good morning, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.

I told you I would have more to say on the morrow! And here I am.

Well, Mom and I finished watching the last of our movies from the library. (Dodge during Castaway: “No! Wilson!”) Oh, and there was another library movie that I probably shouldn’t have been as wowed by as I was: The Truman Show.  (PS: Disney totally ripped off the premise of The Truman Show for Bolt, if that gives you an idea of what the whole movie’s about.) And if you haven’t watched the movie, then I think you should, even if you are like me and you are sort of put off by the main actor’s teeth; they are somewhat terrifying.

Anyway, The Truman Show is so Fakeworld! The perfect little happy town, with all the happy people… And the trees! If you watch this movie, pay attention to the forest scene, I actually yelped out loud. In fact, a lot of the movie was pretty creepy. One of the best scenes in the movie is when he is walking across the docks and he just can’t walk any more, and he looks down and sees a little half-sunken boat. I think my stomach actually twisted. (I may have been hungry, though.) I was pretty disturbed! And more disturbed when I found out why he couldn’t cross! And even more disturbed when I found out WHY why he couldn’t cross! Other creepy things included the moon, and his wife–would not want to meet her in a dark alley! The choco-whatever scene was also one of the best.

The ending was really well done I thought. His ending line was like, that Truman hadn’t been as ‘pure’ as the producer had thought; Truman had acted, he had recited lines. (Which, don’t we all?) I don’t know what that is supposed to mean or if that was even the point, because maybe I was reading too much into it (Mom said she’d never gotten that from the ending), but I liked it.

Well, I am off to attend to the care and feeding of my younger brothers…
~Pen

PPS: Has anyone reading this watched The Truman Show? And if so, what were YOUR thoughts? I am terribly curious.

 

2010…2011

Tonight, as we rode home from a New Year’s Eve party, I asked my family why the new year was a big deal. Personally I don’t like cut-offs; in real life, one thing flows into another smoothly, slowly, constantly. But anyway. Dad replied, in his usual manner
“It’s just another excuse to get drunk and have a party. Of course it’s really supposed to be a celebration, you know, new beginnings and a new start, new year, whatever. People make resolutions they never keep…”
Me: “I never make resolutions. First of all because I will change my habits whenever I feel like it. Second of all… I never make plans for the new year because it never turns out quite like I expect it to.”

And that is my philosophy. I mean, I never could have predicted or planned for what happened in my life in 2010.

I think I did a lot of growing up this year, a lot of changing and becoming my own person. I learned a lot and tried a lot of new things. Maybe I even took a few risks. I can’t even remember what happened in 2010, or exactly when certain changes began, because my brain doesn’t work in sudden cut-offs like January First, but I know that there was so much that happened to me and around me this year that I wouldn’t have time or space to mention it all. There is no resolution that could prepare for or be better than everything that happened to me over the course of 2010… and now, 2011.

The new year… shapeless in my mind right now. It does not feel different, or particularly promising, even. But I like it that way. Changes don’t come suddenly at the stroke of midnight. They come slowly, one by one, maybe starting so small that you don’t even notice them at first, can’t trace their origins after they are realized.

I am so happy, as I turn over 2010 in my mind… And now 2011 has come… 

The earth has turned all the way round, and it isn’t stopping yet. 

Good night, and happy New Year!
Love,
Pen

 

the weatherman is sure there will be more

It’s been snowing here for about three days straight, I think. It’s perfectly wonderful, of course, since we won’t be sick of it until a month or two from now. Actually I don’t get sick of the snow, or the cold even, but the salt grime. And most of all the not-being-able-to-wear-skirts-that-drag-the-ground.

I took a walk yesterday as it was snowing. Just a few blocks. It was really nice, and quiet, and I love the whole atmosphere of mystery during winter. The long nights, the grey, silent days… maybe that’s why my novel is set in a kind of perpetually-wintry city. Unlike rain, when snow falls it makes no sound. Somehow it’s just cool to stand anywhere you’re alone, maybe with some bare trees nearby, and just watch the snow fall. Silence. It’s beautiful and kind of creepy at the same time, like you’re in this magical world but you’re also the only person inhabiting it.

Yep, you heard right, I have now declared my love for the season of winter. “Oh that I were a glove upon that hand”…. etc, etc. More like, “oh that I had a glove upon my hand”, but whatever.

