Status Update

So, I don't know if I do have some random readers that happen to read when I randomly post at extremely random times, but if so, I would love to get random comments on my writing or these type of post. Basically, I've been super busy (as usual), and I typically write the things I post on here within like 5 seconds of when I write them. If you notice, in the previous sentence, I used the word "like" almost as if I was dictating to the computer (but I'm not, apparently I type like I talk). Anyhow, I don't know if any of you have seen the Disney movie "Frozen", but it is the best movie ever. None of this really relates to writing (other than the parts that do). I was listening to this poetry slam, it was pretty awesome. (Abrupt subject change). I'm in Drivers Ed. Show of hands for all of you who care. (Is that the friendly chirp of crickets I hear?) Oh there are so many of you. Anyways, I just felt the need to give you a status update, and now that I have.
GOODBYE!

An Ode to my Week

This is that kind of week.
I shouldn't have to explain what kind of miserable terrible kind of week it is,
But I just did.

The week that begins with Monday.
The week that ends with Monday.
The never-ending cycle of doom that sucks us into it's misery.
It's that type of week.

This type of week,
The Monday type of week,
Makes me think all kinds of violent thoughts that include knives and death and murder and pulling out your eyes.
It's the type of week that makes me want to stomp my feet and scream and throw my hands up in defeat.

I hate these types of weeks,
These Monday weeks.
If I could have one wish,
I would get rid of the miserable terrible Monday kind of weeks like this.
Each week would be the type of Friday week,
The one that lets you take a breath of fresh air.
A Friday week,
The kind of weeks that let you free.
One of those weeks right before a vacation where you'll have too little to do.
That's the kind of week I wish to seek.
One that won't make me stomp, or scream, or throw my hands up in defeat,
But no!
It had to be a stupid Monday type of week.

Love: Expressed Through Open Palms, Closed Fist, and Tight Lips

Am I worse?
Do I hit harder, if not literally, figuratively?
Do the imprints last longer?
Do I say sorry?
Am I like him?
Am I worse

I don't want to be like that.
I can't be like that.
I am nice.
I am kind,
But my hand hit her skin.
Am I worse?

What kind of mark did I leave?
I see your face frozen in shock,
In pain,
In front of me.
Can I be becoming this monster?
Can I feel this rage boiling inside of me for no reason?
Can I feel this hatred boiling inside of me,
Exactly where love should be?
Will I be an empty chasm, like him?
Will I be worse?
Am I worse?

I don't want to be like that.
I love you.
Open palmed,
I know it didn't sting your flesh,
But I can't see your heart.
I can't see the heart that I already know is bruised, broken, and cut.
Did I make it worse?
Please tell me that you didn't see him when you looked at me,
Tight lipped,
Angry Eyes,
Open palm.

I know what it looked like,
The monster inside.
I've seen it for too long.
Tight lipped,
Angry Eyes,
Closed Fist.
Another gash sliced through your heart.
Please tell me this one wasn't deeper.
Please tell me this one wasn't worse.
Please tell me this one wasn't the worst you've ever felt.
Please tell me you'll forgive me.

I promise I'll never do it again.

Tight lipped,
Angry Eyes,
Open palmed,
Closed fist.
We are the same,
Aren't we?

Truth in Lies post #1

I just wanted to give you your daily dose of encouragement by giving you a little story about me. Me, myself, and I. I am a very weird, strange person and I don’t deny that, but I am also very insecure, and I can’t deny that. For me, the hardest thing in the world is accepting myself and my flaws. I want everything to be perfect, so I guess that makes me a perfectionist. I have many things I do not like about myself, and that makes me feel inferior and uncomfortable and extremely jealous of those who have (or seem to have) absolutely no problems with themselves, and I find it utterly incredible that while I’m sitting here dwelling on everything I want to be and sitting on that latest idea that pops into my head and not wanting to share it because I’m afraid, and I feel, for some reason, writing makes me less afraid of what I am and what I will become if I fail. I know that if I fail on this particular blog there will be no particular embarrassment, or really any consequence at all, but in real life I am afraid to even shout out something that I know is right. Why is that? I have absolutely no idea other than the several ideas that I have that I am too afraid to share. Now, I wish that things were different and I wish I could say that I didn’t want to put everyone else’s feelings in front of mine, but that is not true. I want everyone to be happy, but somewhere in there I lost the happiness that was intended for myself and maybe it was the way I was raised, but that is me, and when I’m not putting my happiness last and everyone else’s first, I happen to be making them miserable by hitting them where it hurts, and I do it on purpose when I’m hurt and I hate that about me, but I’m not saying I’m all negative, and I know, right know this doesn’t sound very encouraging, but trust me it is because I know one day I will break that shell and (hopefully) I will get a step closer by writing this and basically exposing myself as I have before on this blog whether or not you realize it, but this writing is me, and when I say the crimson stains are leaking from her heart to the ground, I’m secretly talking about me, and I’m slowly telling my story, and breaking open that fear to SPEAK. Now, that may all be swell and dandy, but what does it mean for you. Well, I by all accounts am completely crazy, BUT I say to all of you, right now that is better to be completely crazy and comfortable than shy and hidden away, especially in your writing. That purple-red dawn that creeps into the sky I’ve seen and I want you to see it and feel it as your reading my story, and as I SPEAK because it is beautiful if you give it a little bit of time, and I will finally be heard.

