I alluded to this in my Thanksgiving post, but I think it's time I talked about what's so apparently different in my way of viewing the world and more specifically myself that makes me perhaps almost unhealthily comfortable in my "queer" identity.
We're all queer. Maybe you disagree, but I'm okay with that. I get it. You've always identified with your own gender entirely and not the opposite, and you're definitely straight. Never any question in your mind about your own gender or sexuality because you followed the rules. Except I still say you're queer. I won't say you're in denial, confused, or lying to yourself, but I will say you're queer. It's just what I believe.
Somehow, in the midst of a rather chaotic childhood full of divorce, never-ending fights, and an endless onslaught of conflicting opinions, my young mind had an idea so powerful that it completely silenced the drama of the outside world. I remember being consumed at various points of my life by the idea. It wasn't always clear at the time what was going on, but looking back, I can see all the various times in my life when the idea drove me to insanity. I didn't know what it was then, but I do now.
As a child, I was partial to legos and cars instead of barbies and whatever else little girls are supposed to play with. A normal child would have been told no and likely forced to act more girly. But, spoiled though I was, my femininity was the least of anyone's worries. I liked my legos and cars, and neither of my parents could see the harm these obviously male toys would have on my development; keeping me happy and content was much more important.
No one ever told me I shouldn't like cars and legos. No one ever told me what to like at all, really. I picked out purple for a favourite colour, liked my hair in pigtails, and loved dressing up, like any good little girl would, all on my own, and I just as happily built, destroyed, and re-built whatever I pleased with the wonders of legos, like any normal little boy might. (I was never one for those silly sets though; I liked to make up my own stuff much more.)
So when I was told I was a girl and no one told me I was "doing it wrong," I was completely satisfied with that. Little confusion came when I was told that roughly half of the people I knew were also girls, despite some of them being nothing like me, and the other half were not girls but boys, despite some of them being very much like me. Male and female were simply a definition of the physical form of a person, and had nothing to do with who someone was. That idea was clear in my young mind right from the start. I had no reservations about mixing femininity and masculinity. To me, it was normal.
Not everyone around me thought this way, and I did definitely get some ideas of gender inequality and gender gap and all sorts of gender differences put in my brain, but those ideas never stuck the way the idea of "fluid gender" stuck right from the very start. By the time those ideas starting getting thrown at me, it was already too late, and I, being the independent thinker that I was, never accepted them at all. I was "too smart" for that.
My depression started when I was eleven. I can't say what exactly started the depression; it was just the sum of everything around me. But I knew by the time I was eleven-years-old that I didn't think the way everyone else did. I was weird. And I desperately longed for a world in which I belonged, a world in which everyone saw gender and sexuality the way I did. I knew then, though I'd yet to even know that homosexuality even existed, that I was queer. I knew that my ideas of spending the rest of my life with someone else weren't always clearly a man. I didn't care about the gender of the person with whom I was going to spend my life. It didn't make any sense to me that who someone was physically should have any bearing on whether I'd spend my life with them or not. I wanted to marry someone for their soul, not their body. Isn't that what a soulmate is anyway?
I came out as gay when I was thirteen, the moment I knew what the word for me was. It turned out to be the wrong word though, because gay meant I suddenly couldn't like the opposite sex. In my small Christian school environment, all it did was prove I was weird.
I'll spare you the downward spiral. It happened. There was a rock bottom. I hit it. Hard. I wallowed in misery for awhile. I spent a long time wishing desperately for that perfect world. I wondered why I was so different, so abnormal, so broken. These are the stories you hear so often. I could have been another dead teen on the news. But through it all, there was always that idea. It was more than an idea, really. It was truth. A truth which I believed so firmly in that I was ready to die, miserable, to stand behind, rather than try to be "straight." I never tried to deny that I identified with boys, that some days I wanted to be a boy (but never forever; I only greedily wanted to get to switch between male and female as I pleased), that I was so much a boy that sometimes I even had crushes on girls, all while simultaneously identifying with girls and enjoying being a girl and doing the oh-so-girly thing of liking boys sometimes too. I knew, for me, it wasn't an either/or option.
But light came at last when I realised that it wasn't an either/or option for anyone. Slowly, I came to know other people who, like me, didn't always fit the expectations of their gender, a beautiful mix of masculinity and femininity, and they were perfectly normal. Other people were pretty much okay with them, they were okay with them, I was okay with them! And that idea that has been stuck in me my whole life became clear again. Like I had just forgotten about it.
Somewhere between rock bottom and today, I found the word "queer." The moment I found "queer," everything made sense again. I made sense again. What I had known as a child, that my spirit and therefore my gender and sexuality were independent of my physical body and that was totally normal, came back stronger than ever, and the meaning of the words "totally normal" finally sunk back in: everyone is queer.
I know not everyone will agree with me, and that's really okay. But I know, deep in my heart, that what I perceive gender and sexuality to be is something multi dimensional and fluid, never either/or. It'll never be explained in human words. "Queer" is my way of saying I have no words to describe where I (or anyone else, for that matter) may fall in the dimensions of masculinity and femininity as they apply to my identity and my sexuality. It's beyond us to explain.
