Thoughts for the day

So, writing that birthday post for my blog the other day really got me thinking. It got me thinking about what a horrible person I am because I barely post on this blog anymore. And it also made me think about how much fun I had sharing my thoughts with you. So, after considering in great depth those two thoughts right there in those two previous sentences (Read them again if you must), the conclusion I drew from them was quite simple: I'm a really horrible person who has fun writing. Haha, just kidding, that's not my conclusion at all. My real conclusion was that instead, I should write "Thought posts," like the one I wrote the other day, as often as I can. This way, you guys don't have to just read those things I call stories and poems, and just have fun taking trips inside my head. Well, maybe not have fun, but definitely amused...I hope. Also, me and the Graceling (my awesome friend who is blonde and short and blonde) just may have "Thought post" responses to each other. Don't really know what that means, but I'm guessing we each just write a "Though post" and...yeah.

Ahem. First thought: THERE IS A POSSIBILITY THAT I WILL SEE THE GRACELING TODAY AND DEMOLISH HER IN A SNOW BATTLE!!!!!!!

Second thought: I'm getting my retainer today! I have mixed feelings on that...I'm glad that I don't have to worry about my spaces coming back, but I'm also afraid that I'll have to wear it full time and I've been enjoying my metal free mouth.

Third thought: Woah...There's a lot of snow outside. I feel like I should be inspired to write something about it, but I've already written about snow and winter. I hate to repeat myself.

Fourth thought: My room is incredibly messy...I really should clean it. Of course, I won't. But I really should.

Fifth thought: There were some very beautiful young men in my math class yesterday...dangit, why do I have to be sixteen? Wait, what? I'm only sixteen???? *Sigh* Do any of you ever have that feeling that you're oh so much older than you are? Maybe it's just because all my friends at college are 19 or 20 years old, but I definitely feel 18. Gr, I hate that. I mean, I've always felt older than I am...a lot of my friends are older than me by a year or two, even three. Except the Graceling, she makes me feel young again. But majority of the time, I always feel much older than I am. It's reached the point where if I'm asked my age, I literally have to pause for a minute and stop myself from saying '18.' And then people think I'm crazy and dizzy, etc., etc. I think the hardest part about being mature and hanging out with older people, is that others get really, really confused. I've had so many guys start talking to me and, for lack of a better word, hitting on me at Suffolk. But as soon as they find out how old I am, they quite literally back off. Which is a good thing, I suppose. But a frustrating situation at the same time.

Sixth thought: Fifth thought made me think about something. The only guys that I have ever liked, or that have ever liked me, were three to four years older than me. I mean, not even once has there been a guy my age or even just a year older than me. Is there something wrong with me? Actually, don't answer that question. I already know there is.

Seventh thought: Uh-oh, my thoughts are becoming depressing.

Eighth thought: THINK OF SOMETHING HAPPY, THINK OF SOMETHING HAPPY!!!!!!!!

Ninth thought: ........................I got nothing.

Tenth thought: Oh, wait, yes I do!!! I'm seeing my most favoritest cousin in the whole entire world on Saturday!!! Yay, happiness!!!!

Eleventh thought: I should really end this post now. You guys probably stopped reading after the second thought.

Twelfth thought: HOLY SNICKERDOODLES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! EMILY AND LAURA WILL BE HERE IN 21 DAYS!!!!!!!! Yes, two of my bestest friends in the whole entire galaxy will be coming to visit from February 17-22 for Emily's 18th birthday. Yeah, you heard me. That's FIVE WHOLE DAYS. Just the three of us, living together happily for FIVE WHOLE DAYS. Well, not exactly. It's more like four whole days. But it doesn't matter, because THEY WILL BE HERE!!!!!!

Okay, I'm going to end now so I can dwell on my deliriously joyful thought of Emily and Laura coming. Au Revoir!

Happy Birthday, Blog!!

Yes. Today is the first birthday of my blog. I made a cake and everything. And, as a present, I'm going to post something that's purely me: no fiction, literature, poetry, whatever. Just me blabbering. But wait! Before you run away screaming at the idea of just reading my craziness, hear me out. I promise it won't be too crazy. Maybe it'll even be a little interesting. MAYBE, you'll even enjoy it. :O

Okay, maybe that's pushing it, but hey! It kept you here, didn't it?

