And also I need to go swim suit shopping for spring break, because the only suits I have owned for the past eight years or so are the oh-so-very sexy one-piece Speedos for swim team. I assume that the actual shopping excursion will be a traumatic affair and will probably wind up with all of the sales assistants cowering behind the counters as I scream my fury to the skies, raging against the audacity of whoever deemed to make swim suits so skimpy/unflattering/etc.
...Now that I think about it, that's a pretty fearsome picture. I pity the fools who try to get me into a bikini.
Also also, I need to work.
Also also also, one of my poems just got super insanely popular on Deviantart. I am a proud author. I'm also in a state of continual fear/nausea that someone is going to stand up (metaphorically, of course. This is the Internet.) and point out the terrifying (and very true) truth that I AM NOT A POET AND I CANNOT WRITE POETRY. Seriously, the whole thing was a fluke, and people are actually, like, liking it. And praising my poetic depth. And other poem-y skills that I do not actually possess but they think I do.
And I have all these parents saying, "OMG I can totally relate to this poem because of my bouncing baby boy/kid going off to college/miscarriage/stepchild/frog spawn" and I just want to be like "GUYS. This poem is about GAY LOVE. I know absolutely zero about parenthood. Or symbolism. Or your small drooling child."
But yes. Despite the whole above paragraph of ranting-ness, I do enjoy the feedback. (:
Also also also also, just remembered the most EPIC that's what she said. It is far too incredible to grace these humble pages. Like seriously. It blew my mind.
Aaaaaand...I suppose it's time to work now...
Graaar.
Pointless entry.
- Where?:The Office of I'm-too-tired-to-make-up-a-name-for-it
- Mood:
weird
No?
ASJKOSHUDFNHEDNAUWDUNUAODBNUO IT'S HAPPENING
Anyway. In order to win an ARC of this most fantastic and beautiful creature, I am creating a blog post linking to a most wonderful teen author (Steph Bowe) who is holding a contest. I aim to win this content. If necessary, I will create a Twitter feed (God forbid) and actually tweet something so that I may earn extra points for this contest. I am DESPERATE. Desperate, I tell you. I need this ARC like Harry during The Order of the Phoenix needed anti-depressants and a hug.
The link to the competition is http://heyteenager.blogspot.com/2010/02/w
Go forth and conquer if you wish to win this ARC!
...And if you do, know that I will come after you and quite possibly kill you.
In the most affectionate and loving way, of course :)
- Where?:Office of Too Much Homework
- Mood: weird
- Tunes:Better than Ezra
Okay okay, so Sylver and anyone who follows my (pretty much dead) Fanfiction series Snapshots might remember a little chapter entitled "Butterscotch". It's basically the love child of an incredibly whimsical mood and my own romanticism and this, I don't even know, zen vibe that was bouncing around my head when I wrote it. It was (to me at least) one of the most true and beautiful things I'd ever written. I posted it on FF, even though it wasn't fanfiction, got a bunch of really sweet and nice reviews, and, though I came back to read it and get a little afterglow of that "Hey, I don't suck as a writer!" feeling, I basically left it to die.
AND THEN REFLECTIONS HAPPENED.
Background info: My whole life is basically Reflections. The official site is here for anyone who doesn't know what it is. I have entered shit into Reflections eight out of my nine years of schooling so far, which astounds me when I think about it. As of last year, I had gotten to the Regional (after you win at your school) level once or twice before, but no one really took my stuff seriously because, I don't know, I was too young and they thought I plagiarized or something? Whatever.
Anyway, the theme this year is "Beauty is...?" which is probably my favorite of them all so far. (The suckiest to date was probably "A different kind of hero" or "I can make a difference by...". I mean, it's not that I don't dig the whole public service themes, but honestly, creating a really beautiful piece of art about a theme you hate is pretty difficult.)