So. The snow. Winter. Life is good, as those incredibly irritating t-shirts (and now bumper stickers, apparently) say. Man, I hate those. It’s like, yeah, life is good, but it’s not all cartoon inner tubes and smiley stick people. Geez.

Uh, what was I going to say before I went off on a tangent? Oh yeah. Life. Pshh. Never mind, I don’t feel like being all talkative anymore. I kind of feel like just sitting here listening to music and pretending to be a teenager. Is it possible to feel too young to be a teenager and too old at the same time but still simultaneously feel like a teenager is exactly what you are? 
If it’s not… I have achieved the impossible.

 

Argh! or, my thoughts on series books.

I am so sick of series that if I never saw or read one again, it wouldn’t bother me in the least. Now, that’s a sad thing. I’ve read many a good series in my day. But the trouble is with all these new ones, these new series coming out. You pick up book One. You start to read it. It is a really good book; engaging, exciting, well-written, etc. So you stay up all night reading it under your covers, which is the only proper way to read anything suspenseful really, and then.
The End.
Except not.
It’s not the end. It’s The “End of Book One”. With some horrid, cruel, cliffhanger ending.
In short, the whole book was a huge ripoff.

And then to make things worse, book Two isn’t even out yet. So that means by the time it’s finally released in about a year, you’ve already forgotten half the characters and all the cute little details and everything from Book One. But even if Book Two is out, you start to wonder: how many books is this going to turn out to be? A reader can lose hope. Unless it’s called “trilogy” or something, then I start to get wary. How many cliffhanger endings can I deal with? How many 300 page books can I read?

What is wrong with books today????
So many things, my friends. So many, many things.

I mean, the book world, or at least my corner of it (the teen section, ugh), already has enough problems. Now this? This garishly obvious marketing ploy? “Oh, let’s make a cliffhanger ending. Then they’ll have to buy Book Two. And Book Three. And on and on.” Yeah, well, I’ll also have to throw your book at the wall when it’s over because it has a crap ending. So take that!

Seriously, though? No one thinks people deserve a whole book in one piece? No one thinks I deserve a halfway satisfying ending? A reward for all my trouble? It’s fine to write a series. Perfectly acceptable. It’s even OK to have a somewhat uncertain ending, one where the reader understands that they’ll need Book Two and Three and so on to complete the story. You know, where these’s a sense of hope and satisfaction but also uncertaintiy about the future. NOT like someone threw a knife while blindfolded at the manuscript to see where the ending would cut off. 

It takes skill to wrap a book up, to make an ending. I know. And that’s why it bothers me. The author is cheating when they just drop you off a cliff and then type, “the end” like it doesn’t mean anything after all that you were awake all night, waiting, expecting, hoping… only to be ripped off and reminded that everything in the world is just a stupid ploy to get your money. 

Of course, that’s just how the world works. Best we all get used to it. However, there are other ways to make me buy Book Two. Like, oh, I don’t know, writing a good story? Creating memorable characters that I care about? Just a suggestion. It sounds dumb, I know.

Maybe they’re approaching it too much from the “Information Age” perspective. As in, “they will buy Book Two because they will want to know what happens next.” vs “They will buy Book Two because they loved Book One.” I’d sure like to know whether the good team wins or if the guy gets the girl, or whatever. But that comes after the main reason, which is that I’d want to enter that world again. I’d want to revisit these people I’ve come to care about. I’d want to go through it all again.
But when I hit a cliffhanger ending that mean me throw the book across the room and sulk and feel betrayed and pace around and scour the internet for the next installment and pull my hair out and growl and rant and feel ripped off… Well, who wants to do that over and over?

And how can I re-read and re-read and re-read a book that basically has no ending? It can never be my favorite book. It can never be the book that I read when I’m sad or ill or bored or just wanting that good story again… Because it’s simply not worth it. There’s no satisfaction, no comfort. There’s not that feeling of when you finish a book and you just sort of sit there staring into space just turning it over and over in your mind for a while. Once you have the information, there is no reason to read it again.

That is a sad thing.
So don’t write crap endings.
Or else.