I am not a killer.

I am a person.

I am not a sociopath.

I am like you.

Please don’t judge me based on my story.

This is me.

I'm Back (Sort of)

Well, welcome to the new year. (Late!) Ok, so it's been about a month since I last posted anything, and I did say in my other post that I was going to try to post more over my winter break, BUT that never happened. Anyways, now I have midterms coming up, (Yay, midterms?) and I've been super busy, which is probably not a very good excuse. But if it makes you feel any better, I used this winter break as time to work on my old book from TWO WHOLE YEARS AGO (Time really does fly).

Anyhow, I started a new book (not writing, reading) called Stiff by Mary Roach, and now, I'm getting even more sociopath comments than usual. Well, today, I was saying how next year, I'm planning on taking anatomy and physiology because NOW I'm planning to become a nurse/ pathologist technician. Well, I heard rumor that in some anatomy/physiology classes they dissect cats, and I said, "I could never dissect a cat, I would much rather have a human to dissect." Conversation stopped. Keep in mind, I have friends with similar crime/death/science-y passions as myself, so this is the first time I've said that and gotten a negative reaction (Note I said the first time I've said that AND gotten a negative reaction from other people my age. (Sidenote's sidenote: I have said this phrase many a time to my mother's horror)). Anyhow, that leaded to the other participants in the conversation to have other questions like, "Are you a sociopath?" I think it's because I said the "I would much rather have a human to dissect." with a bit too much enthusiasm (I can tell, even through my typing, that I just freaked out a number of you, my pretty little readers. Mwhahahaha.) Regardless of your fear, I felt the need to scare inform you all that I will put more actual writing (and post) back on soon.

Thanks so much for reading this, and go and write something for me!

Mama's Fault

Melanie's blonde hair swung over her shoulders. Long sleeves on a warm summer day. She can leave anytime she wants. That's what they all say. She's a strong, independent woman. At least, she was before all this came her way. Two kids. Two boys. Two beautiful children from the man she hated. They're old enough to understand what's happening now. She pushed her hair all the way over her shoulders, hiding her purple bruises. She hated to admit it, but it wasn't just the swig of the bottle that set it off anymore. And to top it all of their weren't even any flowers anymore. He couldn't deny it. He knew what he was doing. Her hands had started trembling last week. She stared at her hands in disbelief, this couldn't be happening to her. Better yet, it couldn't have happened to her, again.

This is my fault.

We have to stay together don't we? How would it look if I left? He would lie, wouldn't he? Just like he's been all these years. He'll make it look like it was my fault. He'll take the kids.

This is my fault.

I'd have to send the boys away first, and then maybe I would get out, after them. I wouldn't tell him we were going. I would just leave.

She's said this before.

"Melanie?" He whispered, pushing back her hair. She snapped her focus back to the table in front of her.

"I'm just so excited you two are finally getting married." His mother said a smile across her face, ignorant to the monster she had helped to create.

The boys were staring down at their plates, waiting for their mama to finally stand up and say goodbye, not agree to marry that miserable man that they had to call their father.

This is my fault.

I should've protected her last night. She's my mother, and I didn't get up and tell him to stop even though we both could hear her screams pierce the night.

This is my fault

I'm older. I'm just about as tall as the man we're forced to look up to. He should pick on someone his own size.

I'm scared.

Don't let him touch them.

Let me save her.

I love you mama.

I love you too.

Someday, it'll happen. I won't be here by your side, and promise me, when that day happens you'll run and hide. Please don't try to be brave, just be safe. Just know your mama loves you. Ok?

I won't let that happen.

It's out of your control

"Melanie? Honey? You seem distracted. Are you nervous?" His mother asked.

