allow me to introduce you to me
You’d think I care. Maybe I do. Perhaps I don’t.
You’d think my writing reflects my cheerful demeanor--I’d think that, too. But hey, I guess we all have our secrets, our dark corners. We all worry and fret--is it narcisstic to think I do it more than other people? Yes? Okay. I shall purge the thought from my head.
You know those annoying girls who can get obnoxious when they want attention?
Yeah, I’m one of them. I wish I wasn’t, and I’m trying to get better, but the swing into loud and annoying is difficult to resist.
People say I’m a nice person. Which, I guess, is nice. But it’s a bland, isn’t it? I try to overcome the bland part of “nice” by unleashing my dorky self.
After all, it’s pretty easy to become less bland if you act as if you’re wearing polka-dots and stripes.
I don’t wear polka-dots or stripes. Usually it’s jeans, jeans, jeans, and more jeans. I do wear shirts, too, but I doubt you’re interested in me describing my style. Tank tops? Yep. Tee shirts? Yep. Logos of fandoms? Occasionally.
I used to be a book-eater. Not a book worm, a book-eater (which, I suppose, is practically the same thing ...) I used to devour stories in days. I had a rule that I could only bring home 300+ page books because anything shorter I’d finish in a single day and I couldn’t bring that many books home from the library for a week. My arms were too small and the bag quickly became too heavy.
Nowadays, I find time only to study, chat online, and write. Right now, I’m taking precious studying time to write this because I’m a procrastinator who hates math and guess what I have to do? I could just do something else, but I’m a creature of schedules and if I can’t do it at its proper time then why bother doing it at all?
Of course, that’s the procrastinator speaking. Logically, if I want to improve my SAT scores, I’d study from dawn to dusk, but I can barely manage getting up at 8:00. Which is probably because I can barely manage getting to bed before 12:30 A.M. What can I say? I’m a nocturnal creature born in a diurnal body. The stars and moon have always been more fascinating than the sun.
I used to stay up until 3:00 in the morning to finish rereading Harry Potter. I wish I could do that, still. Reading was such a wonderful escape. Now, I’ve become picky. I can’t turn my writing brain off, which I guess is fine, but it means I enjoy reading less which means I’m not studying my own academic.
Academics. Shit.
I turned eighteen in July. Which, FYI, is mildly terrifying for multiple reasons. I’m beginning to pull it together. I have a game plan. Executing the plan is easier said than done, but it’s getting there.
College seems like such a strange, distant thing. I’ve never sat at a public school desk except for my first SAT. I’m homeschooled, always have been. I live out in the middle of freaking nowhere. I still don’t have my driving license and really only just started practicing driving. Because, where I live, there are just few enough people that the people who are here think they can drive crazy in places that would optimally be my driving practice areas. Except, you know, the crazy drivers are there.
Oh, I suppose you non-traditional schoolers (did you know, back in the day there were no public schools and parents actually had to do the work of being with their kid and teaching them?) you want to ask some pretty stupid questions.
What grade am I?
Do you like it?
Would you rather do public schooling?
And, the big question: how do you *[gasp]* socialize?
A warning: I’m in a pretty sour mood at the moment (writing about such serious topics and procrastinating does that to me--yes, I’m a masochist), so my insincere apologies if I insult you.
-Grades were created specifically for public school because they have big classes. They weren’t made for homeschooling and classes of (at most) three, so why would I use that system?
-Of course I like it, I’m not forced to spend time with idiots and hormone-fueled teenagers.
-If you’re asking this question, you seriously need to do some retrospection.
My apologies to the people who are reading this to see if I’m a good contestant; I started to ramble. My only defense is that the best way to know me is if I let you know some of the things that tick me off.
I should end with a conclusive note. A wise sentence to tie this all together. As a reader, I’d appreciate it. I mean, you’d think I care. Maybe I do.
But perhaps I don’t.
Uten Sjel (Without a Soul)
Træl was addicted to funerals.
The first funeral he attended was for Herres colleague. It was the first time he’d been so far from the house. He would’ve been left behind, had Herre not injured himself the previous day.
Few noticed him standing beside Herre. None noticed the engraving in his metallic neck, marked with the word“træl.” It was hidden by the trench coat Herre had given him, to make sure the metal plates which protected his wires, computer chips, and gears were invisible.
“No one wants to see a træl,” Herre calmly explained, as if Træl had asked, as if Træl cared. “At a funeral, no one wants to see something uten sjel.”