30 November 2010
29 November 2010
Destination: Peace
Advent has begun. (Don't worry; I have no idea what Advent really is about either, other than chocolate shaped like Santa, wreathes, and reindeer.) Yesterday marked the first day of the new year in the church, and as the first candle of Advent was lit, my family (although a bit coincidentally) unpacked the first of our Christmas decorations to begin our own new year. Out came the garlands and the wreathes, the stockings and the nativity figurines. The lights are my favourite.
It's a new year in the church now. We take out all the decorations we put up last year and start plugging in strands of lights to see if they still work. We find broken strands, one bad bulb making the entire string of lights useless, and we toss it into the donation pile. A plastic garland, just long enough to hang across the double doors to the dining room, has a broken ring, and it too is tossed to the pile of old decorations we'll no longer use.
This is my first real Advent. I can't tell you about the traditions of Advent or the church; it's a whole new year for me now too. But I think this is what Advent, at least for me this year, is about. Taking out the old and finding out what still works and what doesn't. Plugging last year's stuff in and seeing if it still works. It's a process of learning what's helping you out and what's not. What needs to go and what needs to stay.
I'm really excited about Advent and about this new year. I feel a little bit like I've just started a completely new life, like I'm in control. It's exhilarating.
But it's also a bit frightening. Like my priest advised in yesterday morning's sermon, I need to keep my metaphorical GPS charged and programmed (today's version of keeping your lamp trimmed and burning!), so when I make a wrong turn or don't turn when I should have turned, it can calmly say, "Recalculating," and show me the route to my destination of peace.
It's a new year in the church now. We take out all the decorations we put up last year and start plugging in strands of lights to see if they still work. We find broken strands, one bad bulb making the entire string of lights useless, and we toss it into the donation pile. A plastic garland, just long enough to hang across the double doors to the dining room, has a broken ring, and it too is tossed to the pile of old decorations we'll no longer use.
This is my first real Advent. I can't tell you about the traditions of Advent or the church; it's a whole new year for me now too. But I think this is what Advent, at least for me this year, is about. Taking out the old and finding out what still works and what doesn't. Plugging last year's stuff in and seeing if it still works. It's a process of learning what's helping you out and what's not. What needs to go and what needs to stay.
I'm really excited about Advent and about this new year. I feel a little bit like I've just started a completely new life, like I'm in control. It's exhilarating.
But it's also a bit frightening. Like my priest advised in yesterday morning's sermon, I need to keep my metaphorical GPS charged and programmed (today's version of keeping your lamp trimmed and burning!), so when I make a wrong turn or don't turn when I should have turned, it can calmly say, "Recalculating," and show me the route to my destination of peace.
26 November 2010
25 November 2010
A Queer Thanksgiving
I am thankful for my freedom. While I enjoy very many freedoms, there is one particular freedom that I have which I did not even know I had up until this week. It is a freedom I cannot define in one word, but it is a very simple freedom. It is a freedom that many others lack, and a freedom so ingrained within me that I was not even aware that it was a freedom until, at last, I realised that I lack certain chains which hold so many other down.
The thing about freedom is that it's not something you can put in box, wrap it up, and give it to someone else. And it's not contagious either. If I sneeze on you, you won't catch my freedom. You cannot pass on freedom. Having been raised "American", I have grown up with never-ending tales of people who died for my freedom. It's a powerful idea, really, that someone could sacrifice themselves for strangers who had not yet even been born. It's beautiful. But tragic. While I am thankful for my unique freedom, I am also burdened by the reality that sharing this freedom will prove to be difficult, and I can only hope that future generations will at last experience it someday.
The other day, someone recounted for me their own story of struggles with gender identity, and the more I thought about their struggles, the more I could see that those struggles should have been my own struggles as well. But they're not.
I won't pretend to know the pain of feeling trapped within one's own body, as if your soul and your body were not meant to be together. Like God gave you the wrong body. Body image is huge in the lives of many, if not all, people, and everyone has some kind of struggle with making who they are physically and who they are mentally, emotionally, psychologically, and spiritually match up with that. But gender identity issues are not something with which I can truly emphasize; I can only try to sympathize.
Reflection on my life and my own "gender identity", however, has led me to realise that I only lucked out, that I should know exactly what it feels like to be transgendered. In fact, by definition, I am transgendered. I never knew what the word actually even meant until I looked it up while writing this. I mean, sure, I got the whole "man in a woman's body" or "woman in a man's body" thing, but I've never considered myself to be utterly unfemale and utterly male, so it never applied.
I should be able to emphasize though. It has just hit me with stunning clarity that I, by luck or miracle, escaped ever believing that my gender identity was "unnatural". I've been pretty happy with how I was made, relatively speaking. I've had plenty of dislike for my weight, my skin, my hair, my eyes, my everything throughout the years, but never have I felt like my discomfort was unusual or different from those around me. I feel quite comfortable, having never been taught to feel very uncomfortable about it in my youth, in identifying myself as "queer." (I gave up on words like, "gay", "lesbian", "bi", "pansexual", "asexual", "tomboy", "butch", "dyke", etc. long ago, upon realising that I couldn't and wouldn't define myself with only one word.)
I find it just as hard to define my "racial" identity or religious identity as it is to define my gender identity or sexual identity, and explaining any of those is endlessly easier than trying to put to words my artistic pursuits which stem from my deepest understandings of self. I'm much more afraid that I'll receive judgement for wanting to be a writer or musician or actor or dancer or artist of any kind than I am for not conforming to society's ideas of whether I should like the colour pink or not or who I should be able to fall in love with. In fact, I'm more afraid to admit that I consider myself politically conservative than I am to admit that, hey, I don't always follow the "How to Be Female" handbook.