Melanie stared at the boys, and turned to glance at the man sitting next to her. She held it for a moment, her courage deflating, a smile crept ,once again, upon his face as her gaze crept down to her plate. She finally looked up at his mother, not able to meet her eyes, but yet she still found the power to force a small smile on her face, slowly raising and lowering her head as she whispered, "Yes, I'm fine."

Her oldest son shoved at the table in disbelief. Melanie could hear his snarl. That ugly man stood up, full height, ready to pick yet another fight. His mother reached across the table for his hand, but he had already pulled away. He stormed from the table following his son, she could already hear the threats forming on his tongue. "Be strong, my baby." She whispered in fear. Mama, his mother, glanced up at her, ignoring strong, independent Melanie's whisper.

Only a mother's love can be so blind. I stared after my son, my beautiful son. I need to protect him. I felt like slapping the ignorance off of his mother's face. He's been doing this for years. I turned to her, she was staring at the magazine that blank stare I had seen all too many times on myself.

She knows.

I felt like slapping my hands on the table, screaming and swearing. How long has she known? Could she have saved me? Could she have saved them. I couldn't help glancing at my younger son, he was staring down at his hands, unwilling, incapable of looking up at us. He knew what we should hear next, but I don't think my boy will scream.

She was leaning on the table with her left hand she picked it up, ready to charge like any respectable Mama bear, but his mother grabbed her arm with the grip he had held her with too many times before. Melanie's hair fell over her shoulders as she stared into his mother's eyes for the first time all night, if not all year.

"You don't have to marry him." She whispered, "Don't make the same mistake I did." She let go of Melanie's arm, but Melanie held it out as if she was still holding it, keeping her close, saving her from him. Melanie tilted her head, a silent question that they both knew the answer to, "He got it from his father."

"I got what?" He came back a smile on his face, his gaze directly on Melanie, and her son nowhere in sight. She had hoped it would be the other way around.

You son of a bitch. You killed him didn't you?

Her eyes were full of suspicion, going up and down his body, looking for her son's blood on her fiancé's clothes.

"He went for a walk, Melanie." His voice flat. Her eyes darted to the window, her shoulders tense, the purple scars on her neck perfectly visible, he noticed too. He brushed her blonde hair back over her neck, her body stiffened more than even she thought was possible.

They sat down at the same time, a knock came on the door, and Melanie practically teleported to the door, and her heart dropped as she opened it, the police.

"Hi Ma'am, we received a complaint about noises coming from your residence."

"Umm..."

He was behind her, hand around her waist, "We're fine here, thank you."

"That wasn't what I said." The officer put his hand on his holster, "Are you okay Ma'am?" He asked. Melanie's face was pallid and blank, before she could open her mouth, another officer magically appeared from behind him, then sirens were roaring onto her lawn. He grabbed her by the waist, "You called the police, bitch?" That had really grabbed the officer's attention, his gun was aimed at his head, "I'll use her as a shield." He said, "I have no problems getting rid  of this piece of..." His voice, it stopped abruptly. It all happened so fast.

Glass shattering, his grip weakening, all in a matter of moments, and the worst part of it all was the feeling, something wet on the backside of my clothes, my hair, it was everywhere. He was everywhere. Suddenly, the officer had my arm. He was holding me up whispering something that resembled: "It's all okay, now."

"What the hell is happening?" I shouted across the room, into the empty air. His mother was being helped from under the table, my son was being escorted out, but I couldn't stop thinking that my son was gone. He should've come back by now, even if there was no blood on his clothes, and the next question was how had he changed his clothes so fast, unless he used a... no, he couldn't have used a... I would've heard it if he had used a... gun.

"Wait!" I shouted,  although the officer was right beside me. I was disoriented, and simply, I thought I was living in a dream, "Have you seen my son?" I practically screeched 

I could feel the confusion misting off of the officer, as he opened his mouth and pointed to the wrong son, and said, "He's right here. We saved him."

"No. Not him. The other one." Their faces were blank, "The noise!" I shouted, "What was it? Why did you all come out here? How didn't you know? You had a sniper and S.W.A.T and everything!" I stopped, turning around, searching my officer's face,  "He's dead, isn't he! No!No! He can't be!" I screamed with a force from my lungs I had no idea was possible until I saw them rolling out the lumpy black bag from the back, as if they tried to do it where I wouldn't notice. inconspicuous! But it wasn't. He's my son. I'll always find him. He just wanted to save me.
I love him.

My legs buckled from under me.

