basement of my dorm building. It isn't usually busy, and the sound of the laundry machines is soothing. There isn't much in the way of desks or chairs, of course, but there is a nice table under which I can sit and go unnoticed (for the most part).

2014... is over. I am glad. I am scared, too, because I do not know what the new year will bring -- for the first time, I dreaded the new year coming, because can it really be better? The unthinkable has already happened, but is this one of those things where it has to get even worse before it gets better? I hope not. I hope I am allowed a break, to have a happy and healing year. Or if not happy, then at least the latter. The new year will bring what it may, but I hope for a few pauses in which to simmer and boil and have my grief come from an unfinished state to something whole. A part of me, rather than a piercing thorn in my heart.

So, here is a toast to the old year -- a picture of Odin and Mary Shelley. If you scroll through my old posts, you will see a couple pictures of them. They died November 2014 -- just a couple months ago. My older sister -- a wonderful, eccentric person -- was heading to her apartment in Lynchburg when she -- well, they said she must have dozed at the wheel; it was late at night -- she hit a tree. She and her two cats all died. It's been tough, these past few months. But it is the start of a new year, and I don't think Chelsea would have been pleased to have me mope about, doing nothing -- she always used to complain about that. I set a list of things I think would be simple enough to put into practice, and I lowered my credit hours to 13... and I can only hope that with this simplifying of my life, I can find the time to do my life well.

Have a blessed day, and have a happy new year.

Odin.

Mary Shelley. 

Thanksgiving. (Yesterday's Account.)

I am thankful for my family, (though we are reeling from loss).
I am thankful for my life, (though I am hurting).
I am thankful for the roof over my head, (though it's painful to be home).
I am thankful for my health, (though I've had a cold this week).
I am thankful for my books, (though I can't escape myself completely in them anymore).
I am thankful for my college, (though it is painful to be there, as well).
I am thankful for --
For --

I am thankful for my faith and belief in God and Jesus, (because without that, I would truly go mad.)

Angel (left), Tumble (right)

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.

Hello, Dear Friends.

It has been a long while. I know. Summer is not the most productive time for me. For some reason, being given all the time in the world to do whatever I want, I invariably choose to sit on the couch watching Bones or Law and Order, while occasionally picking myself up to go sit on my bed to read a book.

However, now that summer is over, I am in college. Yep -- college. Where the cost of textbooks and the amount of homework both pile up as time goes on.

But this is not really what my blog is about. As I mentioned in my last post, this is a reading/writing blog. So I shall endeavor to explain my reading and writing schedule for the next month.

As my laptop has no Microsoft Word, and I am not entirely fond of Open Office, my writing has been moved to pen and paper. This goes slowly, as I am not used to writing out whole drafts. I hardly manage to write out outlines on paper, and I love outlining. As again, my plot is not anywhere near workable -- I know it is this element that is off, somehow, ringing false in my own head. The pivotal element of my previous plots hinge on actions my character has no inclination to do, for it is outside of her personality to choose such options.

But this time I think I may have it right. I always think this, of course: if I didn't think the plot idea was right, then I wouldn't write out a full draft exploring it. But I am learning more about my work as I progress. Each failed plot, each wrong draft brings me closer to a workable one, because it presents to me new angles through which to see my character and setting, and what themes I want it to reflect.

I had thought I knew everything about Spike. I thought I knew her likes and dislikes, her intelligence and grace, her flaws and arrogance and entitlements. But now I realize I have not been able to discern her next move. When confronted with Enemy A, does she back away? Does she engage in conversation? I am sure she doesn't try to fight it out. That is the one move I know she would never pull. Which is why it is very hard to articulate a plot which moves forward smoothly, and which forces her to take that action she would never do.

The move to pencil and paper is a drastic one. It is different, scrawling it out: it takes more time, and it LOOKS different in my handwriting. But working in a computer lab on campus means leaving my dorm room, and anyways, I do not entirely remember where they are. So I am hoping the change in writing equipment is for the better.

Right now, I need to practice Greek, and read up on Early and Medieval Britain, and yes, to keep writing. But I will try to post once a week regarding books I've read, works I'm writing, and perhaps to recommend certain tips to you about research (as that is what college is good for: taking whole classes so you may learn one crucial detail on how your novel plays out).

Have a blessed day.

  

So, an Update Might Be in Order

In case you hadn't noticed, I changed the theme of my blog around. I liked the black and white and blue, but I needed a change.

Lately, I've been thinking more than usual. If you follow my blog, you might have noticed I've posted much less this summer than I have for most of the year. And mostly, I've been thinking over what I want from this blog. (And about cats.* But that's not unusual from me.)

This blog, evident from its name, is really about the Writer Me. The Reader Me. The part of me who'd spend the rest of her life in a library if she could. And yes, the change in its looks goes into that. I like the slightly more mellow look this has; it looks more relaxed and softer, somehow, and that's what the reader part of me looks like: a girl who likes books, and daydreams about being a fairy, and likes writing about her daydreams.

But I feel like I've begun to lose focus. A lot of what I post are book reviews and ranting against random book-ish topics. I started this blog for that, yes. But a large part of what I post is also personal updates, and why I have trouble following a regular schedule. The Writer Me is not my whole identity. But my "whole identity" isn't really a part of this blog. I didn't start this blog for it to be about my whole identity.

And so, henceforth, I plan on posting more book reviews and more book-related topics. Maybe there'll be the occasional gem dug up through the constant research I go through. But I feel uncomfortable just writing stream-of-consciousness here.

I realize the majority of you lovely readers are probably readers. Maybe you are writers, too. Maybe you review books. That's what we have in common: we love books. That's what this blog is about, sharing a love of books.

Now, that still leaves the matter of the rest of me. Like many writers, I have a life outside of my writing. (If I didn't, I would probably end up on the streets; writing doesn't exactly pay well when you haven't even been published yet.) And I want to talk about that, too.

After a lot of thought, I think I might start up another blog, one on the Student Me. The one that wants to go to college, and get good grades, and learn everything I want to know. (The writer part of me likes to conveniently forget homework and studying that I don't want to do.)

Since I am going off to college, I'll be pretty busy. And running two blogs won't help. So, instead of posting on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays (and failing miserably), I'll likely post on one blog every Monday, and the other every Friday. With maybe the occasional Wednesday post. I'm thinking I'll post on here on Fridays, since the weekend is when I do most of my writing/reading/random research.

But I want to know what you think. Should I keep a separate blog for my more personal life? Or do you like my sporadic, stream-of-consciousness posts under my Life In General tag? Comment on this post or vote in my poll!

Have a blessed July day and enjoy these photo of my sister's kittens. :)

*Odin: his main talents are looking cute and knocking things over. Also, he's very good at being curious and taking his medicine.

Mary Shelley: fun-loving, adorable, and very jealous that she is no longer the center of attention. But I still love her.