And for that, I am endlessly thankful. I have been blessed with the freedom from the need to conform to strict societal molds. Many people before me have given their lives so that I could have that freedom, a freedom which is so hard to put to words and define because the very definition of the freedom is the freedom from being defined.
I use the word "queer" because no one even knows what it means: it has no definition but to be undefinitive itself. I'm okay with that. In fact, I kind of like queer. The future is queer, and that suits me just fine. You don't always need a mathematical law.
The thing about freedom is that it's not something you can put in box, wrap it up, and give it to someone else. And it's not contagious either. If I sneeze on you, you won't catch my freedom. You cannot pass on freedom. Having been raised "American", I have grown up with never-ending tales of people who died for my freedom. It's a powerful idea, really, that someone could sacrifice themselves for strangers who had not yet even been born. It's beautiful. But tragic. While I am thankful for my unique freedom, I am also burdened by the reality that sharing this freedom will prove to be difficult, and I can only hope that future generations will at last experience it someday.
The other day, someone recounted for me their own story of struggles with gender identity, and the more I thought about their struggles, the more I could see that those struggles should have been my own struggles as well. But they're not.
I won't pretend to know the pain of feeling trapped within one's own body, as if your soul and your body were not meant to be together. Like God gave you the wrong body. Body image is huge in the lives of many, if not all, people, and everyone has some kind of struggle with making who they are physically and who they are mentally, emotionally, psychologically, and spiritually match up with that. But gender identity issues are not something with which I can truly emphasize; I can only try to sympathize.
Reflection on my life and my own "gender identity", however, has led me to realise that I only lucked out, that I should know exactly what it feels like to be transgendered. In fact, by definition, I am transgendered. I never knew what the word actually even meant until I looked it up while writing this. I mean, sure, I got the whole "man in a woman's body" or "woman in a man's body" thing, but I've never considered myself to be utterly unfemale and utterly male, so it never applied.
I should be able to emphasize though. It has just hit me with stunning clarity that I, by luck or miracle, escaped ever believing that my gender identity was "unnatural". I've been pretty happy with how I was made, relatively speaking. I've had plenty of dislike for my weight, my skin, my hair, my eyes, my everything throughout the years, but never have I felt like my discomfort was unusual or different from those around me. I feel quite comfortable, having never been taught to feel very uncomfortable about it in my youth, in identifying myself as "queer." (I gave up on words like, "gay", "lesbian", "bi", "pansexual", "asexual", "tomboy", "butch", "dyke", etc. long ago, upon realising that I couldn't and wouldn't define myself with only one word.)
I find it just as hard to define my "racial" identity or religious identity as it is to define my gender identity or sexual identity, and explaining any of those is endlessly easier than trying to put to words my artistic pursuits which stem from my deepest understandings of self. I'm much more afraid that I'll receive judgement for wanting to be a writer or musician or actor or dancer or artist of any kind than I am for not conforming to society's ideas of whether I should like the colour pink or not or who I should be able to fall in love with. In fact, I'm more afraid to admit that I consider myself politically conservative than I am to admit that, hey, I don't always follow the "How to Be Female" handbook.
And for that, I am endlessly thankful. I have been blessed with the freedom from the need to conform to strict societal molds. Many people before me have given their lives so that I could have that freedom, a freedom which is so hard to put to words and define because the very definition of the freedom is the freedom from being defined.
I use the word "queer" because no one even knows what it means: it has no definition but to be undefinitive itself. I'm okay with that. In fact, I kind of like queer. The future is queer, and that suits me just fine. You don't always need a mathematical law.
24 November 2010
I cannot comprehend my life. I give up. It is beyond my simple mind to ever understand what on Earth (or elsewhere) could possibly make all that happens happen. I certainly am not the one making everything happen; I'm simply not that powerful.
I don't feel like bragging about my life though. To be honest, I'm a little scared. Paranoid. Everything has been working out too well. Like someone is writing a kid's book. Sure, I run into problems, but then everything is magically overcome when I say "please" and "thank you" and remember to wash my hands. It is way too easy.
I haven't felt like writing about my life, my ideas, my thoughts, or anything that has to do with me at all for awhile. It's just growing on my subconscious more and more. As if talking about me will make someone realise that whoever is in charge made a mistake and forgot to give me the hellish life everyone else seems to experience, and they'll give me what I deserve.
I'm excited, happy, appreciative, thankful, and, as I've recently realised, not just nervous, but scared out of my mind. And I'm not sure I'd have it any other way.
I'll post something for Thanksgiving (in America) tomorrow, but I'll be spending my weekend recording music, so I won't post again after tomorrow until Monday or Tuesday.
I don't feel like bragging about my life though. To be honest, I'm a little scared. Paranoid. Everything has been working out too well. Like someone is writing a kid's book. Sure, I run into problems, but then everything is magically overcome when I say "please" and "thank you" and remember to wash my hands. It is way too easy.
