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30 December 2010 @ 09:28 pm

I know it's not technically New Year's Eve, but I don't have my laptop and am in the middle of cleaning my room, so I may as well do a New Year's Eve blog thing until my room gets clean.

Like last year, I'm just going to reflect on some stuff and then make goals that I'll never look back on because that the way this works, and also because I'm giving up on this blogging thing. We'll get to that in a second.

So firstly, I don't remember really setting any goals for this year besides "participate in (AND WIN) NaNoWriMo", which I did, sucka. With a much better story this time around, I'd say, but that's probably not going to be how I feel next year. Which might be a good thing if it means that I'm gettin better at this writing thing. Anyway, so with that goal out and done, I would say my Resolutions were all followed though. Yay for being a winner.

This year, I'm really going to set goals though. So let's Do This.

1. Work hard at school because I have nothing else going on.
2. Save up money. But also,
3. Get a better social life. Especially now I can drive. :) (Which is not to say you need to spend a lot of money to have a social life, but it does entail ocassionally HAVING money to do stuff.)
4. Get a job!
5. Be dilligent about senior year. ONE. MORE. YEAR.
6. NaNoWriMo, of course. (And also write more in general.)
7. Reread all 154 books I have on my bookshelf.
8. Sell some of those 154 books I will never want to read again.
9. Reorganize this hellish pigsty in which I currently reside.
10. No blogging. Cut down Facebook time. And the tweets.

It's ordered by what will/can be accomplished first. Most of it is considerably easy to do, but whatever dude. Setting my goals low is what's up, you know? Besides, you need to accomplish (relatively) short terms goals before you can move on to the big leagues. You gotta reaffirm you can do before you try.

So, right. That last goal, no blogging? It starts after this is posted. I don't need this blog anyway. Once I get all my notebooks sorted out, this will all be a distant memory. I spend too much time on the Internet already anyway, on the computer in general. I don't need this hindering what free time I've got left. Like now, when I have homework to do and a room to clean. It's a matter of will power, I know, but it's gotta start somewhere. So I'm starting here.

Happy New Year.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

15 December 2010 @ 09:35 pm
I will admit: When Demi Lovato's first album came out, I was really excited, and when I heard it for the first time, I liked it a lot. When her second album rolled around, I bought it, but was sorely disappointed. It lacked, I thought, the rawness of her first album, and rightly so: when I checked to see who had written the songs, they were all cowritten by cheesy artists who, while creating catchy tunes, were not good at capturing the vitality of teenagers, or written by someone else entirely.

Today, I put my iTunes on shuffle, and it played for me a slow song, with a voice singing nearly a cappella, save for a single guitar rift in the background. Cellos came in. The tune became softer. The voice stronger. Brilliant. Desperate. The way voices became when there is passion, real happiness behind the words being sung.

I recognized the voice as being Demi's, and thought: Why is it that I like this song while the other ones were so severely disappointing, repetitive, dull? And then I remember: There was a good chance she didn't even write this song herself, so I looked into the booklet to see exactly who deserved the credit for this song that told vulnerability, the unadulterated sweetness of adolescence.

I think it's sad to say I was surprised to see Demi had written it herself.

Normally, I don't talk about this kind of stuff because, frankly, while music is a big part of my life, there are other things I take more seriously than it. But listening to Demi Lovato and being reminded of my disappointment in her last album made me think about the recent struggles she's been going through, and how much credit this girl is not given.

I heard a long time ago that the record label to which she is signed--that is, Disney's record label--has been censoring a lot of her work and denying her the right to put out the music she has written herself because they're too dark or the subject matter doesn't belong in the minds of her target audience. The thing is, though, the girl can obviously produce quality products. She has a beautiful voice, she's pretty, and she is, from what I can tell, a better songwriter than many of the people her record has been hiring to write music for her. While putting out material that may cause many of the parents of her fanbase of ten to twelve year olds to worry and lose interest in her, who's to say the music Demi writes herself won't attract a new fanbase? Not to mention, the fans she has now will grow up with her, mature with her. She's not stuck forever writing for twelve year olds who won't develop minds of their own or become angsty teenagers who, I'm sure, would love the rawness with which Demi so readily puts to paper.

I'm not saying that it is explicitly Disney's fault for censoring Demi that she's in rehab right now. It's just, there are measures that could have been taken to help her ease whatever overwhelming burden she was carrying on her shoulders. It didn't have to go so far, you know? She's only eighteen and she's in this kind of state where she feels she needs to check herself into rehab to get better? She should be able to trust in her creative outlets, i.e. her music, to open her emotions, thus welcoming more emotional connect between her and her fans--or people who would become her fans--and her family and friends.

Sometimes rehab can't be helped. I know that. Sometimes, rehab is the best decision for people who are having trouble overcoming their disorders. I'm glad that Demi didn't wait until it got out of hand before checking herself in and getting help. But I am infinitely saddened that it had to be a choice for someone so young, who has so much potential. And it makes me infinitely angry that even her own music seemed to turn on her when she needed it most.

Just because it wouldn't be 'marketable'. It's ridiculous.
09 December 2010 @ 10:30 pm
I have somewhat religiously been following LOOKBOOK.NU, a website where people from all across the world post fashion shots of themselves/their outfits for everyone to see/comment, for a few months now. At first, I thought it would be cool just to see what they were wearing, see if I could buy what they bought if it was nice/cheap enough for me. But as time passed, I realized how much I was learning from it, how many fashion exceptions there are, how to make simple things look very chic casual. And I know as I'm typing all this I sound like such a squealing girl with the make-up and the hair and the OMG, THAT IS SUCH A CUTE OUTFIT. But so what? It has nothing to do with the fact that I am a girl that I'm squealing over these things. But I digress.