No one wanted to see something without a soul at a funeral.
Træl was, as Herre pointed out with delight, et mann-maskin: a man machine. He had no feelings, or rather, very few feelings. He vaguely remembered what emotions were, how it had pulsed through blood and skin. Once, long ago, he had been en mann, not et maskin. He had begun to think of emotions as facades mennesker used for show. It was a choice.
He didn’t realize this was untrue until his second funeral.
This funeral was for Herres daughter. Herre was an absolute mess in his scruffy clothes, frazzled gray hair, snotty nose, red face, and glistening eyes. This wasn’t a facade Herre would choose to show. It wasn’t en maske.
And something stirred within Træl. Something tapped at his consciousness, awakening an electric current that made his cold metal arms tingle, though he had no nerves, though supposedly he had no emotions, no hjerte.
He wanted to feel it again.
To experience emotions again.
The next funeral was a potluck for some poor, faceless woman who had fallen down a ravine. Herre wasn’t there. He wasn’t even in the country. Whatever it was Herre was doing, he hadn’t wanted to bother getting Træl through the metal detectors.
Not that Træl minded.
Finding funerals was difficult, made even more difficult because he wasn’t allowed to leave the house without Herres permission--and, of course, he never would get Herres permission. But each time he went he could feel that emotion again. He could taste life again. He could almost believe he was levende.
That was something Herre could never believe, never imagine, despite his scientifically brilliant mind. Maskin and menneske were two different things. Never en og samme.
The solution wasn’t immediately clear. Menneske had this thing called moralske prinsipper. Herre, in a convoluted lesson that involved challenging his own beliefs and realizing he was being hypocritical, had tried to impart the importance of moral principles.
“Moralske prinsipper are crucial to live among society,” Herre said gravely. “Uten dem, society will fall into kaos and we will destroy ourselves. Moralske prinsipper are what holds us together. It is a mutual agreement to work together, be united.” He wagged a finger. “You must follow these rules. Forstå?”
Træl did not understand, did not forstå. Menneske rules were constantly broken by the mennesker themselves. The rules were vague and relied on something Herre insisted Træl didn’t have: en sjel.
And how were these rules applicable to him if he wasn’t menneske?
The first time Træl created a funeral was almost by accident. Almost.
Herres son was in the kitchen while Træl worked on making dinner. Herre was gone. Gutten refused to leave. Kept peering around Træl and sneering about his lack of sjel, his missing hjerte.
Later, Træl calmly explained to the grieving Herre that gutten had been drunk and knife fighting with a friend. The floor had been wet, and the friend’s knife slipped right into gutten. The friend had run, horrified.
It was a ludicrous story.
But that didn’t matter. Herre believed Træl. Of course he would. After all, Træl was a mann-maskin.
He had no sjel.
The funeral was beautiful. Nameless emotions flared in his wires, electrified his metal plates. It thrilled his mind, made the world seem bright and levende. The church, so dark and grim, sparkled with color and with overwhelming emotion.
Creating funerals became an experiment. A wondrous practice. He’d feel something with every kill and feel something with every funeral. The biggest emotion he experienced was when he killed Herre.
No one ever knew it was him. After all, he was just an invisible træl; en mann-maskin uten sjel.
Træl - bondservant (nynorsk)
Trell - bondservant (bokmål)
Herre - n. master, lord
Uten sjel - without a soul
Menneske - n. human
Mann - man
Maskin/maskineri - machine/machinery
Maske - mask
Hjerte - heart (bokmål)
Levende - alive (bokmål)
En og samme - one and the same (bokmål)
En - one (bokmål)
En - one (nynorsk), a [man/thing] (bokmål)
Moralske prinsipper - moral principles
Kaos - chaos
Dem - them
Forstå - understand
Gutten - the boy
I am learning Norwegian (bokmål). I had to use a translator on occasion, so I may have switched from bokmål to nynorsk for more than just træl vs. trell. If you know, please inform me on the matter.
Morgen Sola, Kveld Måne (Morning Sun, Evening Moon)
Jeg spiser brød fra morgenen sola.
Jeg drikke vannet fra kvelden måne.
Ilden har spist hjertet
Brant det ned.
Jeg ser mannen, jeg hører kvinnen.
Ilden brenner dem - du ser kjærlighetene deres, hører haten deres?
Ild fra tusen soler. Vann fra tusen måner.
Morgen og kveld, ild og vann. De brenne og de drukne.
Unnskyld, jeg snakker ikke norsk. Jeg snakker engelske og jeg er Amerikansk.