And... I'm officially a graduate.

Today, I woke up thinking about how everyone else has to go to school.

My younger sisters and my younger brother all have school for this week. But I graduated on Saturday. I graduated. I will never be going back to high school again. 

It is both a scary and glorious feeling, this newfound freedom. I can go to college because I want to -- not because I have to. I can get a job. Move out of the house, if I had any money. Shoot, I can sit in my room all day without worrying about my school attendance and whether I'm doing all the homework I need done. Because I don't have any homework. There's no school attendance anymore. I'm done with that.

And yet, I keep this almost obsessive need to repeat those patterns. I signed up for two free online classes this summer on Coursera: one of Greek&Roman mythology and one on how, sociologically speaking, innocent people can end up in prison for a crime they never committed. (They sound interesting. If anyone's interested, you can easily search coursera.org for the classes -- it's actually a pretty well-organized site, with tons of different classes taught for free by various colleges and universities.)

Why would I sign myself up for more classes, with homework and learning and stuff? I'm not actually a fan of how education is orchestrated in this country. There's too much telling, dictating what should be memorized for a quiz/test. There's not enough emphasis on showing, on learning and that "Eureka! That's why this works!" feeling.*

But I did. I still want to learn. It's worth it, for those "Eureka!" moments when I'm trawling through the lectures and the supportive readings and the grueling agony of having to come up with an intelligent response to what I've just been lectured on. For that moment where I'm like, "So that's how Tabasco sauce is made. Wait, there are concerns for the Pompeii site today, because all the traffic that goes through wears it down? That makes so much sense!"**

That's why I'm going to college. That's why I thirst for a higher degree, a Bachelor's, a Master's, a Doctorate. That's why I plan on majoring not in English or Creative Writing, but in archaeology -- because archaeology actively searches for more knowledge about a place, through digging, through interpretation and scientific techniques. Worst case scenario: I hate my day job as an archaeologist, but unconsciously incorporate all of the history and psychology and science I know from the job into my writing. Best case scenario? I get all of my interests satisfied -- not just writing, but the culture and day-to-day details of history. I get to know more, learn more, in inter-disciplinary field, and still combine it with the fiction writing craft I love.

I've also got quite a few reference books waiting to be read. From several collections of fairy tales, legends, and myths, to writing craft books, to library books on beekeeping, forensic science, and ancient inventions, I plan to keep reading and researching all summer long. Not because I have to for some class. Just... for fun. For writing purposes (research is amazingly relevant for otherworldly fantasy). To broaden my base of knowledge, so I'm not left in the dark when it comes to any references to mythological works in literature. (And for when I go off to college!)

This summer, I am probably going to get a job at the factory where my parents work (well, my father -- my mother's busy with Master's classes at the moment). Eight hours a day, or four if it's part-time (obviously, nothing's been decided or talked about -- I graduated two days ago, for glory's sake), doing menial work with people I may or may not like, but it won't be my choice to just not work with them. From my parents' complaints, some of them won't even be industrious workers -- just people who'll watch me work and take the credit for working hard.

It'll be a lot like high school. And that's why I'm hoping that I will be able to cover the cost of college (~$5k) with scholarships and grants, and get the editing done on my novel in record time, and sending out queries and getting like, an instant response, all before college starts and maybe I'll have an advance in my pocket to spend on books and groceries. (I realize how impossible a dream that is, by the way -- even with all the free time in the world, I have a particular habit of procrastination which'll keep me from spending all that time productively.)

But I've got books to read and notes to take and two online classes to listen to. I'll be filling out paperwork for college, going to B&N and the library, pretending I know what on earth I'm doing while I experiment in cooking my own meals. (I'm going vegetarian, but the rest of my family isn't. They seem to think foregoing meat and junk food will kill them. "The protein!" they cry. "The iron!")

So, I don't think falling into the routine of familiarity will be entirely a negative experience this summer. I just got out of school, yea, and taking more classes over the summer while I wait for college classes to start seems crazy. But I've got this. I've got books. I've got the thinking capacity. And, if I'm honest, I desire to be productive this summer, not just lazing about on the couch or on my bed.

(Though, to be even more honest, there are documentaries to be watched. I will spend a goodly portion of my summer watching documentaries and reading random internet articles. Where else would I learn how Tabasco sauce is made? Programs on the History channel, the Science channel, and the -- what's it called? The Bio Channel. It's changing its name to the FYI channel, apparently, come July. Anyways, I consider such educational TV channels and shows to be a supplement to my research.)

Maybe I'll get some more scholarships. Maybe I'll finish my edits and query. Maybe I'll be researching while I watch Food Tech and How It's Made. And maybe I'll find a few talents in cooking, or in working with the clay that sits beside my desk and calls my name, or in building worlds and characters with precise words. Even while a heavy weight sinks in my chest at the thought of what can bind me and drag me down this summer, I can still hold out hope of acquiring new skill or knowledge.

Have a blessed day.

*Yes, that is an overt reference to the writing maxim, "Show don't tell." We can all learn that lesson, writers or not.

**The site gets worn down by tourists, by the way. Yea, there's a recreation of Pompeii, with all the plaster molds and everything, and people like archaeologists and managers and stuff are legitimately concerned. People who take small "souvenirs", the crowds wearing down the roads, people with heavy backpacks who accidentally knock against a section of wall or something? All wear it down. I read some articles on it a few months ago, when I was taking an online course on Coursera about archaeology.  

UPDATE!

That thing you wear around your neck with your graduation gown? It's a stole. Mine is light blue.

(GRADUATION DATE: TOMORROW.)

On Baby Chicks.

So, today marks the last day I got to see my baby chick.

Perhaps I should back up and explain. I am in AP Biology. After the AP exam -- which was a couple of weeks ago -- my teacher bought a bunch of newly hatched chicks as a last, fun project for the year. (She does this every year, though only for the AP Bio students.)

Mine was (is) a little Rhode Island Red chick. She slept on my hand, mostly, and freaked out when I picked her up, and was rather antisocial. We had to do an experiment in which we took away the heat lamp from a group of 5 or 6 chicks to observe their behavior, and they were supposed to huddle together; but my chick turned her back on the others and just fluffed out her feathers.

I named her Imogen. "Imogen" is such a... a chic name, an unusual name, one which conjures up a calm, collected hipster. And if my chick could wear glasses and lounge about at some Paris cafe, listening to Imogen Heap (the music band) on an mp3 player, I think she would.

She had (has) soft downy feathers of a gentle red color, except for the tiniest splotch of black at the back of her head, like some artist had to put a finishing touch on this little piece of work. She never attempted to fly, though her wing feathers always looked long and a spotty brown-and-white and ready to feel the wind between them.

