A Writer’s Inkling

“‘Give me my Romeo, I said, “and when S he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night, and pay no worship to the garish sun.” She smiled at me through her tears, and I knew the words I’d spoken to her would stay with her always and that years hence — while the old man she’d married slumbered next to her, snoring and farting and muttering about his accounts — she would look at the stars through her bedroom window and think on them.” – Revolution by Jennifer Donnelly. 

In my opinion, the book I’m reading is beautifully written and I want my words to have the same affect on people. I got hit by an inkling of a story. The words all came rushing into my head…and I’ve started my first book that I think will actually go somewhere. Maybe. Hopefully. If this is how book writers feel…..I am in love with it. Wish me luck. Jewel.

A Beautiful Wedding vs. The Overly-Used Word ‘Love’

My new favorite cup and the book I should be reading

I sit here and sip my cup of coffee(a bad habit at a young age) and dutifully put off the things I should do; the things I need to do. And instead  contemplate the wedding I went to last night and what it truly means to be in love. I’m in love with books and words; milk chocolate honeycomb and ritz crackers; popcorn scented movie nights and long jumps into deep blue-green water; my families’ love and music that touches my whole body from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I know I’m ‘in love’ with those things and many more but I am not ‘in love’ with a person. I’m afraid of commitment and even the thought of tying myself in a marriage someday scares me. Yet like many girls I dream of the perfect man and the perfect wedding day. 

        I don’t know why I’m so afraid of committing to something with my whole heart. I can’t stand the couples at my school telling each other they love each other when they’ve only been “dating” two hours. They will simply state that it’s part of being a teenager to do that, to tell someone that their heart beats for them, belongs to them. I can honestly write that I could never tell a boy my age that I’m in love with him, I would feel like I’m betraying him with uncalled for lies. The wedding I went to last night was beautiful and you could feel the love in the air, a different kind of love from teenage romance. It wasn’t sparked by passion and lust for each other or the need to fit in, but a need for each other to be together for the rest of their lives. To me that is love. I cannot give up on love when I can be around people like that. I read that 40%-50% of marriages in the U.S end in divorce but that means that 50%-60% end in forever. You can have the most extravagant wedding to the most low-budget wedding and it’s not going to change whether you love each other or not. You can’t put a price tag on something like that, which is why love is something that ties the world together. In every country, every province or state, every county, and every city there is some sort of love and that is a beautiful thing to me. Now my coffee has grown cold and I have to start on the million things I need to do. Jewel.

Tiffany and Dusty… I can only hope they will have a ‘happily ever after’

Who Said Love Couldn’t Be Put Into Words?

“The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real… for a moment at least… the long magic moment before we wake. Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, Reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams becomes so much smaller when they finally come true? We read fantasy to find th colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in Fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child that dreamt of the that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere South of Oz and North of Shangri – La. They can keep their heaven. When I die. I’d sooner go to Middle Earth.” – George R.R. Martin

You’re The Only One That Can Be You.

” A story is a letter that the author writes to himself, to tell himself things that he would be unable to discover otherwise.” – Carlos Ruiz Zafon. That is why I write. Three weeks I haven’t had the time or the place to write and I’ve read plenty of articles that will chastise the hell out of me saying “If you really love to write you will always find the time to do so.” But sometimes life moves to fast to sit down and tell your loyal friend, the notebook, about what’s going on and what you think of that; I mean some people don’t do that at all. I have a million things to write about, from the majestic pines at my camp to the sweeping coastline from Oregon to Southern California but I don’t think it would truly be the key thing to tell you about. I’ll start with a quick overview of my “time-consuming” weeks of summer enjoyment. 

• Week One: Mormon Girl’s Camp… six days of good, wholesome fun with three of my best friends
• Week Two: Oregon… to see my injured grandma which ended up being a great experience with my 19 yr. old sister, Kenna.
• Week Three: A Sunday to Sunday with my oldest sister, Ashley and four yr. old niece, Emma.