So. Are you ready to take a journey into my mind, to explore my thoughts? No? Too bad.

Alright, so my first and foremost thought that has been on my mind lately is my new Creative Writing class. Ah, so exciting, let's jump up and down with joy! Okay, calm down, you can stop now. Anyway, throughout the course of this semester, we will be writing two 5-8 pages short stories, at least 5 poems, a one-act play, and we need to keep a journal. Pretty cool, huh? Yeah, I thought so, too. Best part is the Professor is pretty awesome. And by pretty awesome, I mean TOTALLY AWESOME! (Did you think of AVPM, too, when you read that? ;D) I'm a little scared though. I mean, hey, I know I'm nothing special; I hold no allusions as to my ability as a writer. But what if everybody really hates what I write. I mean, really, really hates it? Eh, whatever. I'll survive. I'm just hoping that this class will show me what I'm capable of and if I actually do have any talent. I'll let you know at the end of the semester.

Second thought: Remember that journal I mentioned in my previous thought? Well, we can write WHATEVER we want in it, as long as we're writing something, and we turn it into my professor before the semester ends. He doesn't read it, just flips through it to make sure we did the assignment. I obviously won't use it as a diary, since my professor will be looking at it (Ha, can you imagine? Dear Diary, me and JimBobJoe kissed today! It was, like, so cool. Except his lips were slimy.) but I had a really cool idea for what to write instead. I have this WordSmart book that I use to help me study for the SAT, and they give you big words and definitions and you write a sentence with it and memorize it and blah, blah, blah. But since that is just so boring and gross, I decided to have a 'Word of the Day' in my journal, write its definition, and then write whatever's on my mind (a censored version, of course), making sure I use that word AT LEAST ONCE. Brilliant, right? Okay, maybe not that brilliant, but I still think it's a cool idea :)

Third thought: AHHHHHHHHHHH, I might see my cousin, Kaitlyn, when I go to my Aunt's house on Saturday and we'll eat SUSHI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fourth thought: I wonder if anyone else finds this post funny? I think it's pretty witty...

Fifth thought: My...stomach...hurts...STUPID RAGING HORMONES!!!

Sixth thought: I really should stop procrastinating and just shower already...*GASP!* Oh, no! I admitted it! I'm really using this post as a form of procrastination hidden under the guise as a birthday present for my blog! *Sigh.* Fine. I know what you're all thinking. You're thinking, "Geez, you stupid and incredibly silly girl, just go shower and stop being a nincompoop." And you're right, of course.

...But I really don't want to move from my comfortable position on the bed...

Oh, well here's an idea! I'll end this post and go back to sleep, and just pretend that I showered. You guys will never be the wiser ;)

November Days Poem

*So this is a poem I wrote for my mom's birthday. As you can probably tell by now, November is a very inspiring month for me. Plus, November combined with any other word makes for great titles. So it's really a win-win situation when I write about it, lol ;) Anyway, enjoy, and thanks for bearing with my rudimentary poetry skills :P*

Amber hues,
Golden waves,
Crashing through
Those windy days.

Sunset, shining,
Clouds of pink;
Daylight pining
For night’s dark ink.

Leaves are piling,
Days are shortening;
Children smiling,
Mom’s fear coughing.

You can think of ways,
Or understand:
November Days
Are more than grand.

Another excerpt from "Forgotten

*okay, so this excerpt is from chapter 2, and takes place about a year after the latest scene from this book. enjoy :)*

Annie

High school. I don’t think I had ever been more excited for something. I was fourteen and getting ready for my first day at a new school with new people. What was there to not love about it? And Jessie would be with me, so I was confident of being perfectly content.

I opened a few messy drawers before finding my favorite shirt and tugged it out of the other balled up clothes, then ripped a pair of jeans off a hangar in the closet and threw them both on. I took a deep breath, then turned to my chair by the mirror and prepared to apply my make-up. I had only just started to use eyeliner and lip gloss, so I felt adventurous, daring, and like a new person. I smiled at my appearance in the mirror and felt satisfied with myself.