So it was the night before the entries at my school were due and I hadn't heard of anyone entering. I had at least three projects due the next day, but I basically said "to hell with it" and searched through my hard drive for anything even slightly resembling the theme. I found Butterscotch, made a couple of quick edits, printed out two copies, shoved it in a manila envelope and was done.
It was exciting when I won at school, but there were a total of 22 entries, so it wasn't exactly a huge deal.
BUT THEN.
I skipped out on the last bit of my debate banquet to blast over to the high school they were holding the reception at which they were announcing State winners. I was excited, but not that excited, you know? I really didn't think Butterscotch was going anywhere, and I almost didn't go to the reception, but in retrospect I am SO GLAD that I did.
I got there, and the typical protocol is that if you see your piece hanging around in the public viewing area, you're not going to State, because if you are moving on, the PTA would have seized your piece and slapped a thousand copyrights on it already. I saw a photocopied copy (photocopied copy? Redundancy...) of Butterscotch with a bunch of comments scribbled on it and though, "Ah, shit, I should've stayed at the banquet" and was initially really offended that people had written all over it. Okay, so it's not the next Great American Novel, but at least have some respect for someone ripping their heart out and slapping it on a page, right?
Man, I'm oblivious.
But I digress.
And so there I was, stewing in an over-tired and uncomfortably-dressed cornucopia of boredom and anxiety because I had a shitload of work left to do, waiting for the never-ending promenade of people to settle in their seats.
All was as usual while the PTA announced the State winners - lots of people in a small cafeteria, scratchy microphone, manyManyMANY mispronounced names and an endless parade of awkwardly-dressed-up middle and high schoolers. (For the record, I made a bit of a fashion faux pas with a black dress, teal tights and Converse, but I kind of needed the moral support of the tights and it's way too warm in Georgia to wear boots.)
I was getting pretty restless because the Literature winners are, of course, always announced last. And, of course, just before they finally call the high school Lit nominees up to the stage (which sounds so Grammys) the PTA head decides to make an announcement. "Man," I think, "will this ever end?" Which is a really cheesy thought to be having, but honestly, it had been an awful day and I just wanted to curl up under the covers and die.
AND THEN.
A little more background info: every year at the reception, the PTA people choose one or two really exemplary works for the artists themselves perform. Last year it was a guy who composed a four-part harmony a capella piece that he conducted while four of his friends sang. It was gorgeous. That same reception, a girl previewed a dance she had choreographed for the "Beauty is..." theme. I didn't think dancing could be so damn expressive and beautiful. Without speaking a word, she created this entire idea of beauty being fleeting and lovely through her dance, using an example of a butterfly - which she captured and lost track of and captured again - as a metaphor for beauty. Mind you, this butterfly was not real. This was an imaginary butterfly. This was just her on a stage with some music. I almost cried. It was fantastic.
Anyway. This is getting incredibly long, so I should probably get to the point of this whole entry.
The PTA chair makes an announcement about one student's work. She gave a quick little anecdote about being an author and always being on the lookout for really brilliant works by students, and then announced that two students from the local theater-based high school were going to perform an interpretation of a literature entry by another student.
"That's cool," I thought.
Boy, am I slow.
I only really started to get it when the PTA chair announced that it was a Literature work by a ninth grader, from my high school, and then actually said my name.
That was when the "OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG" started to kick in.
An absolutely gorgeous junior girl and a (not-so-gorgeous, but that's far beside the point) boy walked out, introduced themselves, and then delivered the most beautiful and heartbreaking dramatic interpretation of Butterscotch that I could have ever imagined. It was nearly word-for-word. It was fantastic. Mind-blowing. Perfect.
I had read the piece so many times that I thought I had found every shred of meaning in it, but somehow the fresh eyes they had given it made it just come to life. And it was different than I had read it and yet, on an instinctive level, it was so very much what I had wanted and hoped it to be. Every emotion and every word and every little gesture they made was so mind-bendingly wonderful that I nearly cried. It was amazing. I had written intentionally vague descriptions of the characters, but the performers picked up on the fact that the narrator was a girl, and they interjected lines from the boy, and they just delivered an absolutely incredible performance. Suffice to say, I was a very proud writer. It basically rekindled my old dream of being a playwright. I was ecstatic.