And hey– while we’re on the subject of what not to write in books… Don’t kill the dog.
Just don’t.
Why even put a dog in there, and go through the trouble of giving it a name and a personality and making me love it, only to kill it off quickly once the part you needed it for is over?
Don’t do that. Ever again.
Or else.
Two threats in one day… Bad endings put me in a sour mood.

-Pen

 

So, people are busy. I will be busy soon enough, but today I’ve spent the day knitting, after staying up until 1:30 am last night teaching myself how to do a stockinette stitch and use more than one color, and also add stitches and follow a pattern. It is not that hard really. Except about halfway through today’s knitting session I realized that I am definitely going to have major arthritis when I’m older. Probably from cracking my knuckes (says Pen as she cracks her knuckles). Whatever. Oh well. I had a good run. I finished half the thing I am making, which I am keeping a secret for now because it might become someone’s [word omitted due to the fact that it's not after Thanksgiving yet] present. Mwaha. Well, as much as I hate it when people get all into [word omitted for the same reason as before] in November, if you make handmade gifts you kind of need to think ahead a little bit…

I like November. I just thought I should say that. In the past i’ve sort of overlooked it… November should be the 12th month, and December should be the 5th… don’t ask. My weird brain. Oh the pain. How it rains. Etcetera.

Alas indeed, though! Mom and Dad and Poncho are…sniff…GONE! All weekend!! I would put in a little crying emoticon, but I reserve those for emails between Mom and myself because I think they look cheesy on a blog. But Poncho is happy because he’s turning 10 tomorrow, and that is why he is now off on a trip because that is what you get when you turn 10 in my family: a trip to somewhere cool that is not too far away. But when you turn 11 you get a handful of dryer lint. In your cake. Just kidding.

Um. So. Well. Despite how proud I am of my knitting, I have to say that it’s been one of those weird days that just pass in a flash and then you feel really unproductive, like you slept until 2 in the afternoon or something. I should write something, work on my novel, bleh bleh bleh (as Bug would say). Some people do Nanowrimo. I tried that once. I learned that I’m not really a word-count person. It’s distracting. I prefer to commit to a certain amount of time, like my daily 3 hours, or a little ten minutes here or there while waiting for something. I just sit down and write as much as I can, knowing in the back of my head that the clock is ticking and this chunk or snippet of time is MINE for now and now only, so I had better do something with it. And that, for me, is more motivating than word counts. After all, some days I do spend much of my 3 hours spinning in the chair, gazing blankly into space, threatening various technological devices, that sort of thing. But often even that ends up being productive. I sit down thinking, “I’m so stuck. I will never get past this part.” That train of thought invariably progresses into “DOOM! DOOM! DOOM UPON ME!” which, after becoming a shriek in my brain, suddenly explodes into an idea that finally gets me writing. And, when things get frustrating, I just tell myself to stick it out for the last half hour, hour, whatever, and then I get to be done. My brain can go think about something else until tomorrow.

Ah, there is the phone. I must be going now.

Love,
Pen

 

Requiem for ApricotPie

Yesterday we all got word that ApricotPie will be closing. This elicited responses of shock, disbelief, thanks, and efforts to carry on in a different way. All of that went through my mind, which sort of pushed all my other AP thoughts out of my head for a while, but now they’re coming back and I want to write them down.

Remember how I used to talk about AP’s Magic Box? The simplicity of the box where one writes in their post… Just a blank, white box with B I U over it, surrounded by apricot-colored background and the homey blue-and-white sides. The blue and white made it feel almost like you were looking into a cozy little room. Anyway, that magic box earned the ‘magic’ part because evey time I was stuck, or uninspired, or had only a vague idea of what I was going to write, I would start typing in the box and voila! something good would come out of seemingly nothing. In truth I think the simplicty– no messing with fonts and sizes and all that other stuff– helped clear my mind and focus my thinking, so that I could use my full energy toward putting word after word and creating.

I just counted: 122 posts of something like that. 200-some favorite words. Would I even have started collecting favorite words if not for the (too small) favorite words box on AP? I know I wouldn’t have written a speck of poetry… Well, maybe I would have written it, but I definitely wouldn’t have written as much of it, or found how much I really enjoyed it, or been encouraged to keep at it. I would definitely not be this far along in improving on it… Looking back at some of my first poems, I can’t believe how far I’ve come, and how much farther I can still go. Oh, possibilities!
The same goes for short stories, which are a more recent development. In my past years I wouldn’t even touch short stories. How was it even possible to make fiction short? I believed it wasn’t. Short fiction was like, um, I can’t really think of a clever metaphor, but anyway it was a nice idea but pretty daunting and impossible. Then along came AP, where I read more short stories and finally decided to try my hand at it. I’m still rather proud of Norwich, my first short story.