I never thought anything really useful would come from just watching these people dress nicely and quirkily. But it has and I am grateful because I think I have been dressing better than ever before, and in this kind of stressful environment, at least I can take solace in the fact that I look good.

Although that doesn't last forever.
29 November 2010 @ 09:48 pm
I finished NaNoWriMo yesterday. Here's the final word cloud:

I didn't actually finish the story, but it ended at a convenient stuff for it to be a fifty thousand word novel. I'm supposed to spend the next month editing it, but I have a feeling Decemeber is going to be busy, especially with my procrastinating and finals coming up so super soon. Oh, god, finals are coming up soon. Not to mention, I have to finish HERO because I plan on sending it out as a Christmas present. But don't tell anyone I said that!

Here is a scene I would really like to write for it, but I doubt it'll happen because I want it to be all meaningful and whatever. Besides, Ophelia dies with too much panache. YOU'RE NOT CYRANO, SILLY GIRL. JUST DIE ALREADY.

It's hard getting back into writing in present tense after writing fifty thousand words in past tense.


Ophelia inhales sharply as a warmth oozes over her abdomen, over her fingers as she grabs at the blade now firmly impaled in her stomach. She breathes in spurts, then, not quite believing that he had done it--he had done it--and this time there was no coming back from this wound. Even if Mallory were to come to her rescue right now, even if Max had never stabbed her in the first place--knowing that he is capable of as much is enough.

Max stares at her, wide-eyed, as though he couldn't quite believe what he'd done either. His fingers jump from the blade's hilt, and he staggers backward, stumbling on his feet as she chokes on the air running from her lungs. She blinks slowly, like it will slow time, like if she took her sweet time closing her eyes she would never have to close them at all, and for some reason she decides that it would be a good idea to use the last of her energy to try to sit up.

But the pain in her stomach is unbearable, piercing, aching, thudding, sharp and dull, all at once, spiderwebbing from the very muscles in her torso to her fingertips and toes and brain. The breaths were leaving her faster now, and she feels as though she's choking on the very thing that's supposed to be keeping her alive.

Her head drops back to the muddy earth, her mouth wide open with gasps, her fingers desperately clutching at the leaves of grass, hoping to keep her grounded longer. Ophelia can feel the cold seeping into her bones as she watches Max. He shakes his head, denying what he's just done to her, justifying his actions, probably. But he can't take his eyes off of her. She grins at this fact and wishes he had been looking at her from the very beginning, not at the very end.

"Ophelia!" she hears, and her eyes snap open and her breathing catches up to her at the sound of the voice, so familiar and warm and soothing that she wants to hear more of it, would push Max away with her remaining heartbeats to hear more of it. And she is lifted into arms that hold her tightly, hands that press against her wound to stop the bleeding and hold off death to no avail. It's Sam, his golden head of light glowing in the moonbeams, his eyes brilliantly gleaming like the dagger before it had pierced her. He is crying--although she doesn't think he realizes it; Sam never cries--and he leans close to her, his hair falling into her eyes and making them itchy.

"Ophelia," he says again, and she felt his love falling on her face, his tears dripping a finish over it to keep it there forever. "Ophelia. Ophelia!"

I'm here, I'm here, she thinks and finds she is no longer able to focus on the ruggedness of his face. So she looks at the sky, lifting her face to the stars, where there is the glow beams of the sun and moon, light and darkness.

Then there is darkness and Sam's crying trails into a soothing quiet and Ophelia's mind is swept clean of its thoughts, save for one:

I am here.
21 November 2010 @ 09:40 pm
and lift their faces to the stars.

This is an excerpt from my NaNoWriMo novel, previously called CALLING, currently called WANDERLUST. I don't know if I've changed the tags so they link to the same entries, so I just posted both. Anyway, this scene was inspired by the above quote from Ovid's Metamorphosis, which I haven't read but which I came across when looking up some Latin terminology for the name of the worlds in WANDERLUST.

I don't know why this quote affected me so much, just that it did. Maybe it's because I figure, if you look at the sky, you would already be lifting your face to the stars, but sometimes that's not what you see. Sometimes you look at the sky and you see the blue of the sky or the grey of the clouds or the darkness of the night. Sometimes you gaze at the stars. But does one ever just lift their face to the stars, at the millions and billions of glowing lights that might already be gone?

That was my attempt at trying to say something meaningful. I think I'll go back to blabbering nonsense. It's easier and, ironically, makes me seem less of a fool


With his foot fallen from the accelerator, Simon slowed to a stop a few miles outside of Lacuna’s world boundaries. After the initial shock of how mind-bogglingly easy it was to break through the tenroe, Simon was ejected into the darkness of space, of the worldly paths, in somewhat of a daze. The tenroe was supposed to be impenetrable from both sides. It was thought that Dex had used some kind of device to pierce the tenroe, but if Simon was any proof, nothing was needed at all. Or maybe the tenroe was still vulnerable from when Dex had broken through it. Lulling in mid-space, Simon tried to think of a possible way that what he had accomplished had been feasible, but his mind kept wandering into the darkness that surrounded him.

He could see the stars.

It wouldn’t have been that big of a deal because everyone knew what the stars looked like, knew they were glowing orbs of incandescent light shining and contrasting against the darkness that was the universe, but for some reason it hit Simon particularly hard that he could see them—really see them, like a million suns burning around the planet that was him—even in the broad light of the Sun that lit up Lacuna at the moment.

The stars reminded him of the cliff at the plateau, where he, Leau, and Dex would camp out and watch the stars until their eyes blinked out, where he and Quynh had had their conversation just last night. And it was difficult to think that everything had been all right just last night.