We painted their toenails different colors, to tell which one was our own. Since there are at least a handful of other Rhode Island Red chicks, I painted the middle toenail of Imogen's feet a bright pink. Just the middle toenail, or claw, whatever the proper terminology is, on both feet. Not that this always helped, as -- fun fact! Baby chicks are attracted to color, and will peck off any nail polish you might paint onto their nails.

Imogen also had the tendency, as I said, to freak out when I picked her up. There are still thin scratch marks across the backs of my hands, because she apparently felt much safer perched on the thin ledge of my wrist and the back of my hand, rather than safely cupped in my palms. Still, she was a sweet little darling. When I had her safely to the tabletop, she never left my hand, but cuddled into my palms and trembled just a bit, falling asleep and jerking awake at random.

And of course, I wanted to keep her. But I live in a suburban home, one filled with cats at that, and it wasn't really an option. My teacher assures us they will go to farms where they will be layer hens; they are not going to get slaughtered or mistreated. But I still feel kind of bad, because the entire point of the project was to get the baby chick to imprint with you, and then once you get imprinted they get sent away from their human "mother." I can't help picturing little Imogen at some farm, waiting for me to come by so she can perch in my palms and fall asleep in peace, even when she's big and unable to fit in my hands.

Like the relationship with my cats, I just see -- I don't know. A little spark of something, in their eyes, on their face. I like to think every animal is just as capable of thinking as I am, and judges me on my behavior as much as I on theirs. My baby chick is one of these intelligent animals. I think she does love me, in her little chickie way, and that she would want me around for a long time, just to sit in my lap and rest her little beak on the edge of my thumb while she drifts off. And it wrenches my heart to think she'll grow puzzled at my absence, and then maybe she'll get anxious, and then -- eventually -- forget all about me. As strange as she is, she deserves something good for her, even if it's a clumsy teenage girl just stroking her head and cooing at her in that quiet voice reserved especially for baby animals.

I am not entirely sure why I decided to share this post with you, about my somewhat pathetic empathy for a baby chicken, of all things, but I suppose I wanted to offer up a little lesson. Because, you know, teenagers learn some worthwhile morals that others can benefit from, too.

In the end, I think it's not just baby chicks who imprint on you. People imprint on others, too, and I guess sometimes you imprint right back.

Ugh, Really? Or, A Rant on Education

Alright, so if you've read this blog, you probably realize I live in America. More specifically, in the Southeast. Most specifically, I live in Virginia. (But I refuse to name my street address, full name, and full identification. This is a personal blog, after all, not some free-for-all for criminals.)

And I would like to inform you about education. The public educational system. Not precisely the one I'm in -- thank goodness -- but it happened in Richmond earlier this week.

Guess what? Richmond schools are protesting.

If you're unwilling to follow the link to the Richmond Times Dispatch, let me spell it out for you: 150 students protested Monday, because their schools are falling apart. One of the students in my class, who used to be in the Richmond public school system, claimed he once saw a rat there. On the news Monday, they interviewed a few students, and a couple say they're worried about ceiling tiles falling on their heads and injuring them.

The protest was going to peter out, of its own volition, without any news coverage at all. Until the mayor of Richmond showed up, and invited the students in to talk about it.

It sounds nice, doesn't it? The mayor shows up and for 30 minutes out of his busy schedule, sits down to talk with students about their concerns. Except, he doesn't really answer them. He wants to build a baseball stadium nearby -- yes, you heard me: a baseball stadium. And he keeps telling the students that building it will increase revenue, help the economy, and that then he'll have money for the schools. Oh, but he also claims that it's the schools' responsibility to deal with where the money goes, not City Council.

And I would have posted this earlier in the week -- say, the day it happened -- but thinking on it makes my blood boil.

First of all, really? The city has money to build a baseball stadium, but not enough to keep kids safe? And you want to build an expensive baseball stadium in order to bring money in, rather than simply using the money you have to first help the schools and then figure out a plan to raise revenue?

Second of all, it really angers me that someone would forego children's safety like that. When even one kid is in danger, parents rush in to save their child. But when it comes to sending them to school, it's alright to put them in danger? None of the people on City Council, or even the Superintendent of the schools, knows what it's like, to be in these schools.

I am so blessed to be in a school system where I won't (hopefully, ever) see a rat; I feel safe in the building. But I don't exactly have a choice to go. I never had a choice, to go to my high school; it's simply the default school I go to, since I didn't get into any specialty program elsewhere. It's the same with kids in Richmond. They don't have any choice over what school they get to go to. They simply have to go. And unfortunately, they have to go to a school system they don't feel safe in.

How did a system meant to be for the benefit of kids end up such a nightmare? How did it ever come to this, that kids have to protest to get proper maintenance for their schools? When did a system meant to enrich children's lives with learning end up a place where they are nervous to even walk in?

Everyone talks about bullying, and assaults, and gun violence. They talk about how college is way too expensive. But where is the attention for the public school system when it comes to something they have so little control over? No one talks about how maintenance can scare kids as much as bullies, so that they are afraid to come to school.

I once saw a cockroach in my school. My biology teacher killed a mouse eating her supply of lab "equipment" (dried beans, which she uses in a couple experiments at the beginning of the school year to teach evolution). My Spanish teacher was legitimately concerned that Spanish classes after the third year taking the language would get canceled; she asked several kids in my class to go around talking to the third-year Spanish students in order to encourage them to sign up.*

But this is nothing. It's nothing, that our textbooks are battered. Nothing, that the air conditioning rarely works, so that it is either freezing during the spring months -- so much so that I wear a jacket to school, even when it is over sixty degrees outside -- or too-boiling-hot. Two years ago, in Honors 10th grade English, there were so many students in my class that the temperature in there was always seventy degrees. I switched to an AP English class last year and this year, because there are fewer students.

That. Is. Nothing. At least I haven't seen bigger bugs; at least I don't worry about ceiling tiles falling on my head. At least I am lucky enough to be in a decent school, even though I had no control over where I would be going to. I didn't choose to go to my school because it was safe. And some students? They didn't choose to go to their schools in the city, because those schools are grim. Luck is all that separates me from those kids.

And you know what? I'm so sick of it. If we are required by law to go to school, then it had better be a good place to go. Because you can't just sacrifice quality when it comes to kids. To people my age and even younger. You can't take risks with safety. So why can't anybody pay attention and fix this mess -- or better yet, why didn't anyone pay attention enough to have stopped this from happening in the first place?

There are so many questions. And there are no answers. Not for me. But I am proud as anything that some kids had the fight in them to stand up and demand some sort of answer to these very questions.



*My school requires a student to take three years of one language or two years of two languages. After that, it's optional. I'm in Spanish 4.  

Well, you know... Life.

I'm on spring break right now. Yea. Spring Break. Do you know how I've spent it? Watching TV, knitting, petting my cats. I finished the draft of my WIP, so I've put my writing down for this week -- make it truly a break. I haven't even really been reading; I've picked up and put down half a dozen novels since Saturday.