Glancing at the clock, I realized I was going to be late for the bus if I didn’t hurry. I skipped breakfast, quickly brushed my teeth, grabbed my book bag and then ran down the stairs. I paused in the hallway for a moment and looked around me. Both of my parents had already left for work, and the house felt empty and lonely. My mom had gone back to work about five years ago, and whatever little time she had devoted to me previously had decreased drastically. I had grown accustomed to leaving the house empty and coming back to it empty, but there was always that twinge of sadness and isolation. I allowed myself one quick sigh, and then rushed out the door to wait for the bus, feeling my spirits rise considerably. I couldn’t wait to see Jessie and ask what she thought of my outfit. I knew she would just say I looked nice whether she thought so or not.

As the bus pulled up, I dashed in, grabbed a window seat, and tossed my bag next to me to save a seat for Jess. I smiled brightly at the groggy students around me, who all merely stared sleepily back at me. I tapped my feet and hummed a song as I waited for the bus to reach Jessie’s block and see her timid face peer through the yellow doors.

Jessie

High school. Nothing in the world scared me more. New people all around me, new surroundings to grow accustomed to, and more explaining to do when people asked about my mom. I was not looking forward to the next four years. The only good thing was that I would have Annie. But I could see the writing on the wall already. Annie would become wildly popular, and I would be the quiet friend who would be whispered about, and everyone would wonder why Annie liked me. No one would be mean, but the only friendliness I would encounter would be from those who pitied me because of my lack of a mother, or from those who were nice so as to get on Annie’s good side. Of course, I would make a few friends. But they would be the acquaintance type of friends who forget about you after a year or so.

I sighed as I meticulously peered through my tidy drawers for an outfit to wear. After finding a satisfactory shirt, sweater, and jeans, I made sure to close all of my drawers and replace the hangars back in the closet. I applied some chapstick, shook my head at my appearance, then ate my oatmeal, brushed my teeth, and checked my bag for everything I needed. I always made sure I had a spare pencil, pen, notebook, etc., because I knew Annie was likely to forget one of them. I walked into my dad’s home office to kiss him goodbye and wish him luck with work.

“Do you need a ride, Jessica?” he asked out of habit, not even looking up from his computer.

“No, I’m gonna ride the bus with Annie,” I replied, staring at my feet and fingering the dark wood of his desk. My dad nodded absentmindedly. I looked up at him and noticed for the millionth time since my mom had left how tired, lonely, and sad he looked. Multiple gray hairs streaked his naturally brown head, and his face looked aged and worn; he still wore his wedding ring. I glanced around me at the numerous pictures that lined the walls of my dad and my mom, my dad and me, my mom and me, all three of us together; in all of them we were smiling and happy. My throat tightened as I imagined what my dad would have been like if my mom was still here. For one thing, he would smile. For another, the pictures on his walls wouldn’t stop when I reached three. My dad and I sighed simultaneously as if we were thinking about the same thing. I knew it was the only thing my dad ever thought about. I swallowed hard, kissed my dad goodbye, and then walked out the door with a few minutes to spare before the bus came.

Closing my eyes, I recited a few lines of my favorite poem, “Wreck of the Hesperus”: “Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,/Her cheeks like the dawn of day,/And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,/That ope in the month of May.” Whenever asked why such a sad poem was my favorite, I always said that I liked to imagine myself as the skipper’s unfortunate daughter who was killed in the Wreck, as twisted and strange as that may sound. In fact, I even convinced myself that the blue of my eyes were as blue as “fairy-flax.” But I think the real reason was that my life, however sad it is, could never be as sad as the result of that poem and I found comfort in that.

Before long, the big, yellow bus came rolling along, and I climbed in. Annie was sitting there with a deliriously happy grin on her face, and patted the seat next to her. I sat there, and told her that she looked nice before she even asked.

She laughed and said, “Jess, you are a crazy kid.”