I haven't felt like writing about my life, my ideas, my thoughts, or anything that has to do with me at all for awhile. It's just growing on my subconscious more and more. As if talking about me will make someone realise that whoever is in charge made a mistake and forgot to give me the hellish life everyone else seems to experience, and they'll give me what I deserve.
I'm excited, happy, appreciative, thankful, and, as I've recently realised, not just nervous, but scared out of my mind. And I'm not sure I'd have it any other way.
I'll post something for Thanksgiving (in America) tomorrow, but I'll be spending my weekend recording music, so I won't post again after tomorrow until Monday or Tuesday.
19 November 2010
Too Tired
It is half past three in the morning. Harry Potter movie was adjective. I need time to process it. I wasn't blown away though. The whole two parts thing makes it weird. I'll write more when I'm not so sleepy and tear-induced-headache-y. (No bawling in this one. Just a long stream of watering eyes.)
Today's lesson? Midnight showings make you sleepy.
Today's lesson? Midnight showings make you sleepy.
18 November 2010
It's Almost That Time Again
Christmas! Or maybe Chanukah or Kwanzaa ("Wtf is Kwanzaa anyway??"), depending on what you celebrate, or if you even celebrate at all. Regardless, for all of my American readers, Thanksgiving is one week from today, which means we are now only one week away from when it is socially acceptable to start pulling out your Christmas decorations and singing your joyful Christmas carols.
I love Christmas. The closer we get to Christmas, the more excited I get. Because I absolutely love seeing the big smiles on everyone's faces, especially the kids when they open up their presents to see awesome toys. And I love seeing how the world starts to transform as Christmas approaches. There's something in the air that's completely indescribable, but everyone's feeling it. There's excitement and joy in everything as we race straight into the "happiest time of the year".
Christmas is stressful, and hectic, and all sorts of things go wrong all the time. Not everyone likes Christmas even. There's plenty to be negative about. People are starving, dying. There are kids waking up to nothing on Christmas. But people change around the holidays. Even the grumpiest of people are touched by the spirit of giving that overwhelms people during this magical season. That's what's in the air: the spirit of giving.
I give music. I'm excited about it too. Last Christmas, I played a little bit of piano for our Christmas celebrations, but this year, I also know guitar. And I have a month to learn still. It was fun when I was a kid and I could lead everyone in singing, sometimes trying the day before Christmas to learn how to play piano just for the occasion, and even if I wasn't very good, everyone was happy, but now it's even better. Now I know I can make music (especially simple Christmas carols which have like 3 chords only sometimes), and I can learn to play things much better, so it's not just a cute kid who's happy, but it's a cute kid who's happy and not too shabby either.
I can't wait for Thanksgiving, so I can start wearing my Christmas spirit everywhere I go.
I love Christmas. The closer we get to Christmas, the more excited I get. Because I absolutely love seeing the big smiles on everyone's faces, especially the kids when they open up their presents to see awesome toys. And I love seeing how the world starts to transform as Christmas approaches. There's something in the air that's completely indescribable, but everyone's feeling it. There's excitement and joy in everything as we race straight into the "happiest time of the year".
Christmas is stressful, and hectic, and all sorts of things go wrong all the time. Not everyone likes Christmas even. There's plenty to be negative about. People are starving, dying. There are kids waking up to nothing on Christmas. But people change around the holidays. Even the grumpiest of people are touched by the spirit of giving that overwhelms people during this magical season. That's what's in the air: the spirit of giving.
I give music. I'm excited about it too. Last Christmas, I played a little bit of piano for our Christmas celebrations, but this year, I also know guitar. And I have a month to learn still. It was fun when I was a kid and I could lead everyone in singing, sometimes trying the day before Christmas to learn how to play piano just for the occasion, and even if I wasn't very good, everyone was happy, but now it's even better. Now I know I can make music (especially simple Christmas carols which have like 3 chords only sometimes), and I can learn to play things much better, so it's not just a cute kid who's happy, but it's a cute kid who's happy and not too shabby either.
I can't wait for Thanksgiving, so I can start wearing my Christmas spirit everywhere I go.
17 November 2010
The Writer-Musician
You know what's been bugging me lately? Plenty of musicians become actors and plenty of actors become musicians. Writers and directors end up on stage/in front of the camera, and actors end up behind the scenes too. Or you'll find musicians who are talented visual artists and do their own cover art. All kinds of crossovers within the arts. (No need to even mention dancer/singer/actor crossover types) They're everywhere. But you know what you don't see? Musician-author crossovers. Actually, you don't really see author-anything crossovers unless it's a book about the business/art. In other words, no one writes fiction and makes "pop" music.
This bugs me. I don't necessarily want to make pop music, but I'm not talking about scores or Broadway numbers or anything either. I'm talking about radio music. Stuff you'd go to a music fesitval or concert or gig to see. I want to make some of that music, have relative "success", and then still have relative "success" in the apparently completely unrelated field of fiction writing.
I don't have a role model for that. I have musicians I love and admire, and I have writers I love and admire, but I can't seem to find a musician-writer to love and admire. It's like they don't exist. No one seems to make good music and good fiction, and it just doesn't make sense to me.