Sometimes I wish I could just-- I just wish I could get out of my house every now and then. I don't have a driver's license, but even if I did, there just isn't much to do around my neighborhood. This is the suburbs: a lot of residential homes, a convenience store within walking distance (though, without money, isn't exactly ideal); there's a Wal-Mart 20 minutes away, and a Food Lion maybe ten minutes from here, and a couple of libraries. Barnes and Noble and a movie theater are also twenty minutes up the road.

But still, I've been to the library this week. I have no money to go to any stores, or to a move theater. There aren't really "parks" around here, except one like half an hour away. And that's like a Lord of the Rings adventure, to go that far. We generally don't like spending a fortune in gas.

So instead, I sit here. I just watched three hours of Bones, on TNT. I ate a bag of popcorn. Colored in my coloring book. Knitted a little. Something heavy and sad sits in my rib cage, like a rock of emotion tying me to the couch. Which sounds a little melodramatic, but sometimes I might as well be tied to the couch. My cats come and sit on my chest, Siamese cats who'll compete to sit up on my shoulders and on my chest. (I think the ones who get stuck sitting in my lap and on my legs are further down the hierarchy. Because, yes, cats do have a social hierarchy -- probably a very strict one, considering how much they claw at each other.)

I've been considering college. And, like a lot of the rest of my life, I fear I'll have to settle for my second best. Actually, between the three I've been accepted to, there are two I'm considering with any enthusiasm. One is a co-ed college, the other an all-women's college. I'd like to go to the all-women's college. I'm planning on majoring in archaeology, which involves hard sciences like chemistry and earth science -- in an all-women's college, I could hope to avoid some of the -- well, men. I took chemistry last year, earth science my freshman year. Sometimes the guys get a lot of attention, even though the teachers -- female teachers -- do their best to get to us shy girls stuck at our little table near the middle of the room.

But of course, the women's college is more expensive. The enrollment is like, $500. The enrollment at the co-ed college is $300. And the co-ed college is close enough to my granddad's that I could live off-campus, cutting down on costs even more. No study abroad. No trips across the country after I graduate this June. At the co-ed, they offer a classics major, too -- that should offer less hard sciences, right? More art history? Perhaps I could take that.

Or, maybe, I could just not go to college at all. My sister and mother have incurred enough student debt without me adding to it. (Actually, I don't think we even qualify for loans.)

Maybe I could get a full-time temp job over the summer, at the factory where my dad works. I could spend twenty years working there, just like him, and marry and have kids and never have any money above a middle-middle class existence, just. Like. My. Family.

Is it so much to wonder, that maybe I want a little something more? To travel, even if it makes my stomach churn in anxiety? To... to be rich, one day, lots of money, and I wouldn't have to worry about whether or not I can afford to go to college, or sit around bored during Spring Break while other students get to go to other states, visit family, go on vacation?

I realize that I need more than a high school diploma to do anything. But a college degree is no guarantee, either, and I don't even really want to go. I am just getting out of the public school system. I don't want to go back into another educational system, one I can't actually afford, even with the rather hefty scholarships they're throwing my way, even if they offer me into their Honors program with smaller classes and more control over what classes I want to take.

If only I could... I don't know. Be free to sit in a library, in any library, and just read what I want to learn for myself. No sitting in hard science classes, where I may or may not get to actually do lab work, depending on what gender my lab partner is. (In an archaeology major, probably a guy. There aren't exactly many who decide to major in it, and I imagine quite a few of them are male, as a lot of science-y jobs are.)

But, of course, life will not fall at my feet and give me whatever I want. I could not go to college, and maybe end up like my brother -- working hard, all day, no flexibility in hours, and at the end of the year get nothing back in tax returns. I could go to college; perhaps I'll be like my mother, who's getting her master's degree in religion, who complains sometimes of male teachers who never give her more than, "It's alright," even when she's spent all day on a paper to perfect it and most of the other guys in her class slapped something together. Spend all day reading and annotating and writing essays, like that's all there is to life -- essays waxing eloquent about one topic or another, no flair allowed.

I know the essays we write in public school. College ones just seem to be longer and more unnecessarily complex. And I am sick of writing them.

But I can't just become a writer. I can't afford to sit around all day and daydream. But I can't stand working my entire life and getting nothing back, or wracking up so much debt I'll be paying it off the rest of my life, and maybe also get nothing in return.

Maybe one day I'll leave the United States, go to... I don't know. Ireland. Russia. Australia. Maybe, while I'm at it, I could grow a pair of wings and join a fairy cult. Because I can't really do what I want, become whoever I want to be, like those well-meaning adults in elementary school tell you. Sometimes, I really can't do anything at all, except sit on my couch. Now it's a marathon of Law and Order: Criminal Intent.

An Update on my Life.

Hello. I realize I haven't posted much this month. Life has slammed into me.

Let me start with the bad news. My grandfather died a few weeks ago. We had his funeral -- my mother organized the entire thing, because she's getting her master's degree in religious studies or Christianity or some other such thing in that general area of study, and she wanted to make it personal. My grandfather -- my mother's stepfather -- was married to my grandmother for 42 years. It's been a rather hard blow, to know the laughing, easygoing man I knew as Granddad Richard will now be gone from everywhere but our hearts and memories.

In better news, though, I've applied to 4 colleges and three of them have accepted me. (The fourth hasn't answered back.) All are in-state, all are offering me scholarships over $17,000, and two of them look like viable options for my future. (One is near where my other grandfather, my father's father, lives, while the other is offering a pretty substantial scholarship and entry into their honors program.)

I have been super-busy organizing things with the colleges: I've met with an admissions counselor from the latter (the one offering entry in their honors program), who promised to repeal our financial aid and see if she can't cover more, and asked me to look into scholarships outside of the college. I've scheduled an interview at the college near my grandfather's place, in order to determine if I qualify for a full-tuition scholarship. And I've been desperately researching scholarships online, to see if I can't cover some of the cost.

Good advice for this month, from my perspective.

And, while this sort of pales in comparison with the other two bits of news, and hasn't really affected my posting schedule (seeing as how it occurred only today), I have taken my first field trip since 8th grade. I'm a senior in high school now. I've been a bit anxious about it for the past week, which is why I mention it. The field trip was to Old Town Petersburg, which in case you don't know is actually old. We visited the Blandford Cemetery and the the old part of the city to take pictures, for photography class. I ended up with 4 rolls of black-and-white film (~70-80 pictures), and a curiosity for this city a half-hour's drive from my hometown.