Excerpt from a colonial story

*This is the first chapter of a paper I wrote for history a few years ago that I just recently decided to expand into a story. It's gone through major reconstruction, but it still needs some work to erase some immature, old me style, stuff, lol*

When my father, my younger sister, and I arrived in Quebec in the year 1639, I was shocked to find it wasn’t bitterly cold. All the stories my family had heard of Quebec were of endless snow, harsh wind, and unforgiving cold. I had not expected it to be warm, even though it was summer.

As I held my little sister Cecile’s hand, I stared at the land that was to be my new home with anxiety and nervous excitement and thought of the days that had passed since my mother’s death. Ever since that fateful day when fever had descended upon our household, things had not gone well for my family in Reims, France. The illness had taken both my mother and my two weeks old brother.

Nobody seemed to need a carpenter, or at least a carpenter like my father, who had a fiery temper. My mother was the only person who could talk him out of his bad moods, and once she was gone, things became hopeless. People seemed only to want carpenters like Jacques, who spoke with silky, flattering words. He was my father’s competitor, and we knew him to be a cruel man and saw past his veneer.

So, my father could not find work. We suddenly found ourselves without enough money to retain our property, and we lost our home. My father’s brother had often written to us, saying we should go to Quebec, where he had prospered and now lived in comfort. My uncle had gone to Quebec in 1627 when Minister Richelieu established the Company of 100 associates. They financed his journey and supported him for the first three years of his life in Quebec, as they did for three hundred colonists every year.

I remember the day my father finally decided to accept his offer. I had been sitting in the room of the tavern where we were staying, letting down the hem of one of Cecile’s dresses just as my mother had taught me, when my father entered.

“Blanche, I can see no other way out,” he sighed, holding a letter in his hand. I quietly folded the dress up and placed it in my sewing basket.

“What do you mean, Father?” I asked.

“I have decided to accept your uncle’s offer and go join him in the New World,” he stated. I was silent.

“But what about Cecile and me? What will become of us?” I questioned anxiously. I feared that my father might leave us behind and not send for us for a few years, as had happened to a friend of mine. My father looked at me in surprise.

“Why, you would come with me, of course. We must start our life anew, and moving to Quebec would give us that chance,” he told me. I nodded. What else was I to do?

So it was settled. My father sent off the letter telling of our plans to my uncle the next day. In the weeks that followed, Father made preparations for our departure. He was able to buy us transport on a ship owned by an old friend. We packed what few belongings we had left, and before I knew it, had set off to Quebec.

Our journey was long and arduous, and Cecile was often seasick. Storms were not uncommon, and it was always cold. Cecile and Father and I were often huddled below deck, desperate for warmth. The food was stale and tasteless, and more often than not, the repulsive sight of grubs and maggots greeted us on our plates. When we finally saw land again on July 14th, Cecile and I cried, and father for once was speechless.

Though the rocky promontory that was Quebec was not necessarily beautiful, there was something breathtaking about it. There was such a rawness and wild feel humming all around it, and even if I had not known where I was, I would have been sure it was in the New World.

Father heaved our small trunk, filled with our few belongings, on to his shoulder, and I picked up his large, heavy tool sack and held it tight with two hands. Cecile grabbed my skirt and together we trudged down the wobbly plank and on to the rugged terrain that rose out from the riverbank. It took me a few minutes to regain my land legs, and I had to apologize more than once for bumping into someone. We weaved our way through the crowd as I stared curiously at the town. All the buildings seemed so new and fresh, though very weather beaten. Apothecaries, various stores for everyday needs, an ironworks, a trader post, a church, and houses. It would have seemed like any other normal, somewhat newly established town that could be found in the middle of France except for the fact that it was surrounded by wilderness. I could hear the rush of a river somewhere nearby, and pine trees loomed behind every building. As I walked, I could feel the steep incline beneath my feet as my muscles begged for rest.

I suddenly realized that we were heading toward one of the largest houses in the village, a carpenter’s sign hanging over the door. I assumed it was my uncle’s.

As we walked up the rocky and well-worn path to the large house, the door was suddenly thrown open, and a big, brown-haired man bounded out the door. My father dropped the trunk, and I winced as I heard our pots clatter. After hugging my father tightly, the man pushed him away and surveyed him closely.