That’s it, back to back packing and unpacking and a go- go- go schedule to match, not that I’m complaining. As you’ve seen over the past two weeks I have spent a lot of time with my older sisters. The younger of the two, Kenna, is a writer like me and has a blog called Yours, Kenna on Blogspot(I’ll put the link at the bottom). Over the past few years I have looked up to both my sisters and longed to be like them… as mature as them, as well- liked, hard-working, fashion-savvy, etc. Yet over the past two weeks I have discovered something I’d never in all my discoveries had realized, I don’t want to be like them. All this time I just wanted to be myself but had spent so much time trying to embody the people around me there was no possible way I ever could have found the true me buried in all those personas. All I had to do was cut back the foliage in front of the big green sign telling me to, “STOP TRYING TO ACT LIKE OTHER PEOPLE” on my self-discovery pathway. I’ve tried to follow my sister’s path but we have different dreams, different personalities, and different ways to see things. Now what is so hard to realize about that? My sisters and I all see things from a million different perspectives. I’ve tried to adopt my sister’s writing style but I never could because I automatically write like I want to. I am my own person. There is no one else out there that could write just like this or look just like this or have the same dreams, goals, and ways to reach them like this. And maybe you should call me crazy for fully understanding this at 14, but some people don’t understand this their whole lives, even if they hear it a thousand times. Live like you could only live, dream like you could only dream, and write like you could only write. Jewel.

P.S. Here’s the link to my sister’s blog… http://yourskenna.blogspot.com/2013/07/welcome-to-oregon.html?spref=fb

 

My Wonderful Father and Beautiful Camp

The father figure seems to always play some role in any story really, if he’s there or not. Fact is, whether we like it or not, our parents play a huge role in who we are going to grow up to be. I fyour parents are poor…chances are you are either going to remain poor or determine you are going to make something out of yourself. Lucky enough for me I have grown up with two wonderful, if not aggravating parents. So, today being Father’s Day I though I could honor them both. My father is a honorable man, a contractor and loving father that has become a display of making something out of the thing you love. My father loves to build, not only for himself but for other’s around him. He’s taught me to “take my skirt off” and live a little. My mother is the nurturing on in the puzzle of my family; fighting through a cardiovascular disease to be the strong woman she is today. She supports me and who I am today in her words of wisdom and words of fault. I love my parents and although I may grumble about them consistently, I love them and hope to be as strong as they are everyday. 

Now I hate to part with you so soon after reuniting but I’m going to camp? The camp I go to is in the mountains and is a Mormon Girl’s Camp. Not only do I love going with two of my childhood friends but the sense of family everyone has there. May you find beautiful words  and beautiful experiences until I write in a week. Jewel.

Anger is in the Eye of the Beholder

One. Two. Three…Ten. Why don’t I remind myself to count to ten before I take action with Anger as my guide? The universal emotion Anger has caused more trouble in the world then anything before it…so why don’t we get angry and blame Pandora. 

Being my father’s daughter I tend to get angry very easily and you could go ahead and blame it on hormones and teenage angst but it has always been this way. Growing up I would throw tantrums like know one has ever seen and my mom has said, “I just had to let you get through it…mostly because I couldn’t understand how so much anger could come from such a seemingly happy little girl.” Consequently enough I knew I had anger issues starting from the fourth grade when I could feel it’s choking clutch start in my chest and it’s coal-fire eyes become my own. From there I think I’ve gotten better, for those few years I have been extremely able to control my anger but now I can only hope it’s hormones that has brought it back so strong. I hate having the unruly dragon of Anger crouched down deep in my heart and leaping up at the worst possible moment over the stupidest possible thing. 

 I wish I could understand what makes me so very angry with myself and the others around me. And please don’t now think that I am an unruly child that yells at her family and friends periodically because I don’t. It’s just sometimes, I get mad for reasons I don’t know if I could possibly desribe to even myself. Is that so wrong? I think it’s me begging for someone to see me for more then I am. For one day when I get angry, for them to come to me and ask “What’s wrong?” and “Why I think I’m angry?” not just yell about how I’m hurting them by doing so. I don’t mean to ever hurting anybody, but exactly the opposite. I’ve come to realize that anger is something I’m going to have to deal with for the rest of my life. To always fight for control over its horrifically strong grasp and fight with tooth and nail against the dragon that’s inside of me. 

How do some people never get angry? They don’t show anything but unbearable calm and you are just wishing they would blow up like you do…so you can at least be even. I sound horribly messed up in this post but to me it’s the horrifying reality. Jewel.

 

Is the “Ideal Love Story” Really So Ideal?