Some cool things Petersburg has to offer:

1. In the Blandford Cemetery, the oldest gravestones dates back to the 1700s! I saw one headstone for a woman born in 1785 and died in the 1820s-1830s.
2. The Blandford Church contains fifteen or sixteen Tiffany Windows, one for each of the Confederate States. Each window depicts a saint and the state's name. The only Confederate state that didn't contribute a window was Kentucky, because it couldn't raise the funds after the Civil War. Tiffany also donated the Jeweled Cross window. I didn't get to see the windows from inside the church, to see the light shine through, but I saw the dull grayness of the windows from outside.
3. The Trapezium House was built either in the late 1700s or really early 1800s. The man who built it was an eccentric man who believed that evil spirits resided in right angles, so he built his house without any right angles whatsoever.
4.  I managed to get a shot of the Hiram Haines' Coffee and Alehouse, which has been around since pre-Civil War (early 1800s -- 1820s, I believe?), where several famous people gathered. Edgar Allen Poe had his honeymoon there, in 1839. It was reopened 2010, I believe, and is in business today. Sadly, grabbing lunch at this historic building was not on our itinerary.

What the Church looks like today (public domain photo)

I wish I had the pictures to show you, but we haven't developed the film yet. We'll be doing that next week. In the meantime, it's nice to let you know the Cockade City is still a historical treasure, one that withstood a siege during the War of 1812 and was nicknamed after its patriotism, so called by James Madison. (A cockade is like a pin they stuck in their hats, and so many people wore them and so many lost their lives during the War of 1812 that President James Madison stopped by to address them.)

So, this has been quite the eventful month. Good things tossed with the bad things, as life often likes to throw at us. For a quiet teenager who leaves her home only to go to school and the library (and occasionally Wal-Mart), the whole blasted thing is like something out of the Lord of the Rings, except my life has no obvious plot or point.

For now, I think I'll just have to take a pain-reliever for my headache, finish up a good book, and draw myself a nice hot bath. And then we'll see about April.

Have a blessed day, and hope you visit a few ancient sites yourself.

In Which I Talk about Romance. Again.

(I would have posted earlier, but, you know. Life. My grandfather died, colleges began accepting me, and I've gotten really snarled up inside, emotionally speaking. It happens, time to time.)

This is not the first time I've talked about romance. Or should I capitalize Romance? Everyone else seems to capitalize on it.

I'm one of those people who sets their book off to the side, on their bed, after they've finished reading. I have a dozen books sitting, scattered, across the side of my bed. 5 are romance. 3 are nonfiction. The rest are MG.

Now, what do I mean by romance? There are different types. There are romance novels and romantic subplots and there are those (horrible) books where romance plays a pretty central role, but for some reason isn't even mentioned in the back-cover summary. This post, I'm talking about all of them.

And, of course, if you visit this blog, I'm sure you read, write, or at least have heard of YA. My favorite age group of books. And more than likely, you have heard how swamped with romance it is. Maybe you've debated about the role of sex in YA Lit. Maybe you've even written a few romantic scenes yourself, if you're a writer.

Don't get me wrong. I am happy that people like writing romance, that women can find even a minimally decent pay writing romance, and that people will read it. But when I say "people" want to read it, I have never been included in it.

Because, of course, I am asexual. And romance is not really my strong suit.

Let me define that term for you (in my own words):

asexual (adj.): to not be interested in sex; to be sexually attracted to neither sex.

That does not mean I am "anti-love" or "innocent-minded;" it does not mean you can tell me that this is just "a phase everyone goes through" and that "I'll find someone someday." And it does not mean that I will be happy reading sex scenes in books, or even mildly romantic scenes.

Unfortunately, I come across it too often. The first kiss. The first relationship. The first sex. They are common themes, in YA Lit. And they are probably common firsts for many teenagers. But I never feel more alone than when I think the phrase, "normal teenagers," because I have never considered myself as part of that category, and for good reason.

To me, YA is not just first love. YA is the exploration of possibilities and the world for the first time. It is first adventures, first griefs, first chance to change the world and not merely observe it. There are many firsts in the world, and I love those much more, connect more with those ideas, than I do with "the feel of his lips on my skin" or "his kiss" or whatever else it is. You don't even have to include an asexual character in your book. I'm just begging you, to just not put romance in it, or put it far to the side in favor of other things.

There is only one book series I've read that features an asexual character: the Emily the Strange series, by Rob Reger. Emily Strange is a role model for me; not only is she asexual, but a genius, a prankster, a skateboarder, and a cat person. Members of her family are "Dark Girls," also called the "Dark Aunts," because they have magical ability and never marry or have children. I have all four books on my greater-favorites bookshelf. You can probably find them in the YA section at your local B&N. It's written in diary form, and can at times look more MG than YA, but still. An asexual character! A main character who actually sticks by her statement that she will never have children!*

As much as I hate to add the disclaimer: yes, I know there are books out there that are not romance, and YA is not "swamped" with romance, there are others out there about family and friendships. But in my local B&N, in my local library, there sure are many books with romance in them. There are those books, like I mentioned above, who do not bother to tell me of the romance that is a central part of the book in the summary.

Haughty Owl wants you to think of ALL sexualities.

The truth is, I walk into my local B&N, and I want to cry. My eyes desperately search the shelves -- those crisp, clean shelves with new, pristine books -- and my heart sinks when I pull down a book. Just wondering whether or not there will be romance in it; picking over the summary, and making assumptions based on that, assuming there will be romance if I don't know.


Perhaps normal people, I think, just pick a book off the shelves, like the summary, the premise, and just purchase it and go. It is entirely lonely, to realize that other people aren't bothered by the romance, because they're normal people who don't mind -- even love -- the heterosexual love in all of these books. And that because I'm just a freak, I have trouble doing the one thing I've done my entire life -- reading.

But luckily, I have a blog. And hopefully, I have a talent for writing, and I will use both of them to ask that more books with more asexual characters are put into my hands. That while you advocate for LGBT romance, remember that little unknown "A" for Asexual, and advocate for some no-romance books, as well.

Because there are other readers out there, like me, who are asexual and feeling just a little lonely not for being underrepresented -- but for not being represented at all. So, if you think yourself an ally to gays and bisexuals, then remember to educate on asexuals, too, because while most everyone has an opinion on LGBTQ, almost no one has heard of asexuality. In fact, when I tell someone I am asexual, I have to explain to the person what it means, and then they just shrug and say, "well, I don't know where that leaves you, then. I'm sure you'll grow into it. Everybody else does."

I know I will be a writer, and most of my main characters will be asexual. I know the themes I'd like to expound on in my works. I know, if I become famous, what it will be for -- a look into diversity, for that little asexual, bookish teenager who bites her lip in the library as her hands hover the shelves and shelves of first kisses and first crushes.

Have a blessed day.

Scabby Zazu says to watch what you read -- there's plenty of romance, when you look!

*Yes, I was ticked off by that in The Hunger Games. And in several other works I've read. Why is it somewhat common to have your narrator say she will never have children/fall in love/fall in love with that man, and then have her turn around and do exactly that?! Is this just a trend in the books I pick up?