At this point, I just realised that one musician I love is also a passionate writer: Alison Sudol. But of course, she hasn't published anything yet, so I can't go, "Look! Alison Sudol has some awesome music, and look! this book is cool, unrelated to her music, and enjoyable! Proof that someone else can do it, and thus I can do it too!" just yet. Maybe soon, but I doubt it. I'll probably be shoving Stella Novela (That's my band's name, by the way. We have a Facebook, a MySpace and even a website, but there's nothing up yet, really. We just finally found a drummer on Monday. His name isn't even on there yet.) CDs into people's hands at the same time I'm chucking Call Me Lux (in case you missed it, that's the book I'm revising right now) at them.
But you know what? It bugs me, but it's also incredibly exciting. Imagine being one of the first people (I know I'm not the first, but it's not common at all) to do something. It's scary, but thrilling! When I do manage to live out my dreams of being a total artist extraordinaire, crossing over arts that have never been crossed quite the way I cross them, I'll only be that much prouder of myself.
And, honestly, I don't see why the crossover between music and fiction writing doesn't happen more. To me, music is just one way of telling a story, one medium. I'm not so much a musician or writer as I am a storyteller. I live to tell stories, and that's exactly what I want to do with my life.
This bugs me. I don't necessarily want to make pop music, but I'm not talking about scores or Broadway numbers or anything either. I'm talking about radio music. Stuff you'd go to a music fesitval or concert or gig to see. I want to make some of that music, have relative "success", and then still have relative "success" in the apparently completely unrelated field of fiction writing.
I don't have a role model for that. I have musicians I love and admire, and I have writers I love and admire, but I can't seem to find a musician-writer to love and admire. It's like they don't exist. No one seems to make good music and good fiction, and it just doesn't make sense to me.
At this point, I just realised that one musician I love is also a passionate writer: Alison Sudol. But of course, she hasn't published anything yet, so I can't go, "Look! Alison Sudol has some awesome music, and look! this book is cool, unrelated to her music, and enjoyable! Proof that someone else can do it, and thus I can do it too!" just yet. Maybe soon, but I doubt it. I'll probably be shoving Stella Novela (That's my band's name, by the way. We have a Facebook, a MySpace and even a website, but there's nothing up yet, really. We just finally found a drummer on Monday. His name isn't even on there yet.) CDs into people's hands at the same time I'm chucking Call Me Lux (in case you missed it, that's the book I'm revising right now) at them.
But you know what? It bugs me, but it's also incredibly exciting. Imagine being one of the first people (I know I'm not the first, but it's not common at all) to do something. It's scary, but thrilling! When I do manage to live out my dreams of being a total artist extraordinaire, crossing over arts that have never been crossed quite the way I cross them, I'll only be that much prouder of myself.
And, honestly, I don't see why the crossover between music and fiction writing doesn't happen more. To me, music is just one way of telling a story, one medium. I'm not so much a musician or writer as I am a storyteller. I live to tell stories, and that's exactly what I want to do with my life.
Tagged as:
A Fine Frenzy,
Call Me Lux,
music,
Stella Novela (my band),
storytelling,
writing
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15 November 2010
Mondays used to be my "update day", but I've since stopped having specific writing on specific days, save for Fridays "Things I've Learned" which is sometimes pretty similar to non-Friday stuff. Today, I'm going to do a sort of update though, as to where in the world I am right now, and who I am right now. A re-introduction. More than just a "weekly update" or anything.
So let's start. My name is Elizabeth Thraen. I'm on the last days of age 18 now (Amazing how time flies!), and starting to get nervous about my 20s no longer seeming so incredibly distant. Then again, we're so obsessed with age, and yet it means so very little. We have arbitrary attachments to our arbitrary numbering, but we're all different, and 18-going-on-19 means something totally different for me than it does for you or anyone else.
I am an artist. Whether it's graphic design or painting, music or theatre, I just love the arts. I love the expression of ideas, which is really what I think art is. It's a means of communication which does not necessarily rely on words or concepts specific to any one culture because it is about speaking to the heart, which has only one universal language. Sorry to get sappy, but that's love. I'm sappy at times.
I hate politics. Maybe hate isn't the right word, but I'm frustrated with how changes are made or not made and how the bureaucratic system works here in the United States. I have strong disagreements with both major political parties and thus vote independent in most elections. I know the independents have little chance of winning, but I strongly disagree with the idea of voting for the "lesser of two evils" when there are other perfectly good candidates running. It's that whole idea of the lesser of two evils which prevents independents from winning elections; people are so afraid of the other "major candidate" that they take their vote from the independent and waste it on someone they don't always like very much. It's a fear driven system, and I hate it.
I consider myself Christian, despite the Christians who have made a bad name for the rest of us with their hateful signs and their Crusades in God's name. I feel for the Muslims who are experiencing that same judgement (intensified greatly) right now because of the minority who have used their religion to excuse hate. Christian, to me, is about that exactly: feeling for those who are suffering. And not just feeling, but doing something about it. I consider myself Christian because the group of people with whom I commune spiritually consider themselves Christian, and I'm a part of that "Christian community" we have. It's not about who said "Love your neighbour" so much as it is that you do love your neighbour. And it's the most inclusive, loving, welcoming, etc. church I've ever stepped foot in.