“Ah, my little brother Jean, come at last!”

“Then you got my letter, Louis?” said my father with relief. My uncle nodded.

“Yes, yes. It arrived a week ago. Ah, how happy I am to see you! But who is this?” questioned my uncle, looking at me. “Can this be little Blanche?” he asked, stunned.

I blushed and said, “Yes, Uncle. It has been twelve years, now.”

“You are fourteen, then?” he exclaimed. I nodded. “Oh my, how you have grown!” shouted my uncle kissing both of my cheeks and patting my auburn head. Cecile peeked out from behind my skirt, her brown curls bouncing. “And this must be Cecile!” stated my uncle. Cecile nodded and stepped out from behind me. My uncle picked her up and swung her around. She laughed with glee, as my uncle shouted, “Oh, I have heard so much about you!” My father chuckled, and then we all burst out laughing. It felt good to laugh after being sad for so long. I felt a hope inside me that maybe this new life in this new place would be filled with much laughter, and little sadness.

More from Forgotten

*Okay, so this takes place when Annie and Jessie are about eleven years old. I might change that age, though, so don't dwell too much on it.*

Annie

Jessie was going to sleep over, and I was getting my room ready before she arrived. I felt kind of nervous about tonight. I had decided I was going to tell Jessie my deepest, darkest secret that nobody else knew about. Jessie and I were best friends, though, so I knew I could trust her with this secret. I heard my doorbell ring and rolled my eyes; typical Jessie to ring the doorbell when she knew she could just walk right in, like I did at her house. I heard my mom open the door and send Jessie upstairs. There was a gentle tap on my door, and Jessie quietly entered.

“Geez, Jessie, you act as if you’re in a stranger’s house. You don’t have to ring the doorbell or knock before you come into my room,” I told her. She laughed and blushed at the same time.

“Sorry, Annie, I just don’t want to be rude,” she replied. I pulled her into a hug and laughed.

“You are way to polite for your own good,” I shook my head. I released her and she tried to breathe again as I grabbed her things and threw them in a corner of the room. We climbed onto my bed and sat Indian style opposite each other and immediately began a game of thumb war like usual. I won, like usual, and said, “Okay, question for the night: What is your deepest fear?” I couldn’t prevent the slight shakiness in my voice. Jessie didn’t notice, or at least pretended not to. That’s the way she was. She always made sure you didn’t feel awkward or embarrassed. The kid was way too nice.

Jessie looked down at her hands and thought for a while, then said, “I guess my deepest fear is being abandoned. You know, having somebody you really care about just leave you without a thought, like they don’t care. I don’t want to be alone, or…unloved.” I closed my eyes and hated myself for a few seconds. How could I have been so stupid to rip open that subject on her?

“Aw, Jess, I’m sorry I brought that up,” I said and tugged her into another hug. I stroked her hair as she took a few deep breaths. I thought of the day she first told me a few years earlier about how her mom left Jessie and her dad when Jessie was only four. Jessie had been playing in the backyard with her dad, when her mom opened the door lugging out her suitcase. Jessie had watched in confusion as her dad and mom argued for a while, and then finally how her mom just got in the car and drove away.

“It’s okay, I’m alright. Don’t worry about it,” Jessie said, pulling away and smiling. “What’s your deepest fear?”

Jessie

I waited for Annie to answer. She seemed somewhat torn. Annie worried me sometimes, the way she was just so unpredictable. I never knew where our conversations would lead.

“Well, you’re going to laugh at me…” she began hesitantly. That was strange for two reasons: first, Annie was never hesitant, and second, Annie knew I would never ever laugh at her. I raised my eyebrows. “Okay, so you won’t laugh, but you will think I’m weird,” she corrected herself.

“Don’t worry Annie, I already think you’re weird, so you haven’t got much to lose,” I said consolingly. She laughed loudly and shook her head.