I eat bread from the morning sun.
I drink water from the evening moon.
The fire has eaten the heart
Burned it down.
I see the man, I hear the woman.
The fire burns them - you see their love, hear their hate?
Fire from a thousand suns. Water from a thousand moons.
Morning and evening, fire and water. They burn and they drown.
Sorry, I don’t speak Norwegian (at least, not well enough to actually speak it or write even in Bokmål). I speak English and I’m from America.
If anyone would like to correct me or help me learn Norwegian, I’d be quite grateful.
Chenquin
It's said that it came from the ocean. What's known for sure is that it comes with the rain.
People are terrified of it. That is understandable. It would be terrifying for you if it was your child who disappeared.
It is called many things. Spirit, specter, will-o'-the-wisp. It prefers the name Chenquin.
The Chenquin comes at night with the darkest of storms. It hides in the resonance of raindrops and its voice is the sound of wind over water. In its body are trapped screams, almost impossible to hear. Just its watchful gaze is enough to make a child sit up straight and listen.
The Chenquin guides the child down streets, over wood and stone. They travel until they reach the sea. The Chenquin goes out into the ocean with its silent screams, trusting the child to follow.
At this point the child may hesitate and turn back. He may wander lost for a few days until he is found. He would return to bed and pretend it was all a dream. Never again would he hear the sound of the ocean.
Or the child may follow the Chenquin into the cold, dark water.
Come, whispers the Chenquin as the child begins to drown. It takes the child's ghost and guides him to the surface. Lost, confused, the child would wander the seas, crying for help.
For every child lost, another scream disappears from the Chenquin. Some say if enough screams disappear, the Chenquin will return to what it was: a little boy, cursed and lost at sea, crying out for his family.
Home Alone XVI
It happened again.
Except, after eight or so iterations, you get used to it. At this point, he had his Kevin McCallister Christmas week planned out on the assumption he'd be forgotten, separated, or confused for some other sixteen-year-old kid.
This year was was different for one, very specific reason.
This year he had challenged Harry and Marv to a car race.
My Spoiler-free, GoT Season 8 Experience
After a three month marathon, I caught up to the fifth episode of season 8 on Saturday and got to watch the final episode of Game of Thrones the following night. It was more like an epilogue to a story already finished than an epic finale.
Many opinions swarm the internet about that ending. It was good, it was bad, it had its reasons, it was enough, it got it all wrong ... Honestly, the clashing of fierce disappointment and the softer approval just makes my stomach sick. Not even the ending, just the reaction. Extreme opinions seem to come with the loss of logical reasoning.
For a remedy to my sick stomach, I went and found GoT actor and actresses’ Instagram accounts and quickly went through their feeds. There, I found a far more familiar, far easier to digest genuine love and pride for what they accomplished. For all that the ending was far from perfect, what they had done was an amazing feat and the show still has an abundant bloom of lessons for writers, lessons both good and bad, but mostly good.
I think the bad of this final season comes down to one thing: it was rushed. That is it. It rushed relationships, rushed decisions, rushed the timing-- it simply made everything too hurried. I’m sure the team, however much they love it, were burnt out and ready to be done. I know the feeling. Unfortunately, it came through in these last ten episodes (counting the seventh season). If they hadn’t rushed, it would’ve been of quality most expect of a GoT episode. What actually happened in the season was beautiful and just as it should’ve been. The only problem is that they simply didn’t allow time to transition into those events.
Unlike most of the hardcore fans, I started watching GoT about three or four months ago. It’s been a while since I’ve been so thoroughly obsessed with a story. I dropped other shows to watch this one. The ending to such a saga would’ve ultimately let down many people no matter what--it’s nearly impossible to put perfect closure and question on an ending when the story’s of such a size and depth. Because with worlds and character’s like these, you’ve seen them age a lifetime, and a part of you expects to see them until they’re on their deathbed. You can’t simply leave the world because you know it’s not going to end once you leave. You know the world is going to still be there, continuing just out of reach.
And that makes me realize.
For what is dead may never die.
#GameofThrones #GoT #opinion
Originality of Magic
Worldbuilding. My strength and my downfall.
I know I’m a worldbuilder ... or at least, an avid magic-system creator. It frustrates me that the consequences for using magic is always bleeding nose, a headache, perhaps a cool-looking blackout, and exhaustion. If they’re feeling really creative, maybe they’ll throw in problems with body temperature regulation.