Oh, What a Terrible Week. (On Cats and Life)

This has been a sorry week. It's not just paying $267 in AP fees (for three AP exams). Money problems make me anxious, but I could have gotten over that. It wasn't missing two days of school and feeling guilty for all of that missed time and makeup work.

I suppose I'll have to tell you the actual reason, though I hate to say it: someone ran over my cat.

Now, it sounds like something you grieve over for a few hours, maybe a couple of days. But I love my cats. I love my cats like I love my books. And someone killed him, stole a life. And didn't even care.

It was Wednesday evening. My little brother and his friends are playing outside, riding their bikes along the road -- they're elementary and early middle schoolers, just having a good time. I let my cat, Tenzing, stay outside, because it was nice outside -- warm, blue skies. And a little black car comes speeding along, running over my precious Tenzing, and doesn't even stop to see whether he just drove over a cat or a kid.

What sort of maggot-hearted monster doesn't even say sorry? Doesn't step forward when we drive around looking for him, or when we put flyers up to tell whoever-it-was that he murdered our beloved pet?

(I don't know for sure that this person is a he. I just have to refer to whoever-it-was as something other than it, and saying he puts more of a face to him.)

If there was any faith in humanity left in my heart, it is most certainly gone now. My cat was a strong, healthy, friendly Siamese whom we all loved, even our next door neighbors. If any of my several cats were to die, I had expected it to be Angel, the same age as Tenzing, but who has three teeth and an upper respiratory problem. Or perhaps Zazu, who is older than Tenzing, at somewhere around thirteen years old.

But not Tenzing. Tenzing didn't die from sickness or old age. I can't even really see it as an accident, because if you're in an accident, you stop to express your apologies. This was a tragedy. This was the dark taking of a life without seeming remorse. And perhaps that's spinning it a bit far-fetched, but my cat didn't make it. And it could easily have been my brother. This is cat-slaughter.

I don't understand how this could play out like it has. How no one would come forward and say sorry, sorry they ran over someone near and dear to our hearts. When is a cat's life not worth as much as a human's? Would they have come forward if they accidentally ran over one of those kids playing in the road? I suspect not. I suppose it doesn't pay to have faith in humanity; only faith in your friends, and yourself. But humanity has an evilness at its core, if you could do this to a stranger and not care.

The world, my friends, is looking rather black. The death of my cat may seem like something of a relief, that it wasn't my brother, but it is still a steep price. My cat never hurt anyone. And he's dead. He isn't going to come back. He isn't going to pull some fiction-stunt, where he really wasn't dead and will come back in the end, triumphant; he will stay dead, and buried, and only remembered. He still had a few good years in him; he was strong, for a twelve-year-old cat.

And I still have to trudge through school days, my face blank, pretending like all of this hasn't happened, because there isn't really any way to explain why the death of a pet can rock your entire world off its hinges. There isn't time to let you adjust to your new world. There is only schoolwork, and the teachers' annoyance when I really can't turn my homework in on time.

I hope you have a blessed week yourselves, people. I really do hope you have had a better week.

RIP, blessed Tenzing.

Happy February.

It's the pink month, guys. Valentine's Day and all of that jazz. It's one of my least favorite months of the year, but I console myself that at least this also happens to be Black History Month. Black History is a very good history to talk about, because there is so much tension and strife that it must be talked about.

(It's really only Valentine's Day that makes this my least favorite month. But in my defense, stores are bursting with hearts and pink and red and candy and those weird little paper valentines that only little kids get to buy with impunity. Walking into Wal-Mart makes me cringe, and this is not a good thing when I barely get out of the house anyways.)

So, instead of writing a very long post today -- it's already 9:30 pm, I've had a ridiculously exhausting school day and homework binge -- here's a nice, relaxing song for your pink-barraged brains. Well, as relaxing as my music gets.

Have a blessed day.

Escala -- Requiem for a Dream

Quick Update.

So, I planned on doing a book review of Fever Crumb by Philip Reeve, but I still don't know how I feel about it. Sort of uneasy-concluded-finished-with-it sort of attitude. Yea, it doesn't make much sense to me, either.

So, quick update of my life:

• I went to visit my sister two hours away from where I live, and to take a tour of a college just a few blocks from where she lives. It's the furthest I've been from my house in years. It was like a freaking Lord of the Rings adventure for me.
• That college? Yea, it's very... big. Grand, classical furniture, really good technology, two theaters and nice people and living on campus all four years. I'm applying, but I have no clue if I would actually go there, unless they offered me a full scholarship.
• I was meant to go to another college tour, too, but my mother has trouble navigating big cities like where my sister lives, so we called and rescheduled for sometime next week. My mother's car is a stick-shift with no power steering, and the city in question has, like 90-degree roads* because it's located in the foothills of some mountains. 'Nuff said.
• I've gone driving more! Instead of the small Mustang, though, it's our big ole Suburban. And that thing's a freakin' tank. Still, my dad has relaxed some and says I've been improving already.
• I went to Hobby Lobby. Apart from bookstores, craft stores are among the greatest places to be. They're just so interesting. Miniature Victorian-style dollhouses (about five, all of which would come up to my waist if they'd been set on the ground); strange owl and frog statues; expensive-looking paintings of flowers, street corners, and paths in the woods; many, many decorative crosses; and a whole aisle of stickers. It's like some creative world that exploded inside a mundane building.
• I have had a snow day today and yesterday. And we didn't have school Monday, either, because of Martin Luther King Jr. Day. And I went to visit my sister last Friday. So I haven't ben in school for a pretty darn long time, and I'm getting a little giddy. (Oh yea, and we don't have school tomorrow, either.)
• My laptop has -- again -- shut down on me. This is the one I just got for Christmas. I don't know if it's me, or if I just get really terrible laptops. 

So, yea. This is what's been going on. I've started free online courses on Coursera and Open2Study, one on water and one on morality, so I'm not completely academic-free. I've settled on a relaxation day tomorrow; watching TV, maybe going to the library. Not much.

Anyways, I hope you have a blessed day! (Especially if it involves snow and no school!)


*Not literally 90 degree angles. Just really, really steep hills, and confusing turns -- like, fork in the roads instead of the neat square intersections like what I'm used to around home.

Driving Lessons

So, I drove for the first time today.

And I do do not mean this is the first time I've driven today. I mean that I've been asking for driving lessons since I got my learner's permit, and my parents have finally relented and took me out in our white mustang for a first lesson.

Driving, obviously, is not a skill that comes naturally.

I have avoided any major incidents, but according to my father, I need to work on my steering. And staying to the right side of the road. And accelerating. But hey, I didn't crash into anything -- my dad jerked the steering wheel before I had a chance to do so.