But who am I today? I'm revising a book I accidentally wrote in a week, so I guess I'm a writer. I'm hurriedly trying to up my guitar and percussion abilities, so I guess I'm a musician. I'm taking classes at a college, so I guess I'm a college student. I'm writing this post, so I guess I'm a blogger. I'm wishing I had time to work on my webcomic, so I guess I'm not much of a webcomic artist/writer right now. I'm teach and direct theatre arts at a local high school, so I guess I'm that too. I'm a sister, daughter, friend, student, teacher, artist, cousin, niece, dog-owner, musician, tiredperson.
I'm going at the speed of light to new places all the time, so who knows where I'll be tomorrow.
So let's start. My name is Elizabeth Thraen. I'm on the last days of age 18 now (Amazing how time flies!), and starting to get nervous about my 20s no longer seeming so incredibly distant. Then again, we're so obsessed with age, and yet it means so very little. We have arbitrary attachments to our arbitrary numbering, but we're all different, and 18-going-on-19 means something totally different for me than it does for you or anyone else.
I am an artist. Whether it's graphic design or painting, music or theatre, I just love the arts. I love the expression of ideas, which is really what I think art is. It's a means of communication which does not necessarily rely on words or concepts specific to any one culture because it is about speaking to the heart, which has only one universal language. Sorry to get sappy, but that's love. I'm sappy at times.
I hate politics. Maybe hate isn't the right word, but I'm frustrated with how changes are made or not made and how the bureaucratic system works here in the United States. I have strong disagreements with both major political parties and thus vote independent in most elections. I know the independents have little chance of winning, but I strongly disagree with the idea of voting for the "lesser of two evils" when there are other perfectly good candidates running. It's that whole idea of the lesser of two evils which prevents independents from winning elections; people are so afraid of the other "major candidate" that they take their vote from the independent and waste it on someone they don't always like very much. It's a fear driven system, and I hate it.
I consider myself Christian, despite the Christians who have made a bad name for the rest of us with their hateful signs and their Crusades in God's name. I feel for the Muslims who are experiencing that same judgement (intensified greatly) right now because of the minority who have used their religion to excuse hate. Christian, to me, is about that exactly: feeling for those who are suffering. And not just feeling, but doing something about it. I consider myself Christian because the group of people with whom I commune spiritually consider themselves Christian, and I'm a part of that "Christian community" we have. It's not about who said "Love your neighbour" so much as it is that you do love your neighbour. And it's the most inclusive, loving, welcoming, etc. church I've ever stepped foot in.
But who am I today? I'm revising a book I accidentally wrote in a week, so I guess I'm a writer. I'm hurriedly trying to up my guitar and percussion abilities, so I guess I'm a musician. I'm taking classes at a college, so I guess I'm a college student. I'm writing this post, so I guess I'm a blogger. I'm wishing I had time to work on my webcomic, so I guess I'm not much of a webcomic artist/writer right now. I'm teach and direct theatre arts at a local high school, so I guess I'm that too. I'm a sister, daughter, friend, student, teacher, artist, cousin, niece, dog-owner, musician, tiredperson.
I'm going at the speed of light to new places all the time, so who knows where I'll be tomorrow.
14 November 2010
Family Camp Weekend
Ever been camping? Way fun, right? (It's okay; you can disagree.) I love camping.
This weekend, I went on a wonderful "camping trip" with my church which involved plenty of people going home Friday night to sleep in their own beds. Wimps. I, however, slept on the rock-solid concrete in my sleeping bag, along with a good number of other families from my church. (Okay, so I'm a wimp too; I was in a perfectly safe building at the edge of Angeles National Forest.)
It was an incredibly fun experience, as well as an odd one. The trip is meant for families, but everyone is invited; I went alone. I do have a family, sure, but they're members of a different church, so everything I feel a little bit like an orphan when it comes to church. I only ended up going on the trip, really, because I had told so many people that I was going to go; I didn't want to hear, "How was camping?" and then have to explain why I was too lazy to go.
Prior to the trip, I only knew one person who was going, and he wasn't there when I got there. Everyone else there was a complete stranger to me, just as I was a complete stranger to them. Besides the check-in table at the front of our little campsite, my entrance was pretty much unnoticed. Parents were busy setting things up for the activities that were going to start, and kids were off running around. I'm, sadly, not the most outgoing person on the planet either, so I quietly asked a mom if there was anything I could do to help set up, but everything was pretty much under control. Basically, that just meant I stood around awkwardly, trying my best not to look awkward.
It only took a few minutes though, really, before I was talking to people. It wasn't like anyone was going to let me just stand around looking nervous. By the end of the first night, I'd made friends with some of the people there, and was definitely glad I'd made the decision to come. Even just those first few hours there reaffirmed my feelings that I really like this church; I've yet to meet someone there I don't like, and that's not even an exaggeration. Everyone is incredibly nice.
Saturday was even better. By Saturday morning, having slept on the same concrete floor as many of the other participants, I was definitely considered a part of the camp. After breakfast (and plenty of down time), we had a "scavenger hunt" which didn't actually involve much scavenging at all, other than scavenging for the numbered tables with activities to introduce everyone to a different church ministry. It was much more fun than I just made it sound with that description. It may just be out of my own love for kids, but I actually had loads of fun guiding and leading the kids in my team through all the activities.
I made friends with almost everyone there. Those I didn't befriend, I only missed befriending because there were just so many people for me to befriend, adults and kids alike. We wrote a song, had a talent show, saw a play, played games, talked, ate, relaxed, and enjoyed our time together up until it was at last time for everyone to go, we cleaned up, and that was that. (Yes, my car was the last to leave. Surprised?) It's over now, but I feel so much more like a part of the community at my church now that going alone seems so much less intimidating now. It was nice to connect.