Through AP, I was exposed to a lot of different types and forms of writing. I was able to experiment, learn, and be creative. Plus, I was able to read the words of so many other creative homeschoolers, which was really fun. And there’s something to be said for a website dedicated to literature, which is a slow thing, and too long for other websites of today, like facebook and twitter. You could never put up a poem on Facebook, first of all because no one’s in the frame of mind to read and think about it, and secondly because it’s too long. It’s not a little blip. It took a while to think about, and then to write, and then to read and understand. No one seems to be interested in trying to decipher things, they just want to comprehend instantly. Personally, the deciphering is what I love about poems and songs. I think it’s why Jars of Clay is my favorite band; so many of their song require you to think. Lost was my favorite show because it required me to think. I could go on and on with a list of things I loved because they made me think (Lilith!! Except my thinkng totally failed me at the end, sigh), but I’ve made my point. There are not many places out there where someone can write, read, and discuss all in the pace and space required.

Sure, I’ve had my tiffs with AP over the years. The comment and post limits nearly killed me. (I managed to adjust; clearly I’m still alive, unless I write this to you from the Beyond, woooooeeeeeeeeooooo.) There was once an unpleasant episode concerning something of Eliza’s that will still, quite some time later, make blood rush to my ears and make me snap and claw like a Jabberwock. But hey. I turn into a Jabberwock when someone messes with my friends. (When someone messes with me, however, I turn into a mome rath– not helpful.)

But despite the problems or the drawbacks, AP continued to be a really cool place that brought together people and their wide range of opinions, backgrounds, ages, and writing styles. It’s like we all came to the blue and white room to hang out. I’ll miss the place. Still, there are ways to go on… Like this blog. Once AP closes for good, I’ll be putting the things I would have put there here. One less link for my blog-readers to click. (Optimism. I can’t help myself.)

Hopefully I’ll be able to continue writing poetry, and finish White Funeral [let me diverge from the topic for a minute to say: every single time I try to write the ending, it refues to be the actual ending!! I thought it was going to be three parts originally, then I thought, okay, maybe five, and then it became ten, and now I think I'll have to write an eleventh or a twelfth! Why? Why? I do hope it doesn't turn into a novel, I can't handle a second novel right now. A novellette, a novella, fine. Fine. Oh, the pains of writing sometimes.]. Hopefully I’ll be able to create more short stories, and keep expanding and experimenting, and most of all improving.

Thanks ApricotPie, and I’ll enjoy the last several weeks of you.

Love,
Pen

PS… Now I’m thinking of all the goodbye-ish poems… Like the “still she haunts me, phantomwise”, though it’s not really fitting, and of course the “though time be fleet, and I and thou/are half a life asunder… Even that now thou wilt not fail/ to listen to my fairy-tale”. That fits a bit better, yes?
PPS off to pack for camp!! YAY!

 

Who are You?

"Who are you?" "I-I hardly know, sir... At least, I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then... I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, because I'm not myself, you see."

Yesterday and the day before, I spent much of my time reading. I finished two pretty intense books in the span of a few hours, and while the books weren’t perfect, they made me think.

The first was about a boy named Q whose neighbor and ex-friend Margo disappeared, leaving clues behind that seem to be meant for him. What was interesting about this book is that as Q searches, involving his friends and others who knew Margo, he realizes that she’s not who he thought she was. She’s not who anyone thought she was, because they all knew different versions of her. They all percieved her in different ways, but they realize that they never knew the real her. They were looking at her through something that was “more mirror than window”, as Q says.

The second book was, again, about a boy and a girl, except they were never friends and they didn’t even meet until the girl died and came back as a ghost or whatever to help the boy– well, the plot’s not important. What’s important is what she said about people. To paraphrase, she said that we’re too big. Too big to be fully understood by each other, too big to ever really fit into this world or our mortal bodies.