He deserved to die.

My stupid lover had planted that little voice in my head that whispered those wretched things, and I could do nothing but glance up at my youngest son. My only son, waiting for something anything for this to be a giant joke. Haha joke's on mama! But it wasn't. My son, my baby, he stared through me, past me.

There is no more family. We are nothing. He won.

This is my fault.

Poem #1: Greek Mythology Anyone?

So, I wrote a poem, but I must say that this story is not mine. The actual story is "copyrighted" by ancient Greeks. Anyhow, my poem is based on the story of Clytmenstra who killed her husband with no remorse. While I know she did have some reasonable reasons for killing her husband, she still should've felt a little twinge of emotion for the man she once loved. So, this is my take on the story:

Clytmenstra
Wicked Queen,
Wicked Queen you are.
Soaked in Scarlett,
Bathed in Crimson,
A smile upon your face.
He did me wrong you claim.
A life for a life you say.

You closed those castle doors of yours,
Mind set to do the deed.
We never thought,
We never thought,
You'd come into the open air.

Soaked in Scarlett,
Bathed in Crimson,
With a smile upon your face.
Your head held high,
Lover in hand,
As the last lay forever silent and hidden away.

Your son must now do the wretched deed,
Freshly ripped away from your bosom.
He must now give heed,
Spearing the breasts his head once rest upon with his own weapon.
Blood thirst!
Oh blood thirst!
The cause of all terror.
Wicked Queen,
Yes, a Wicked Queen you were.

'Shipping Characters

I think you know what I'm talking about when I say "Shipping Characters", but if you don't, 'shipping characters is when you put two characters that have that "spark" together be it in your mind or fan-fic. Anyhow, I wanted to know what you guys think when those two characters you love finally get together. For me, I sometimes feel like it ruins what they had going. It's almost as if I liked them better without the relationship. Ok, I'll just come out and say it, some of the characters we 'ship really can't be together for the sake of the story. Now, that sounds a little weird when you're thinking, "B-but, I really love them, and they would be so cute together!"

And I say to you, "NO!"

You need to love them as friends because once everything gets are "romanciful" there is no turning back. Ever. Their relationship will never be the same and it will always have the awkward tension it unless there is a magical device that wipes both of their memories of each other and they have to find each other again not just as lovers but as friends. Then, you might have a good story, if done well, but my heart has been broken by too many 'ships to even trust that method.

So, that's my rant... again. I promise I will get back to writing stories soon, but unfortunately, I have school work I also need to do, so I'll keep you updated on Life Tales, and this winter vacation, I'll start Writing Tales again. Anyways,  you guys should tell me what you think about 'shipping characters below! (It may be very far down...)

 Also, if you guys haven't checked out IISuperwomanII on Youtube, I love her, so you guys should check her out because she's only one of the most awesomely hilarious people you'll ever see.

Thanks for reading!

Help! My Story is More Revolved Around Setting than Character

The title still looks weird.

Anyhow, so I've been looking at other writers work, and I'm noticing a pattern that a lot of writers seem to hate: they can't seem to control their writing. I did address this (kind of) a few post back (I even linked you guys to Go Teen Writers!) Anyhow, my big thing is that you really shouldn't try to control your writing too much. You can do that in revisions, but when you start your first draft, you should never tell your characters no. Why? Your characters have a way of knowing what to do better than you do, and when you deny them, you typically end up with a mess.

I started to do that with G.R.A.Y. This summer as I was writing it, I decided that I didn't like the direction it was going, and without giving too much away, let me say, I think that me trying to reign G.R.A.Y into what I imagined really assisted me in NOT completing it. I'm not saying that it's going to remain incomplete forever, but I am saying that choking your characters help nothing. (In fact, I had to rewrite the entire thing from the prologue at one point.)

Books tend to move in their own special ways, and I'm not saying you have absolutely no control over your book. You are the author. Remember that, but don't think your characters don't have a say in it too. The balance as a writer is really figuring out where to control your writing and how to continue your writing. In reality, to non-writers that sounds insane, but I'm not talking to non-writers. I'm talking to you. For me, the first step to my writing is figuring out an idea, then a character and going from there. I've learned the hard way that for me, if I try to plot it out more than that it doesn't really work. Another thing, although I don't plot out exactly what I want to do for my book does NOT mean that I don't have goals that my characters have to achieve. For example, my first book, Truth in Lies (That book is by baby. I will not show it to you guys until it is beautifully published and amazing. If it gets that far), my protagonist Jessica was originally supposed to go to this "evil" school for the majority of the book, and I was going to tell her life story for only a little part in the beginning of the book. Well, guess what happened? My idea kind of changed a little bit, and most of the book is about what happened BEFORE she got sent to the "evil" school. I still reached my goal in getting her to the evil school, but I allowed the book to "write itself" for a little while, per say, and that was only through me being flexible about my goals.

