I now have begun the writing related sections of my blogging, through multiple "Frozen Moments," which capture writing-material-worthy moments in my life. Expect more, along with other genre writings.
Besides that, my life is under control and my life is a hectic mess. Snow day today allows me to get work done. Last night I begun to write a novel which I intend to finish and publish within the next two years, and I'm still not sure who the character is or the plot structure. AND I went to the stuyvesant website last night and loved it. Then I curled up into a ball and had a nervous breakdown because of high schools, and the evil heavy HS directory book that cast a dark- a VERY dark- shadow over my happiness.
Besides all that, I have had exactly half a day of school this week, due to a two night overnight, parent-teacher conferences, and today's being a snow day (but that I can handle, believe me!). Plus I meant to say happy birthday to someone on the 24th.
Well, I sort of did. On the bus home from the overnight. Except they weren't on the trip. Does that count???
Anyway...
Life goes on, I guess.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Frozen Moment #1
Wet.
And cold, too. Uncomfortably stiff, red fingertips stuck in a stiff bent formation, clutching the simple black umbrella.
Parce- que il est un jour demie, it is 12:45 p.m. And I wait for the bus.
I see her before she sees me. Never really friends, I had lost nothing when she parted with her closest amies to join up with "cooler" people. Apparently, though, she was in a life-destroying state of misery.
I didn't blame her. I have seen the dangers of those people. The sacrifices she must have made...
But we were always somewhat friendly.
So now, without her new "buddies" she greets me with a small smile and a hello. I return it.
I stronly believe that I am a neutral for her- a medium and a relief. No awkwardness like with the friends she used to be close with, and no forced ecstasy like with the newer ones. That is all fake. She can relax for the moment, knowing that I won't sit and judge her based on every little movement; the jokes she makes, the way she laughs and what she reacts to, how she eats, etc.
We share a two seater near the back once the dry shelter of the bus finally arrives and is given to us. After about five seconds of small talk, she announces that she is going to "enter the world of her book."
I know she's intelligent, and her intentions are good. She just made some really bad choices.
Which I, of all people, can most definitely relate to.
I multitask, attempting to read her and devour my final forty or so pages of The Elegance of the Hedgehog. But I think we understand eachother. She shuts me out.
I quietly exit the bus at my stop with a goodbye smile. Pushing up the simple black umbrella, I walk through the wet, attempting to keep it bent in the right direction despite the persistently blowing wind. I look up. Snow is falling.
Precipitation happens.
Mear unnoticably, the blowing fall calms, nearly ceasing to exist much further. But I can already feel it starting up again.
My fingers, clenched around the umbrella, are raw. Cold and wet...
And cold, too. Uncomfortably stiff, red fingertips stuck in a stiff bent formation, clutching the simple black umbrella.
Parce- que il est un jour demie, it is 12:45 p.m. And I wait for the bus.
I see her before she sees me. Never really friends, I had lost nothing when she parted with her closest amies to join up with "cooler" people. Apparently, though, she was in a life-destroying state of misery.
I didn't blame her. I have seen the dangers of those people. The sacrifices she must have made...
But we were always somewhat friendly.
So now, without her new "buddies" she greets me with a small smile and a hello. I return it.
I stronly believe that I am a neutral for her- a medium and a relief. No awkwardness like with the friends she used to be close with, and no forced ecstasy like with the newer ones. That is all fake. She can relax for the moment, knowing that I won't sit and judge her based on every little movement; the jokes she makes, the way she laughs and what she reacts to, how she eats, etc.
We share a two seater near the back once the dry shelter of the bus finally arrives and is given to us. After about five seconds of small talk, she announces that she is going to "enter the world of her book."
I know she's intelligent, and her intentions are good. She just made some really bad choices.
Which I, of all people, can most definitely relate to.
I multitask, attempting to read her and devour my final forty or so pages of The Elegance of the Hedgehog. But I think we understand eachother. She shuts me out.
I quietly exit the bus at my stop with a goodbye smile. Pushing up the simple black umbrella, I walk through the wet, attempting to keep it bent in the right direction despite the persistently blowing wind. I look up. Snow is falling.
Precipitation happens.
Mear unnoticably, the blowing fall calms, nearly ceasing to exist much further. But I can already feel it starting up again.
My fingers, clenched around the umbrella, are raw. Cold and wet...
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Anne Frank in all of us
Today, the kind of snow day that keeps you inside most of the day, posed the perfect opportunity to look through that evil yet friendly and HUGE stack of favorite books that have somehow only been picked up once.
I have owned The Diary of Anne Frank for the longest time, and read it for the first time- and only time so far- two summers ago. I flipped through it, rereading a few parts and remembering how I might have analyzed Anne Frank as a character and person at that time.
Anne Frank's story has moved and touched a huge audience, and people from all over have devoured entryafter entry of hers.
Here's my view: Her journal survived the war, and ended up being published. That is amazing. But Anne Frank herself wasn't the most remarkable girl.
No offense intended, Anne. The girl was clever, gifted with the pen, and experienced horrible, intense things that she managed to convey decades later to the world, once she was gone. But so many others- millions- experienced what she did. When we read her diary, the immediate reaction with so many people is to start thnking about her. Picking apart her emotions, what kept her strong, etc.