But why is that? There are so many things the body can do and that’s what everyone goes with? And why do I feel I’m one of the few who’s interested in applying this type of creativity to my stories? I know I’m not smart--I just have spontaneous obsessions. I’m certain I’m not the only writer who’s spontaneously interested in learning about gangrene (note: do not ever look at pictures of gangrene or necrosis immediately before or after eating).
The picture you see above is a very small list of consequences for a certain type of magic user in one of my stories. Granted, I’m being a bit hypocritical since the majority of my other magic users in my current WIP don’t have creative consequences. (I won’t make that mistake again.)
Tell me, why would you settle for bloody orifices when you can go for something far deeper? Bloody noses usually come from being dehydrated, so the skin inside of your nose has dried up and cracked open. From personal experience, I know that dehydration can bring severe headaches (the point just above and to the side of your eye), sensitivity to light, lightheadedness (therefore mild vertigo), and nausea. Just from those symptoms alone you have an easy way to make your magic user want to avoid doing magic, and so it will create a lot more exciting tension in the story because magic won’t be fixing everything. It will also be a lot more original and originality is what stands out.
In my WIP, there is a certain type of magic user called an aeryth, which has subcategories to determine their magic and the coinciding consequences. In one such subdivision there is a magic-user known as a skin-peeler, which is a person born with tattoos (and/or who may “grow” more tattoos as they age) and whose tattoos can “peel” off their bodies and become actual things. If you have snake tattoos you can have snakes at your command, if you have a lantern you’ll have light, etc. Skin-peelers are a part of a subdivision I call Creative Self. Anyone in this division will have similar or the same consequences for their powers, including:
⦁ Attachment issues
⦁ Loss of self control
⦁ Temperamental issues
⦁ Cancer
⦁ Over oxidization
⦁ Over-active adrenal glands
⦁ Blood clots
⦁ Overheat
⦁ Hypothermia
⦁ Heart failure
⦁ High blood pressure
All of that is far more exciting than just dehydration. But what’s fascinating for me as a writer, as a worldbuilder, is figuring out which consequence to which power and why.
I have one character who can control micro vibrations, which means she can freeze things, heat things, and create wind. One of her consequences for that is she’s oversensitive to sound, because the vibrations make her ears more sensitive, which makes her more prone to ear pain, which can cause balance loss and nausea. If she’s slowing down vibrations, she freezing things, and as a consequence she chills her own body as a sort of echo reaction. If she heats things, she heats her own body.
And that’s just her. In a future WIP I have a character who can create illusions. Illusions are all about tricking the mind. Her consequence? Amnesia. (I can’t describe how excited I am about that story--only a few months and I can write it! *commence squealing*)
I admit to writing this because I’m proud of what I’ve done, but I also think the originality of fantasy stories would be kicked up several notches just by working out small details like this. Also ... I’m just 100% writing nerd, so it’s just fun doing this.
So, go on. Geek out. Just remember when you edit the story, 10% is what you reveal to the audience, 90% is what you keep to yourself.
And here’s a link to how long it takes for a body to decompose, because who knows when you’ll be writing a murder-mystery, or even just a murder.
https://www.enkivillage.org/how-long-does-it-take-for-a-body-to-decompose.html
#writingtips #magic #tips
Game of Throne - Review in a list
14 facts about GoT:
1. It’s R-rated for very, very good reason.
2. The moral of the story is that this is a gray world.
3. They’re all painfully good characters--no, not good characters as in good characters, I mean good characters as in good characters.
4. The soundtrack is incredible.
5. You soon learn that everyone is going to die. You’ll learn this either because everyone keeps saying so or because you’re practiced in predicting how many people the author will kill, and so you’ll know when the only good character (who is also a good character) dies, everybody dies.
6. It has dragons in all stages: babyhood, teenage-hood, and adulthood.
7. Sometimes, it’s just too accepting about how wrong some of the shit is.
8. “Intense” is the name of the game.
9. The humor will surprise you, since “intense” is the name of the game.
10. The wit is delightful.
11. The hype for GoT is indeed well deserved.
12. There is a large cast of characters, all of whom get a moment to shine, so you have ample opportunity to hate some, love some, and be killed by some.
13. You’ll learn you know nothing.
14. As you learn you know nothing you will also learn you know one thing: you might as well take a leisurely shower while you wait for the intro to finish.
Please understand, I’m almost to the end of season 4, and I started the show about a month ago. Don’t be rude. No spoiling for me!
#GoT #GameOfThrones