Also: I met a 10-year-old and had a discussion on linguistics and the evolution of communication. Dead serious. Crazy, right?
This weekend, I went on a wonderful "camping trip" with my church which involved plenty of people going home Friday night to sleep in their own beds. Wimps. I, however, slept on the rock-solid concrete in my sleeping bag, along with a good number of other families from my church. (Okay, so I'm a wimp too; I was in a perfectly safe building at the edge of Angeles National Forest.)
It was an incredibly fun experience, as well as an odd one. The trip is meant for families, but everyone is invited; I went alone. I do have a family, sure, but they're members of a different church, so everything I feel a little bit like an orphan when it comes to church. I only ended up going on the trip, really, because I had told so many people that I was going to go; I didn't want to hear, "How was camping?" and then have to explain why I was too lazy to go.
Prior to the trip, I only knew one person who was going, and he wasn't there when I got there. Everyone else there was a complete stranger to me, just as I was a complete stranger to them. Besides the check-in table at the front of our little campsite, my entrance was pretty much unnoticed. Parents were busy setting things up for the activities that were going to start, and kids were off running around. I'm, sadly, not the most outgoing person on the planet either, so I quietly asked a mom if there was anything I could do to help set up, but everything was pretty much under control. Basically, that just meant I stood around awkwardly, trying my best not to look awkward.
It only took a few minutes though, really, before I was talking to people. It wasn't like anyone was going to let me just stand around looking nervous. By the end of the first night, I'd made friends with some of the people there, and was definitely glad I'd made the decision to come. Even just those first few hours there reaffirmed my feelings that I really like this church; I've yet to meet someone there I don't like, and that's not even an exaggeration. Everyone is incredibly nice.
Saturday was even better. By Saturday morning, having slept on the same concrete floor as many of the other participants, I was definitely considered a part of the camp. After breakfast (and plenty of down time), we had a "scavenger hunt" which didn't actually involve much scavenging at all, other than scavenging for the numbered tables with activities to introduce everyone to a different church ministry. It was much more fun than I just made it sound with that description. It may just be out of my own love for kids, but I actually had loads of fun guiding and leading the kids in my team through all the activities.
I made friends with almost everyone there. Those I didn't befriend, I only missed befriending because there were just so many people for me to befriend, adults and kids alike. We wrote a song, had a talent show, saw a play, played games, talked, ate, relaxed, and enjoyed our time together up until it was at last time for everyone to go, we cleaned up, and that was that. (Yes, my car was the last to leave. Surprised?) It's over now, but I feel so much more like a part of the community at my church now that going alone seems so much less intimidating now. It was nice to connect.
Also: I met a 10-year-old and had a discussion on linguistics and the evolution of communication. Dead serious. Crazy, right?
13 November 2010
KT Tunstall Tiger Suit Tour, Hollywood, CA
Time for a real review. Or, uh, play-by-play.
Thursday morning, I awoke early (for a day off at least), took a quick shower, inhaled my breakfast in seconds, and ran out the door. And then I sat through the joys of L. A.'s only half-decent public transportation system (to its credit, it's definitely been improving recently) while I journeyed off to Hollywood and Vine, home of The Music Box, where KT Tunstall was to perform that night. I was there by nine o'clock in the morning for a woman who wouldn't even be playing until thirteen hours later. No, there wasn't any kind of line at nine o'clock, and the tour bus didn't get to the venue until two in the afternoon. Yes, you could say it was ridiculous to be there that early; it was.
When the tour bus arrived, my friend and I (yeah, I wasn't going to hang out at the venue that long alone), ran all around the venue, trying to see KT and her band. We ended up seeing everyone except KT herself before the show, and couldn't possibly figure out how KT managed to sneak in without us seeing her. Oh well. The line started to form around five thirty, and so we hung out there for the rest of the day. Obviously, we were the first in line.
At last, the doors opened at eight, we grabbed our spot right in the very front, as close as you could get to the stage without being on the stage. We took turns going got the merch table, and I ended up getting a physical copy of the CD and a Tiger Suit hoodie.
And then we waited. And waited. Time drags on so slowly while you're waiting for a show to start. Especially when you know you still have to wait another hour once the curtain opens.
Hurricane Bells were the opening act, and they got the crowd decently pumped, though I think everyone was already super pumped for KT Tunstall anyway. Their music and performance was good, except I think they overdid the whammy-bar-guitar-solo bit to an extent, and I couldn't figure out why there was a girl just standing off to the side doing back-up vocals. It seemed like she wasn't quite part of the act, except when she'd walk over to the guitarist and sing with him. She needed an instrument or maybe more lines to sing or to at least stand closer to the band and look like she was performing. It was weird and distracting, really. I talked to the three guys (didn't see the girl) after the show though, and they all seemed like decent people, which I always considered a big plus for artists. I hate finding out the people who wrote the music you love are total douches.
But at last the twenty-minute countdown began. Nine forty, the curtain fell again, and we anxiously checked our phones over and over again in anticipation of the show really beginning. Ten o'clock came at last, and the curtain finally rose only a few minutes late, surprisingly.