Oh yeah, and then the bolt from the blue hit: the random photocopy of Butterscotch with scribbled comments was a SCRIPT. With DIRECTIONS. In differently-colored writing utensils, meaning that they had spent actual TIME and EFFORT on interpreting my work. I was pleased and embarrassed and it was wonderful.
Afterward I sprinted around the school to find them and I did and we had a giant jumping group hug and I was screaming how excited I was and they were screaming that they couldn't believe they were meeting me and I was trying to convey how perfect it was and they were trying to tell me that they cried the first time they read it and it was amazing and wonderful and crazy and I still don't think it actually happened. Which is the most cliche thing in the world to say, but it's true. I literally felt like a movie star, like Shakespeare, like I had made an impact on this oblivious world. It was awesome.
And so that is my little brush with fame, except for an encounter h with a rather sophisticated college professor. While I was talking to the two performers (the girl is even more gorgeous up close; the guy, not really - which is exactly what I was trying to convey in Butterscotch) a really distinguished-looking man walked up and introduced himself. I, of course, forget my own friends' names most of the time, so I have no idea who he was, but he did mention that he was from Morehouse College. I'm white and female, so it wasn't a huge deal for me (although he was really nice and I wanted to steal his pea coat, because the tailoring was beautiful) but Damon, the guy-performer, is black and male, so if he ever felt a pressing need to attend Morehouse, he has a legit connection to draw upon if he feels like exploiting the admissions office and/or begging the university guy to let him in on awesomeness alone. Schweeeet.
Anyway, I've about exceeded my typing quota for one day, and so I shall now get my not-famous-but-somewhat-consequential ass to working on my application for my school's literary magazine. Because, um, I reallyReallyREALLY need that class. I need it like a fat kid needs cake.
Peace out, yo.
(And no, I don't say that in public. I would have been jumped by now.)
- Where?:The Office where Butterscotch was conceived
- Mood: jubilant
- Tunes:The Verve - Bittersweet Symphony
Reply to this meme by yelling "Words!", and I will give you five words that remind me of you. Then post them in your LJ and explain what they mean to you.
Sylver's words: Twins, Teen Titans, writing, Georgia, and... birthdays! 8D
TWINS: Oh, God, Hikaru and Kaoru from Ouran High School Host Club! Egads! Um, can I say that maybe these guys could make me believe in threesomes and they're so utterly fantasmical that I want them all for myself even though it would be nothing short of blasphemy to rip them away from each other? Also, Sylver officially rocks like granite for making me watch Ouran for the first time. And making me join Facebook. And write Raven/Starfire. And really she's pretty much to blame for about 83% of everything in my universe that I call 'awesome', so there.
TEEN TITANS: Only the love of my fanfiction-writing life, and one of our mutual adorations (ALTHOUGH SHE HASN'T BEEN WRITING ANY LATELY SO WTF IS UP WITH THAT). No matter how fantastic the character development of Ouran is, I'll never completely abandon my roots. Plus, our collab is going to knock some shit out of the water.
WRITING: This word is a foreign concept to us. Writing - what's that? Updating - you sure you took your meds, buddy?
GEORGIA: My homeland. Drop-dead gorgeous in autumn and, um, really hot and humid the rest of the year. Also, snow is a concept that has become synonymous with, like, Bigfoot. Seen occasionally. Doesn't stick around long. And no one really knows that it exists anymore. Global warming, take a bow.
BIRTHDAYS: OHMIGOODNESS HERS IS COMING UP IN 6 DAYS AND I NEED TO WRITE SOMETHING LIKE NOW. *
* see "Writing" above, for an explanation on my dilemma here
- Where?:The Office of the Peeling Sunburn
- Mood:
rushed - Tunes:Matt Nathanson
Prompt: Scandal
- - -
The way they dance should be illegal.