Both the books also talked about being connected to each other. The first used the example of grass, which is connected by the same root system though each blade is individual. The second had the girl talking about death/heaven, and saying that part of it is feeling connected.

It’s really lucky chance that I read these books in direct succession, because together, they present an interesting view of humanity, and one that feels true at least to me. First of all, I definitely think that we don’t really see each other for who we are. How can we? I act differently depending on who I’m with, so if all my friends got together maybe they wouldn’t know which version of me was the real me, either. When really all of them/none of them are. And the mirror effect that Q talks about is true, too, but it’s not entirely the viewer’s fault that they see me through a mirror and not a window. I perpetuate the mirror by acting like the viewer. Do you know what I mean?

And I definitely feel the “too big” analogy. I feel like when I die and shed my earthly body, I won’t look a thing like it. In my mind I look a completely different way so that every time I look in the mirror or at a picture of myself… It’s not that I think I look bad, just off somehow. Same way as if I hear my voice on a recording. 
I feel too big for my name, too. But as much as I’ve scoured the internet, name books, other languages… there’s nothing I would change my name to. It’s like I must have a name, but it’s a word that’s never been invented and never will be.

All of this makes me wonder who I really am. It makes me wonder if I’m a combination of my mirrored selves or none of them at all. I wonder if I will be someone else when I grow up. I wonder who I would be if I, like Margo, tore off my old life like a band-aid and started over completely fresh, in a new place with new people. Sometimes I feel like I can’t really be myself around the people that I know because they might think less of me. Like they might see me through a window and decide that they don’t like me anymore. I know, I know, that’s weird and paranoid. And incredibly insecure. 

I’m half considering not posting this at all, because people I know might read it. See? “Exhibit A: Subject is afraid to voice private opinion even on her blog.”

Is there any way to overcome this fear? Is there any way to really know someone else? Is there any way to really know oneself?

"I can't help you if you don't even know who you are, stupid girl."

Whether I like it or not, God knows everything about me. I can’t be a mirror-version of myself even if I tried, because He would know who I really am. All the good things, all the bad things. Things I tell people and things I keep to myself. I suppose He’s the only one ever who can see me fully, beyond mirrors and windows, opinions, the way I dress or speak around different groups of people, beyond my fears or my insecurities. It’s a bit scary to think that God would know everything about me. Indescribable to think that He would love me anyway.

It’s more than just loving me despite my sins, it’s loving me for who I am. I don’t even think I love my own self that much; I can hardly stand myself oftentimes. Humans are such complicated beings; we have so many layers and that’s why the heroes in books also have their flaws. I’m sure God is the only one who can stand knowing everything, every detail of who we are and love us anyway.

Maybe I don’t make any sense right now– that’s all right. I can’t seem to say exactly what I mean, but I hope you get the general idea…

Much Love,
The Real Pen
(She’s here somewhere.)

 

I’ll let you understand; I am not a lonely soldier.

So. The above quote (of course it’s a quote, this is me we’re talking about) seemed fitting considering that tomorrow is Memorial Day. It’s from Spirit’s “Soldier”, which is a song that I uually listen to when I’m a: depressed, or b: practicing various Irish dance exercises. The beat is perfect for doing ups and downs, points, and turnout practice.

Speaking of Irish dance, the Feis was today and it was so fun! The DHFs came!! I got second place in treble jig!! I wore my new school dress!!

Then I came home and baked apple cinnamon scones. Yum.

Uh, what was I talking about? The thought of scones distracted me. Oh, right, now I remember.

So, back to the topic of depressed music… I think my dad’s theme song would be “Why Can’t I Be Free?” because that is the question he asks about every other day. Someday I’m going to bust him outta this city. See if I don’t.
Mom says that she would like her theme song to be “All My Tears” by Jars of Clay, which is a nice thought but she totally stole my idea! Just kidding. No, really though. That was going to be my theme song, dang it! It goes “When I go, don’t cry for me/in my father’s arms I’ll be…/it don’t matter where you bury me/ I’ll be home and I’ll be free/ it don’t matter where I lay/ all my tears be washed away.”