People apparently do not like first-time drivers. As I'm going along at about 5-10 miles an hour in my little neighborhood, two cars pull up behind me, and my dad indicates for me to pull over and let them pass, and, like, I can see their faces looking down at me from their big cars -- they are scowling at me. Completely annoyed, as if they hadn't once been in my position.

We drove up and down the relatively straight road, learning to turn and when to press the gas -- and which one is the gas, and which one is the brake -- and then we ride around the block. I pushed the accelerator all the way up to 15 miles an hour. My hands are still shaking.

I should've started learning to drive several years ago, back at age 15 (and 6 months, as per state law). But I didn't even get my learner's permit until I was sixteen, and it's taken me over a year to convince my parents that driving in the 21st century is a skill I must learn to possess.

And let me say, we probably should've never invented automobiles. Driving is as stressful as it gets for me, and I'm one of those ultra-slow, careful drivers. (I learned that in go-carting. They kicked me off the track, I was driving so slow.) And, yes, it's nice to be able to travel to relatively far away places with relative ease, but dang -- is it hard to keep your attention on mirrors, road, and which pedal your foot is pressing.

And, since I don't take pictures of our family car, please enjoy a photo of my cat. I'd bet Sarabie is perfectly happy avoiding all cars. And traveling in general.

 

"Resolutions" I Might Actually Keep

It's the first day of 2014, guys. The ending of a year, the beginning of one. I suppose I should be happy for a clean slate this year, but we all know that in school, it's not "clean." I still have to do my projects from before break. (Namely, and AP Lit project on WW1 and a textbook assignment from AP Bio.)

But I don't want that to spoil my first few days, at least. And my last few days of break. And since I didn't finish reading the book I told myself I'd finish yesterday, I think I'll post some of my New Year's Resolutions.

(As a side note: why do they call them "resolutions?" You've resolved to do something, yes, but you rarely get around to them. So aren't they more under the category of, "Promises I Only Intended to Keep?")

Anyways. I hope to:

1. Finish at least half of my TBR pile. (The whole pile is numbering close to fifty, now.) 
2. Paint my room over. (It's my little sister's old room, and the most atrocious yellow color. Also, she left a few foul-mouthed messages written across them.)
3. Get my driver's license. (I've only got my learner's permit right now.)
4. Turn 18 years old in April. (That one should be easy to keep.)
5. Graduate in June. (Also easy. I'm pretty much guaranteed it at this point, as long as I keep showing up to school.) 
6. Work on my knitting. (As in, at least every week. Right now, it's looking pretty sad.)
7. Work on clay. (Something I've always wanted to do, but now that I have clay and space to work with it, I find myself reluctant to start.)
8. Put up some puzzles. (I have half a dozen of them sitting around my room.)

This seems like a rather paltry list, and doesn't even include my writing resolutions, but it towers over me with all the menace of Cerberus.* I'm not used to proactively doing things for myself. I read a book, I wait for someone to order me to do chores. Watch some documentaries on TV. I barely even do my homework for myself.

Which is why I've set the threshold so low. Some puzzles, working with clay, turning 18 years old. Though, really, these are all big milestones. At 18, I'm officially an adult. Officially Not a Child Anymore. And I have an entire lifetime in which I have to proactively do things for myself. So I've got to get a head start a few months beforehand.

This post seems rather serious to me, for a day we're all supposed to be celebrating. There are no exclamation points, no smilie faces. Just talk of my plans. I've never been good at humor or light-hearted material.

But I suppose that's what New Year's is about. The beginning of a year, and talk of what's going to be done. (Or what might be done.)

Have a blessed Wednesday, New Year's, and life, everyone.

*Cerberus the three-headed dog from the Underworld in Greek mythology. It's extra menacing because I'm not overly-fond of dogs, since we own an Australian Shepherd who barks at everyone but my mother.

Zazu says to keep to your resolutions.

A Recap of 2013

Hello, and happy... Monday. I can't even remember if today is the last day of December or the next-to-last day. Either way, I won't be posting another post on this blog until 2014. :)

I decided to go through my archives and pick out some of my favorite posts from this year, separated into categories. So, here you go:

Books:
My favorite re-read: I re-read The Warriors Saga by Erin Hunter over the summer, and it is every bit as amazing as I remember from middle school.  The Hobbit comes as a close second.

The Book That (Pleasantly) Surprised Me the Most: The Lost Conspiracy by Frances Hardinge, while expecting it to be the cumbersome, over-500-pages-long MG fantasy that it is, had the most fantastic worldbuilding and characters. The Apprentice's Masterpiece by Melanie Little comes as a close second.

The Book That (Unpleasantly) Surprised Me: Inside by Maria Snyder had a good premise, but the romance detracted from it for me. 


Literary Stuff:
I wrote on Strong Female Characters, and what they are, though I include many self-conscious "in my opinion..."s.

For the sake of Diversity! I talked about the diversity of characters and people.

I explained the difference between the fantasy and paranormal genres.

You can read my picking apart an argument of YA vs. Epic Fantasy.

And, ever important on my blog, my views on romance (and why I don't like it).


Other Stuff:
A selection of my music (without links; you'll have to look them up on Youtube yourself).

I explained my dealings with photography-- specifically, photograms. 

I watched a documentary on Ancient Japan.

Also, I watched a documentary on Lipizzaner horses. I watch a lot of documentaries.

This is my list in summary. I watch documentaries, listen to music, and read too many (but not enough) books. You can look at any or none of these posts, but they're my favorites of this year. If you have any comments, you can post them to this post!

Have a blessed end of the year! 

It's Christmas.

Last night
"Ouch!" I yelp, as I take the chicken out of the toaster oven.
"You alright?" Mom asks, looking up from what she's doing. 
"I just didn't expect the juice to run out of the aluminum foil," I mutter, as I quickly pull the other packet onto a cookie sheet. I pull the one I dropped onto the sheet, as well. Now I can put the chicken slices (breasts? Pieces?) out of the way.
The Pillsbury crescents that I just rolled up wait on a paper plate. I place a fresh sheet of aluminum foil over the rack, spray liberally with butter spray, and place the clumsy rolls in four rows of two, trying to ignore the prickly I-suck-at-this feeling. My hands are greasy from rolling the store-bought dough triangles, and now they're even more gross as I stick them on the sheet. Spray the tops liberally, as well.
As Mom calls everyone to dinner, I help myself. A small portion of fresh-made mashed potatoes. A small bit of ham; a small bit of chicken. I have to wait for the crescents. I refuse to let the boiled bok-choy near my plate. I'm not even perfectly sure what it is, other than sort of smelly and white and green-leafy.
We don't even say prayer, even though my Pentacostal grandfather is right there. He had a heart attack recently. We make food without too much sodium for him. We just tuck in.
It's not much, what's on my plate. Everyone else -- my three sisters, two brothers, my mother and father and my father's father -- all pile their plate. My dinner doesn't even cover the paper plate. But I manage to eat most it, except for a small bit of the ham. I don't have ham often enough to really like the taste.