Their loose-swinging hips and ratta-tat-tat feet
are just as bad as the way they throw back their heads
hair and hearts flying free
laughing raucously as they shimmy like smoke across the floor.
The truth is that they don't find each other fragile
and glory in the bone-shattering beat that pulses
like something alive;
the truth is that I would give anything to dance like them,
all bruised knees and glitter-glow eyes,
hips swirling like catherine wheels,
showcasing sly mouths that taste of secrets and scandal.
- Where?:The Office of Whatever-ness
- Mood:
lonely - Tunes:Whatever my brother's playing on Itunes
Anyway, if you'd like a taste of how fabulous the book is, Sarah has posted a short story, Sorcerer and Stone, on her blog. In no way does it spoil the The Demon's Lexicon, but instead offers a delicious taste of what the book is like. Also, if you link to it (like I'm doing now) you're up for a chance at nabbing a UK copy of Holly Black's Valiant, a signed copy of The Demon's Lexicon, some bookmarks and an Irish silver knife charm.
/end shameless plug
- Where?:The Office of Movie-Watching
- Mood: bored
- Tunes:Headache.
Have you guys been to oneword.com? It's freaking incredible. I have way too much fun with that thing.
I may want to make drabbles out of some of my posts there...so I'm posting them here first. As a concrete reminder to get my ass in gear. Or maybe just to fill up some space. :)
My personal favorite is the first Guitar prompt. But I really like Reflex too. Also, I arranged them alphabetically instead of chronologically. Chronological would make more sense, but I feel OCD today. Alphabetical it is.
- - -
Prompt: Alarm
"Now, there's no cause for alarm," he was saying. All devilish good looks, but really; tall, dark and handsome was highly overrated once you thought about it. Also, his words were mangling and tangling inside his mouth. He never could lie worth a shit.
No cause for alarm? She finds herself wanting to laugh. Wanting to cry. No cause for alarm, when he knows perfectly well her nervous system had been shattered to pieces.
And he should know. He'd been the one to do it.
- - -
Prompt: Cards
Spade. Jack. Ace. Heart. She shuffled through with caffeine-shaky fingers, searching for answers in the red and black ink, and finding only the glossy surface of a leering Joker.
Well. Wasn't that ironic as fuck.
She was in no mood for laughing.
- - -
Prompt: Dusk
It was gorgeous. So gorgeous that it ached, right beneath her ribcage, in that empty space where she used to brag her heart was. Like getting a tattoo, or holding hands with someone you loved and watching them dance away into the arms of another, watching the perfect sunset fade into dusk was one brand of pain she could never quite come to terms with.
- - -
Prompt: Glitter
Oh honey,
I am so tired
of leaving my seat open for you.
You tell me of arrogant French photographers
and sweet talk me
with stories of the incandescence of my eyes,
but my skin is empty and aching for you.
You would rather kiss the lips of a man
than mine,
and I love you no less for it.
But the laughter is gone from my lungs
along with the cigarette smoke I gave up just for you,
and if you photographed me again,
the glitter would be rubbed away from my eyes.
- - -
Prompt: Guitar
He named his guitar after me, you know. He told me he'd caress it like it was my own body. He made love to me that night, and for months after I could hear him making music-love to the me-guitar.
Three years later, I found the guitar in his garage sale.
"It's just an instrument, kid," he told me, catching me around the waist and pressing the softest kiss against my neck.
Oh, baby - I knew you would sell my soul someday. But I helped; helped you to the door, at least. As I walked out of our shared life, I broke the guitar for you. And it only struck me later that there was a metaphor in there somewhere, but I was too broken to care.
- - -
Prompt: Guitar
I watch you as you play guitar. Your fingers are featherlight, delicate, sensual – you love this instrument and you love this music and I know you love me and I know I love you but it's not the love I want – none of it’s the love I want – and none of it's the love I need.