Now you see why I wanted it, and now you probably want to adopt it as your anthem, too. Hmph.
As for my theme song… I guess it would change. I tend to pay attention to the drum parts in songs, since I like a driving beat, but I also tend to pick apart lyrics. I always talk with Mom about what I think lyrics mean. I had to explain the song “Good Monsters” to her, and a few weeks ago we tried to decipher “Heart”. Maybe it’s the poet in me, but I love to think about what the different things in songs might mean. Maybe that’s why I generally dislike country songs. They’re too obvious. They’re always about love or fishing or being a redneck or something. They don’t have more than one meaning, or more thna one way of being interpreted, which is the whole fun about discussing what one thinks a song means.

For example, “Closer” by Jars of Clay is my favorite song. I like it because you can take it from a God-to-person/ person-to-God POV, or from person-to-person. It can be about God asking, “I don’t understand why we can’t get close enough”, like, “why won’t you talk to me? Why won’t you get closer?” or it can be a person feeling like they are disconnected from God or that he is a far away, and they don’t understand what they have to do to feel closer. (I can relate to that sometimes, for sure.) From person to person, it makes sense too. All the references to the leaky boat, tears, a bomb, it’s like saying that ”we’re falling apart here; I’m trying to keep us together, but if you want me to love you you have both get closer to me and allow me to get closer to you”. 

Maybe I over analyze, yeah? But anyway. That’s what I think.

It kind of gives me an idea… Maybe I could ever so often post my thoughts on certain songs, and how they relate to life as it is right now…. We used to do something similar at schoolschool, but I forget what we called it. When I brought in a song the whole class wanted to know what band it was, which made me wish I’d brough some Jars of Clay instead of whatever I did bring. 

Hah. My musical taste was deemed cool for a day. How funny.

To close… Take a listen to this and this.  (My favorite and second favorite songs… The second, you might recognize if you’ve read some of my earlier posts. I quote it a lot, ha.)

Yours till the kite strings,
Pen

 

“I better get written about on that blog”

That’s what Mom jokingly told me last night as she carried laundry downstairs to be sorted and washed. You see, we were talking about how much she spoils me. Well… I don’t really think spoil is the right word though. It’s not like she just gives me anything I want and I never have to work for anything. I mean, I actually do a lot of work around here. In addition to my full-time job as a student/novelist, I cook, clean, take care of pets, whatever. (Call me weird, but I actually kind of like having to do that stuff. It makes me feel all old-fashioned and in-charge.) But Mom is always… ah, here’s the word: nurturing me. Just last night she took me to dance, got me dinner and whisked me away to a beekeeping class I signed up for at the county fair over the summer. She sat in it with me and offered encouragement despite the fact that she does not like bees. Any bees. At all. (Although half the things people think of as bees are really types of wasps. Real, true honeybees are really gentle, especially if they’re just out collecting pollen, because they only sting to protect the nest. If they’re out in the field the nest is not nearby, and so they don’t feel threatened if you come near.) 

She takes me to writer’s group and when I’m being critiqued she takes notes for me. She edits draft after draft of my novels. She diligently looks for solo dresses on the internet, helps me practice my hard shoe dances in front of a mirror, and takes me to dance twice a week. She’s signe dme up for/ecnouraged me in so many activities throughout my life that, if she hadn’t I think I would be just a boring sort of person now. I mean I would have like no interests such as flute, dance, knitting, writing, botany, beekeeping… I owe her a lot. It makes me sad when she feels like she’s a bad mom because she forgot to do something (like help me with algebra… yeah I was real broke up about that) or whatever.

Also, she is very funny. I don’t know why but she cracks me up. We have a lot of inside jokes, I guess because we spend so much time together, and a lot of people might think it’s weird but I’m glad that we’re so close.

So, anyway, Mom– I’d basically be lost without you. You’re incredible.

<3,
Pen

 

what does your writing say about you?

Lately I’ve been considering the above question. What does my writing say about me? Since I think it’s a pretty interesting study, I decided to go deep and make you a little essay instead of just rambling. Soooo… here it goes. :)

Main Characters: Who are my main characters, usually? Well, usually they are girls in their early/mid teens. OK. So at first thought it seems like my characters are usually like me. But then I look at their personalities. Often, they are shy.
Now, I am not a shy person. In fact, I take after my grandfather in the way that I can talk to just about anyone just about anywhere. I make friends easily. I’m not afraid to speak my mind, stand up for someone, etc. I love the spotlight, love performing and being on stage.
But, looking at my characters, I wonder if maybe somewhere inside me there is a shy version of myself, just cringing away from the world. I mean, there are times when I’m nervous or awkward in situations, but I work through it pretty fast. However, perhaps it is through some of my main characters that the shy girl inside me gets out. Maybe that’s even how I manage to shove down my insecurities when I have to. Because I’ve already worked this out, through my main characters. 