I’m currently reading Wuthering Heights and, like the many before me, I am falling in love with it. Not only am I in love with the beautiful writing of Emily Brontë but the story she has created. My copy of the book states at the top, “Where hate means more then love…But love means more then life.” This quote just seems to wrap up the uniqueness of this love story. Think if Heathcliff and Catherine had truly ended up married and perfect…where would the story be? You have to feel a certain amount of pity and a teaspoon of hate for Heathcliff to even brush the edge of understanding his true motives and his love for Catherine. So here’s my question for you, “What makes the “Ideal Love Story”? Why does society have this ideal love story to plaster in every child’s mind? Now don’t get me wrong ,roses being my favorite flower, I wouldn’t mind a few from a loving boy, but why roses? Why chocolates, teddy bears, hearts, and red-based colors? I personally want a Wuthering Heights sort of love, a Gone With The Wind sort of love. So much love that it consumes you. It makes you see past every flaw and every aggravating thing and never want to give up. You can call me crazy because Scarlett and Rhett don’t get together and Heathcliff and Catherine are tragically seperated, but they had true love. True love that wasn’t based on cheesy sayings and certain flowers but real people that don’t realize their true love until it’s too late and let their selfish ways blind them. I think people really love these stories and let them consume their hearts so much because they are so shockingly real and so beautifully chisel into the romantic fragments of everyone’s soul. I have fallen head over heels for classic yet painful romance and I am practically giddy over it. I’d love to hear your view on the questions asked above. To the chiseled souls. Jewel.

Book Ideas?

These are some of my ideas for future books…but I’m unsure which to start first! Please leave your suggestions and incite!

1. Greenwood Rehab Center has 4 wards that all contain different girls with different problems. Depression, Suicide, Domestic Violence/Rape, and the Mentally Unstable. One girl is telling the story of four other girls she meets from each of the wards and only in the end does she tell her tragic story.

2. Katie grew up in a small town but at 16 she moves to Manhattan…the city of her dreams. The city takes her on a whirlwhind of adventures through fashion, jobs, and society.

3. An extreme case of Teenage Angst causes Beryl to see only the negative…even in her favorite music. But when she finds an underground music department specializing in misfits she finally thinks she’s found somewhere she belongs.

A Million Pictures=One

Can I ask you to set aside that I haven’t wrote in over a month? Or that I’ve had a million and one ideas in my head and haven’t told you a single one? Here’s one, a lot of your life can happen in 32 days. Is everyone as impossibly dumbfounded as I am about the question of whether life is made up of a million small pictures or one big one? How about one big picture made up of a million small ones? I’m not sorry I haven’t wrote. Just disappointed in myself for letting it go day by day against my will. My will  fought by school, by the ridiculous bliss of  summer heat and friends, and by the battle between my mother and I. A battle of childish importance to her but a startling turning point for me between blind acquiescence and hard-earned rebellion. Is it crazy to not want to be judged by your sister that just seems to do everything right and your delusional mother that yells at you for everything you say? Am I mad? It’s funny how Juliet asks that of herself before she takes her sleeping potion. “What if I go crazy?”she wonders. I think that’s why people love books and stories so much because you can relate to them in the smallest of ways. A book can make up ten of the pictures that make up you. They run their papery fingers through your heart and soul and their author may never now the effect they have had on you. Much like The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. An Imperial Affliction cause an enormous effect on Augustus and Hazel but the author just doesn’t understand at first. Can we ever truly understand what are words could mean to someone? That our words could become a picture that makes up their portrait. Please share some of the things that make up your “big picture”, I would love to hear about them. Jewel.

A Whole New World

How am I going to explore the whole world if I don’t even know my hometown? I went walking in some of the neighborhoods around my downtown area and found some amazing things. I climbed hills and found amazing views, I discovered a “world studies” school, and fell in love with house after old house. My friend Isabella and I found a ‘whole new world’ within our little town,a world of uncharted sidewalk, towering trees, and places where the old coincides with the new. I am in love with my town’s beauty and suffocated by it’s minuteness. I truly wish I grew up in some beach town where I could surf and spend starlit nights laying in the warm sand or in a big city so I could take a subway to school and the skyscrapers could be my trees. Then again there are some benefits to growing up in my small mountainous town: everyone knows everybody, you know your grocery store by heart, and you could probably get in the paper pretty easily. Maybe I should try that…getting in the paper I mean. It dawned on me the other day that’s what I want to be, and journalist…or something of the sort. I think it would be amazing to be an editor of a magazine like Travel or Vogue. I know I’m going to have to work hard to get out of this little town but I also know I can get there. We’ll see what fate has in mind. Jewel.