“You are a crazy kid, Jessie,” she commented. I looked at her meaningfully, and she cleared her throat hurriedly. “Alright, I’ll stop procrastinating. My deepest fear is that when I die, I’ll be forgotten. That I’ll never get the chance to do something worthwhile and memorable, that you or my husband will remember to put flowers on my grave for a few months, and then I’ll just fade from everyone’s minds and that’ll be it. I’ll be dead, and the memory of me will be dead. It scares me, Jess, it really does. I don’t want to be forgotten, I don’t want a wave to just wash me out of everyone’s minds once I’m gone and am no longer able to personally remind them of my existence. “ Annie was now in tears and I stared at her in surprise. “And I don’t know what I can do to make sure that people are gonna remember me. What can I do to make sure they don’t forget?” Annie folded into my arms and I hugged her as she sobbed into my shoulders. I suddenly felt scared and vulnerable. Annie was always the brave one, she was always the one that hugged me when I got scared and cried. I was worried about what she had just told me, and my throat felt clogged with emotion.

I patted her back and said the only thing I could think of that could comfort her, “Don’t worry, Annie; I will never forget you, I can promise you that.”

Another excerpt from another new book "The Storyteller"

*I don't really know where in the book this is all happening, but I wrote it and this is it. I feel like the protagonist is one of my best characters yet, she's just so real. It's kind of personal because she's a lot like me in ways, so...yeah...this is it:*


Dear Diary,

So, I've never written a diary before, but my English teacher says it builds character and I need to write entries at least weekly in you. Which basically means that I write in this book or get failed. I think I'll choose the former.

So. Um. Basics about me, I guess. There are three things I love most in the world: Writing, Dancing, and Acting. And they were written in the order of most loved. I know, it's weird that I love writing so much, and yet have never written in a diary. It's just that I normally see the world from my character's lives, and not through my own. So I've only felt the urge to write down what they see and feel, instead of what I do. But that's off-topic. I'll just let you know what I love most about the three things I wrote above.

There’s nothing quite like the feel of a pen or pencil in my hand, the sound of the scribble of lead on crisp paper, and just watching words flow out from my mind and on to that blank canvas. It’s almost like art. You take colors and a paintbrush, and paint the image in your head for all to see. But instead of images, there are words. It fascinates me to no end to have the worlds in my head come to life on the paper. To see the characters who are like my children interact with each other for all to see. But it’s frustrating when I can’t find the words to describe what is truly perfect to me. Because sometimes, there are no words that can truly fit the people and places I create in my mind. And I want so badly to share it with everyone. But nobody can ever see what I see.

Dancing has always been very important to me. It’s much more than a workout and exercise to me. It’s my escape from my life, my time where I can just forget everything that bothers me, hurts me, and stresses me out. So I dance, and I forget. It's a kind of therapy for all of my troubles in life. I use my pent-up anger to add emotion to my movements, my suppressed energy to keep me moving, and just let my mind go blank as I try to concentrate on the task at hand.

Acting isn’t one of my priorities in life, and it’s not half as important to me as writing or dancing, but I still enjoy it. It’s just another way to express my erratic personality. So I'm not gonna write more about it.

When I think about it, all of my favorite activities are a form of storytelling. Writing is the most traditional and usual way to tell a story. With dancing, you express the story through your body movements and facial expressions. Acting is another more traditional manner of telling a story. I guess that just makes me a storyteller. If only I had a good story to tell. I know my stories are interesting to me- when I first write them at least. My over-active imagination creates thousands of storylines and ideas daily. It’s like it haunts me, driving me to the point of insanity than slowly dragging me back again, just so I can write down the words running through my head. Because that’s what it’s like. All somebody has to do is say one word, and I make a sentence out of it, then I make the background of the sentence, then the character who says it, then I have to make a character who responds, then the background of that character, then what they look like, and before I know it, I have the beginning of a story. And my heart breaks to know that I won’t write it.

Wow, it feels so strange to be telling this story. Not that I don't like writing stories or anything. But I'm so used to seeing the world through other people's eyes, telling the story from the way they see and feel it. Now, for the first time in my life, I'm writing things the way I see it. Now, I'm seeing the world through my own eyes. Now, people are reading about me, and not about a character I created. Now, I'm the storyteller not of somebody else's life, but of my own.