What Frank does do is symbolize the population of Jews in World War Two that were terrorized and brutally mistreated (and that's an understatement, believe me) and killed by Nazis. Her face shines in the millions because of what she brought out from those horrors, even though she finished in a camp like any other that was unfortunate (another extreme understatement) enough to have to live and die through this.
There's a little bit of her in you when you finish it- she manages to draw the reader in and you experience everything alongside Anne. And there's already a little bit of her in us, because we're all human, just like Anne Frank- we feel, we breath, and we live- no matter how long or short a time period.
And when you close the book, you realize it's not over. So much more happened after that...so much more of her life.
But you have to be content with what you do know.
I have owned The Diary of Anne Frank for the longest time, and read it for the first time- and only time so far- two summers ago. I flipped through it, rereading a few parts and remembering how I might have analyzed Anne Frank as a character and person at that time.
Anne Frank's story has moved and touched a huge audience, and people from all over have devoured entryafter entry of hers.
Here's my view: Her journal survived the war, and ended up being published. That is amazing. But Anne Frank herself wasn't the most remarkable girl.
No offense intended, Anne. The girl was clever, gifted with the pen, and experienced horrible, intense things that she managed to convey decades later to the world, once she was gone. But so many others- millions- experienced what she did. When we read her diary, the immediate reaction with so many people is to start thnking about her. Picking apart her emotions, what kept her strong, etc.
What Frank does do is symbolize the population of Jews in World War Two that were terrorized and brutally mistreated (and that's an understatement, believe me) and killed by Nazis. Her face shines in the millions because of what she brought out from those horrors, even though she finished in a camp like any other that was unfortunate (another extreme understatement) enough to have to live and die through this.
There's a little bit of her in you when you finish it- she manages to draw the reader in and you experience everything alongside Anne. And there's already a little bit of her in us, because we're all human, just like Anne Frank- we feel, we breath, and we live- no matter how long or short a time period.
And when you close the book, you realize it's not over. So much more happened after that...so much more of her life.
But you have to be content with what you do know.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Afraid of Elegance
No hints on the title in The Elegance of the Hedgehog, but I have yet to give up. I have begun piecing together everything I know that could possibly relate to it, and I am in the process of disecting my information- bit by bit.
I was inspired to begin out of nothing when the word "elegance" came up. Though I'm nearly positive (though you can never be sure, right?)that the small mention of the word really had nothing to do with the titile, seeing as the context before and after offered nothing more, it sparked a possibility in my mind.
Renee, the widow and concierge in her fifties, is anything but elegant, and she will be the first to inform you of that. In fact, she talks about her disgusting and unattractive characteristics so often that one may be convinced that she enjoys this about herself, or atleast is proud of it.
Actually, thinking about this for the first time, she could be proud of it. But I promised myself I'd stay on topic this week.
Anyway, though on the outside Renee- from what she's told the reader- is really quite revolting, she is totally different on the inside. She secretly devours the arts, and has extreme appreciation for the tiny, flawless, "elegant" aspects of life in the seemingly small world surrounding her. She takes intense notice of le petit choses, or little things that the poshest of parisians wouldn't look twice at.
But I think she's afraid of being more than the downer, lonely little concierge of Number 7 Rue de Grenelle (I think that's how you spell it!). She knows a lot more than the world outside her appartment and her cat, Leo- but she is reluctant to change. She sees herself as a hedgehog- spiky, gross, and altogether rather unpleasent- but she herself contains more than a few drops of elegance.
Embrace the elegance trapped inside your hedgehog-shaped shell, Renee!
Of course, none of this has anything to do with Paloma. Renee does seem to narrate slightly more often than Paloma does...
I hope my theory isn't totally off.
I was inspired to begin out of nothing when the word "elegance" came up. Though I'm nearly positive (though you can never be sure, right?)that the small mention of the word really had nothing to do with the titile, seeing as the context before and after offered nothing more, it sparked a possibility in my mind.
Renee, the widow and concierge in her fifties, is anything but elegant, and she will be the first to inform you of that. In fact, she talks about her disgusting and unattractive characteristics so often that one may be convinced that she enjoys this about herself, or atleast is proud of it.
Actually, thinking about this for the first time, she could be proud of it. But I promised myself I'd stay on topic this week.
Anyway, though on the outside Renee- from what she's told the reader- is really quite revolting, she is totally different on the inside. She secretly devours the arts, and has extreme appreciation for the tiny, flawless, "elegant" aspects of life in the seemingly small world surrounding her. She takes intense notice of le petit choses, or little things that the poshest of parisians wouldn't look twice at.
But I think she's afraid of being more than the downer, lonely little concierge of Number 7 Rue de Grenelle (I think that's how you spell it!). She knows a lot more than the world outside her appartment and her cat, Leo- but she is reluctant to change. She sees herself as a hedgehog- spiky, gross, and altogether rather unpleasent- but she herself contains more than a few drops of elegance.
Embrace the elegance trapped inside your hedgehog-shaped shell, Renee!
Of course, none of this has anything to do with Paloma. Renee does seem to narrate slightly more often than Paloma does...
I hope my theory isn't totally off.
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