You stopped looking at me after you told me you were gay.
If you played me like you play your guitar, I would follow you to the end of the earth. Look - my ribcage is shaped just like piano keys. Play them for me, love. Look into my eyes and tell me I make the prettiest sounds. Look at me, and tell me.
Just look at me.
Please.
Just look. And play. And love.
- - -
Prompt: Ink
As she waited and wondered, she could almost feel the needle piercing her skin, over and over and over, stitching beauty over her raw flesh. She wanted to weld her transformation into her body and soul, to tattoo the brilliance and brightness of freedom into her very skin.
She had changed. Permanently. And she knew deep within herself that she was never going back.
- - -
Prompt: Meter
She fed the parking meter dimes and nickels, wondering if it felt like a cannibal as it chewed the shards of metal, and if it ever felt bulimic as it spat the ticket into her surprised face. Wondering if it ever felt like her.
- - -
Prompt: Pose
Her face is carved crystal; her features are molded with the icy perfection of goddesses. She is a living sculpture, poised and posed. She is too beautiful to be real, too beautiful to belong in this world.
She belongs to me, though. I will never let her go.
- - -
Prompt: Reflex
Reflexes.
We need more.
Life isn't thinking, isn't "considering options".
It's not "wait a moment" or "just a second".
It's not "give me time".
There is no time.
Life is doing.
Life is motion.
Effervescent, incandescent /motion/.
Don't breathe. Don't blink. Don't think.
Just do.
And you will be the better for it.
- - -
Prompt: Saving
Saving time for later; saving money for something more. Pointless. Like going a day without a smoke, the stored moments burn and fall away, dark as ash dangling at the end of your glowing cigarette.
Live free, you think absently - it'd pay off, even if it ended with you hacking up a lung.
- - -
Prompt: Saving
She clutched him tighter as they twirled wildly. "Don't let me fall." Tighter, tighter. "Save me. Save me from myself."
He kissed her eyelids closed and spun her faster, the lights above them splintering the darkness into a thousand glittering icicles. "You've never needed saving."
- - -
Prompt: Towel
I always sort of wondered - if towels were human beings, would they be perverts? Do they secretly enjoy caressing your skin, lapping up jewel-drops of water from your curves, feeling every inch of you?
Would a towel be a good lover? Or would it just be a bit of a creep?
- Where?:The Bed of Not-Sleeping
- Mood: mellow
- Tunes:Dispatch
Went home, ate salad for dinner (delicious) and then (because I clearly need the extra baggage after eating good Southern Farm Cooking for a week, which revolves around carbs and various dairy products) decided to drive to Fresh Market with the mom and buy uber-expensive, uber-fattening chocolate. Just, you know, to murder all those laps I just swam. This, too, was very much enjoyable.
Also, looking through all the mission trip pictures has put me in a very Zip-A-Dee Doo-Dah sort of mood.
Although that might just be the chocolate. ;)
Hasta lavista, babies! <3
- Where?:The Bed of Maybe-Sleeping
- Mood: jubilant
- Tunes:Sarah Harmer - Oleander
In other news:
A) Back from mission trip.
a) Fell in love with an amazing friend.
b) Fell out of love with said amazing friend, who - with the sickest irony imaginable, for reasons I cannot disclose - is gay.
B) I have poison ivy
a) It itches like nobody's business
C) I might not be able to ever sleep alone in my room again.
a) Which sucks, because people know I need space.
b) They just don't know when to give it to me, and when to invade it.
BUT.
I am doing well. And it's nice to know what love feels like. Felt like. Or, perhaps, will feel like - because in retrospect, I don't think I believe in unreciprocated love. But that's just me.
- Where?:The Office of Sometimes Work
- Mood: drained
Sylver made it possible. She is a goddess. Bow down and worship her.
- Where?:The Office of Actual Work
- Mood:
accomplished - Tunes:Dispatch
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