Christmas is one of everybody's favorite holidays. Am I sick of the commercialization, and how this is the corporations' and businesses' favorite holidays because they want to sell-sell-sell? Yes. Am I ranting about it today? No.

In fact, I am not sure what I want to say today, at all. I received a laptop, two things of chocolate, and this crocheted book-pillow, on which I can prop my book. (My mother is a very big arts-and-crafts sort of person.) I feel kind of scooped out, with the whole smiling and speaking a thanks, the whole Christmas charade ending, and the magic of December grinding to a halt. Cold, dry days from here through the early weeks of March, with little to look forward to.

Still, at the same time, I kind of hope -- as I do almost every year -- that I could extend such magic -- such happiness and snow-sparkled dreams and closeness-to-God feeling. Through the drudge of school and homework and writing and reading, no time for staring at the ceiling, for doing nothing. Late nights, turning the lights out with my glasses still on until I remember to take them off.

Do I have a definite plan this year for such an intangible goal? No. I never do. And if I did, I probably wouldn't stick to them. It's mostly read through the fifty-or-so books on my to-be-read list, try to do my homework on time, take the free online classes I signed up for for January.

I would like to make some time for clay working. I have about 25 lb of gray clay, found at my local Michaels store (conveniently located just a short walk from my local Barnes and Noble). To make my days a little easier to swallow, I would like to play with clay, like a little kid; no artsy goal in mind, just squish it in my hands and feel absurdly pleased at the lines of gray caking in the lines in my hands.

The trouble is, I like doing nothing. I like staring at the ceiling, doing nothing, almost more than I like playing with clay or paint like a little kid, which is why that clay has been sitting in its cardboard box container since September. I just don't have that quality nothing time; I hate cutting into it.

So, here's to an ending and a beginning. The ending of a deep, special season, and the beginnings of a bridge to holding to the feelings. I'm using clay and a time for nothing. What are you doing?

Have a blessed Christmas, a lovely Wednesday, and a very merry day.

This Morning 
I wake up very uncomfortable at 8:00 am. This is mostly due to my sister.
Since my grandfather gets my room while he stays the night, I have to share with the older of my two younger sisters. Cosmetics, half-empty soda bottles, and junk food wrappers lay scattered with the overwhelming amount of clothes. The whole room smells septic and close, like too much perfume and moldy food crammed together.
And, of course, this is not the worst part of sleeping in a strange, smelly, crowded-with-food-and-clothes room. My sister stays up until 1:00 am. On her phone. Laughing as she scrolls through facebook videos, which I can vaguely hear through her earphones. And because she's pulled the sheet away, I'm lying on the scratchy mattress, awake until too early.
But when I finally get up, it's a relief. A minuscule amount of presents are underneath the beach-themed Christmas tree. Ma, who was sick last night, asks me to wrap the last of the Christmas presents in her workroom. I do so gladly. It's too early to read my book or watch the crime documentary softly pontificating from the TV. 
When we're finally all gathered together -- 9:30 am -- Dad starts handing out presents, like he does every Christmas. A laptop; a card from Granddad, with a one-hundred dollar bill and a small box of Godiva chocolates. A leopard puzzle, a bag of mini Kit-Kats, wall stickers of butterflies. The Arabian Nights. 
Everyone's rustling the wrapping paper as they rip it away to reveal their gifts; they're joking, saying thanks, exclaiming if it's a good present. Our living room feels small with nine people unwrapping gifts in it.
Everything is over before 10:00 am. I smile, thank everyone, retreat to Rebecca's room, the kitchen table, Mom's workroom; all day, wherever there's fewest people, so I can get on the laptop or read my book or knit.
The season ends just like that -- with the opening of a few presents. With the ripping away of wrapping paper, which looked pretty when we couldn't see what was inside, but now looks just crumpled and throwaway.
I want to hold onto this. I don't want this to be it, over with the exposure of what's beneath the paper; but how do I hold mystery and excitement and magic when the paper's been torn away? I guess the closest I get is to hold onto something I know little about. Clay -- violin -- books I've never read, knitting that I am new at. The possibilities have to keep going, don't they?   
    
   

[Insert Interesting Title Here]

It's been an entire two weeks since I last posted. I do apologize for my impromptu hiatus. I would blame my midterm exams, and the review for them, but really it's that I'm too tired from all the review and exam-ing to post anything.

Yesterday was the last day of my exams. I only had one -- in photography. Which certainly doesn't sound terrible, but all of my pictures are awful, I had the most awful migraine, I barely got any sleep the night before. So I considered not posting anytime this week or weekend. Or even getting out of bed. But I'm a tough girl, I like to think; I took a couple painkillers and here I am.

Instead of a nice, relevant post centered on one topic, this post is sort of a hash-mash of what I've been doing these last couple of days. Starting with...

My knitting, my book, and my cup of tea.

1. Knitting. This is one of the weirdest inventions of humankind, in my opinion. It's numbing; exhausting; difficult. But in the end, even the small amount I've managed in the past few days makes me absurdly pleased. Proud, even. It's just loops of yarn and a couple of aluminum needles -- but it looks complicated and amazing, and I made something with my hands. Created something, when I'm normally a passive reader and consumer.
    
2. Reading Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar. Anyone who looks through my archives will know that I'm generally not one for literary, popular, or classics -- but The Bell Jar is something different. Depressing, honest, with this sort of bruised, timid, recoiling-from-life sort of mood. Painfully close to heart. And I can't help but connect to it, like seeing a mirror that reflects a sadder, heavy-spirited version of myself.
3. Research. I went to the library and checked out 18 books -- only nine of which were for-fun fiction reading. I'm pretty proud of myself. I don't typically wander into the nonfiction section. But I braved it out this time, trying not to think that the people around me are judging my lack of knowledge in all those numbers on the spines of the books. Of course, these books range from beekeeping to medicinal herbs to forensic sciences and clay techniques and jewels.*
4. Orphan Black. Seriously. It's a Canadian series on BBC (I think). About this woman who sees a woman identical to her step in front of a train -- and so she decides to take this woman's identity. It's a bit graphic in places, but it's worth a watch. (My mother watches it, too. We have this long geek-fest about stuff like Orphan Black, BBC's Sherlock, and Once Upon a Time, which is another of my favorite shows.) My mother needs to stop recommending shows to me.

Yea, I'm not a complicated, dramatic person. But I love my little things.

So, have a blessed weekend. Read some books. Learn knitting. Watch a little TV. It's the holidays, after all. 

Did I mention it was the holidays?

Mary Shelley is helping us with our wrapping paper.

*Not forensic sciences and clay techniques and jewels in one book, obviously -- I mean I got three separate books on those three separate topics. But how awesome would it be to have a book that combined all three of those? It would be a fiction masterpiece, assuming it's even decently well-written.