So, basically the point I'm trying to get across is: don't be mad at your book because it doesn't do exactly what you want or be exactly as you planned, just go with the flow, and let your book lead you by being flexible.

That is the longest moral I've ever heard of and it really sounds like I'm more of a hippie writer than anything, but that's my rant.
Thanks for reading!

Are you Pregnant?

I feel like only a writer would be asked this question, I mean, unless you actually are pregnant, but trust me, I'm not.

Ok, maybe I should explain. It all started two months ago [insert dramatic music here]. My friend, Katie, and I were walking down the hallway talking, well, panicking about our characters (NANO!). As we were walking into the gym to meet our other non-writer friend, Rachel*, I was stuck on the idea that I would have a character named Tame. Katie, on the other hand, was arguing that I choose a different name. She hated my character's name! But, it was for good reason, her exact words were, "Tame means calm and domesticated. That is the exact opposite of everything you want in your protagonist!"

Anyhow, as we were walking to our non-writer friend, I stubbornly responded with, "But I still want to name her Tame."

Which I guess, taken out of context, does sound like I have a child. (Books are children.) I turned around, eyes wide with a face that apparently scarred Rachel for life, along with some prompt screaming, which made her begin to profusely apologize.

So, to diffuse to awkward situation, I screamed, "Tame!" across the gymnasium and walked away.

Sidenote: I'm actually (against Katie's advice) writing a story where my protagonist's name is Tame. I'll share it with you guys sooner or later.

*Names have been changed

Curly Hair is NOT all that it's Cracked up to be

First off, the title looks messed up because I was trying to decide whether to capitalize every letter, or to leave the smaller words capitalized, or only capitalize the first word. It's messed up. End of story.

Anyhow, I know most people think curly hair is amazing, and whenever I wear my hair out people are always like, "OMG! Your hair! It looks so amazing!" (I think that's an accurate example of what most people sound like, acronym use and all.) Let me clarify, if my hair is out a good couple of inches, it was because I was too lazy to tame it and/or it wasn't going to let me tame it. You see, curly hair is like a cat, sometimes it just wants to be left alone, and at other times, it's really friendly and does exactly what you want. When I have my hair in no tame mode, and I get all these comments about how beautiful it looks, I think my hair begins to get a little bit of an ego. What do I mean by that?  Have you ever tried to tame a curly mane that's been out all day? It's impossible without an arsenal of hair products! It's like WWIII. You might as well give up the rest of your night unless you want to do a bun, and even then you'll have to wrangle it into a giant scrunchie. Curly hair is basically a giant brat that has nothing better to do then screw with your day. Well, that's my rant. If you agree with me, or just plain liked it, you should check out Authoress' blog: Miss Snark's First Victim because she's pretty awesome.
Thanks for reading!

Liking vs. Passion

If you've read my other post, you'll notice I've mentioned: a) I have no idea what to do with my life b) I want writing to be a career.

I feel like that's the case for most writers, if not all writers. I think we all can agree that we want to become authors so our voices can be heard (or at least so that our writing can be read). One thing I'm noticing about me is that writing is the only thing I'm truly passionate about. I can tell because out of the ten zillion (slight over exaggeration) things I have to do tonight, (mainly because I've been procrastinating all day, mostly while messing with blogger's template) I choose to do this.

Ok, let's take for instance ASL. I like/love ASL. It is an amazingly beautiful language that I feel very blessed to be able to take a part in. I have met so many amazing people that I could've never become friends with without ASL, and I am relatively fluent in ASL (when I put my mind to it), and technically, right about now, I should be preparing for a giant ASL lecture thing (for lack of better term), but I'm not. I continue to choose writing and reading over doing what I like.

For my "day job" I'm planning on doing something in the medical field most likely forensics (unless I change my mind, again.), but as I was reading into becoming a pathology assistant, a nurse, a physician's assistant, etc. I'm noticing one pattern: I. Don't. Care. Yes, it looks cool. Maybe I'd do it if I had to, but what I really want to do is write, and that's why I'm writing this random rant here because I wanted to share with all of you what was going on in my mind: a conversation about how I have no passion for half of the things I think I want to do. Yep, so...
Thanks for reading!