Antagonists/Evil:
When I was a little kid, I was horribly, horribly afraid of fire and heat. Anything that burned. The oven, the stove, these heater things we have, fires in hearths, even birthday candles terrified me. I remember sitting in front of a candlelit cake, leaning away from it and cringing until I got to blow it out.
Nowadays, my fear is not so extreme. But I will admit that I am still pretty daunted by our old stove and oven. I’ve worked out a system for getting my baking out of the oven, but I’ll only se the thickest oven mitts we have and I still lean back from the heat and force myself to breathe.  But I do like candles, and campfires, and the fire in the grate at the DHF’s house.
Looking at the evil in my books, I realized that a lot of them use fire. In my current novel, that’s basically the whole concept, the evil fire people and fire!! I began to wonder about that. In the past, in earlier novels and in novels I’ll probably never finish, fire pops up a lot on the dark side. Maybe it’s because I do still have this big fear of fire and being burned. Perhaps the fact that I’m able to let it run wild in my writing helps me control it in real life. Maybe the fact that I can have some outlet for it in writing is the thing that allows me to reach into the oven, cook over the stove, use a hair blow dryer/straightener.

Those were the main things I noticed about my writing, novel-wise. But I am sure that if I analyzed my poetry, I could see a lot more, since I approach it differently than I do my novels. My poems almost always reflect what has been happening to me, even if I mask it in such a way that only I know what I was talking about and to others it’s just a poem they like but don’t quite understand. I guess that’s why it was easy for me to just sit down and write a poem on AP, what made me realize that I liked poetry. It was a way for me to talk abut something without having to completely explain it. I just had to paint the emotions and the details and not worry about plot or anything. That’s why I can sit down and shoot off a poem in about a half an hour, because it’s straight from the heart, mind, and gut reactions. I guess it’s sort of bad of me to post without editing, but that’s just how I do things. If I ever submit poems somewhere or make a book of poetry, though, I promise I’ll edit.

I guess my poems don’t show my innermost fears or secret personality the way my prose does, but looking back at the ones I’ve written over the past year (2009) I can see how far I’ve come. I can see how I’ve stayed the same and I remember what was going on in my mind when I wrote those poems. But I can look at the past objectively through the poems I’ve written. I don’t relive the experiences or thoughts, just view them. It’s good, I think, to be able to see things as though you are a stranger looking at your past self. But it also can be a little bothersome when you notice a typo or something, and think: ‘how many times have I viewed this and I never noticed!’ Ugh. Plus it’s a little depressing to read depressing poems and that’s what a lot of mine are at the end of 2009. I don’t know why. I guess I was just out of that happy-happy-rhyming phase that began my career on AP. I still wonder why Ben let me be a Monthly Writer based on that stuff, it was… it was… young. I was younger and so I’m going to not read them anymore and not loathe them and their cutesey rhymes. Though there were a few that I think reminded me of Shel Silverstien, so that makes it OK.

I just hope that my poetry doesn’t say I’m all teenage-angst now. UGGGHHHHH. *sudders disgustedly* Please let me never be that way in poetry. Everyone has their angst-moments, but pleeeease let mine stay a moment and not be an eternal blemish on Apricotpie and literature in general. ugh ugh ugh.

You know, I could talk for ages about AP. There’s so much that could be said about it, and how it’s wonderful and amazing and should never ever die. It’s taught me a lot. Lately it’s been teaching me the art of suspenseful chapter/part endings, mwahaha! But I would never stop, and it would lead me to other topics, and so I will log off now and go write a novel or perhaps Part Six of “White Funeral.” 

Ta-Ta!
-Pen

PS: you know that Irish Blessing, may the road rise up to meet you blah blah blah? Well, I have one for writers. Ahem:
May your page rise up to meet you,
may your pen never run out of ink;
and when someone is discouraging,
just tell them that they stink.

Beautiful. Tear Tear. 
Ha. Riiiight.