The show was incredible. I can't remember what happened first, next, after, or last; it's a complete blur. I'm still not sure that Thursday night even happened. Every song was phenomenal. I'm without words, to be honest. The performance was moving and inspiring. KT someone combines the classic rocker personage with classy, intelligent woman, with childish innocence, with being real. It blows me away how down-to-earth she is, considering her chart-topping, 5x Platinum music and overall success. The day before the show, she was on Ellen and whatever George Lopez's show is called (it's chosen ignorance, or I'd just look it up). KT Tunstall is living the life of the rich and famous, and yet, from the moment the curtain rose, it was clear that she was just an ordinary human being, still a weirdo like the rest of us.
There has been some talk of her not staying true to her fans or herself with this latest album, since, on the surface, it is a far cry from something like Tracks in July and her old girl-with-a-guitar image. But Tiger Suit is still KT, through and through. There is a certain rawness, honesty, truth about all of KT's music, which is what makes it worth listening to and makes her shows more than worth attending. She was happy to talk with the crowd all night, telling us stories and responding to the things audience members would call out in the few quite moments between when the audience would quiet for the next song and the next song would begin. It was as if she felt that the whole audience was a good friend, and she was sharing part of herself with us.
Add in that, after the show, we not only met her and got a quick autograph, but she remembered my friend from a show two years ago (his name even!), and was talking and laughing with all of the people who waited out for her. KT definitely appreciates her fans and has somehow managed to stay incredibly grounded, which earns her more respect from me than any musical ability could.
Next time I see KT, I plan to be a much better musician and person.
Thursday morning, I awoke early (for a day off at least), took a quick shower, inhaled my breakfast in seconds, and ran out the door. And then I sat through the joys of L. A.'s only half-decent public transportation system (to its credit, it's definitely been improving recently) while I journeyed off to Hollywood and Vine, home of The Music Box, where KT Tunstall was to perform that night. I was there by nine o'clock in the morning for a woman who wouldn't even be playing until thirteen hours later. No, there wasn't any kind of line at nine o'clock, and the tour bus didn't get to the venue until two in the afternoon. Yes, you could say it was ridiculous to be there that early; it was.
When the tour bus arrived, my friend and I (yeah, I wasn't going to hang out at the venue that long alone), ran all around the venue, trying to see KT and her band. We ended up seeing everyone except KT herself before the show, and couldn't possibly figure out how KT managed to sneak in without us seeing her. Oh well. The line started to form around five thirty, and so we hung out there for the rest of the day. Obviously, we were the first in line.
At last, the doors opened at eight, we grabbed our spot right in the very front, as close as you could get to the stage without being on the stage. We took turns going got the merch table, and I ended up getting a physical copy of the CD and a Tiger Suit hoodie.
And then we waited. And waited. Time drags on so slowly while you're waiting for a show to start. Especially when you know you still have to wait another hour once the curtain opens.
Hurricane Bells were the opening act, and they got the crowd decently pumped, though I think everyone was already super pumped for KT Tunstall anyway. Their music and performance was good, except I think they overdid the whammy-bar-guitar-solo bit to an extent, and I couldn't figure out why there was a girl just standing off to the side doing back-up vocals. It seemed like she wasn't quite part of the act, except when she'd walk over to the guitarist and sing with him. She needed an instrument or maybe more lines to sing or to at least stand closer to the band and look like she was performing. It was weird and distracting, really. I talked to the three guys (didn't see the girl) after the show though, and they all seemed like decent people, which I always considered a big plus for artists. I hate finding out the people who wrote the music you love are total douches.
But at last the twenty-minute countdown began. Nine forty, the curtain fell again, and we anxiously checked our phones over and over again in anticipation of the show really beginning. Ten o'clock came at last, and the curtain finally rose only a few minutes late, surprisingly.
The show was incredible. I can't remember what happened first, next, after, or last; it's a complete blur. I'm still not sure that Thursday night even happened. Every song was phenomenal. I'm without words, to be honest. The performance was moving and inspiring. KT someone combines the classic rocker personage with classy, intelligent woman, with childish innocence, with being real. It blows me away how down-to-earth she is, considering her chart-topping, 5x Platinum music and overall success. The day before the show, she was on Ellen and whatever George Lopez's show is called (it's chosen ignorance, or I'd just look it up). KT Tunstall is living the life of the rich and famous, and yet, from the moment the curtain rose, it was clear that she was just an ordinary human being, still a weirdo like the rest of us.
There has been some talk of her not staying true to her fans or herself with this latest album, since, on the surface, it is a far cry from something like Tracks in July and her old girl-with-a-guitar image. But Tiger Suit is still KT, through and through. There is a certain rawness, honesty, truth about all of KT's music, which is what makes it worth listening to and makes her shows more than worth attending. She was happy to talk with the crowd all night, telling us stories and responding to the things audience members would call out in the few quite moments between when the audience would quiet for the next song and the next song would begin. It was as if she felt that the whole audience was a good friend, and she was sharing part of herself with us.
Add in that, after the show, we not only met her and got a quick autograph, but she remembered my friend from a show two years ago (his name even!), and was talking and laughing with all of the people who waited out for her. KT definitely appreciates her fans and has somehow managed to stay incredibly grounded, which earns her more respect from me than any musical ability could.
Next time I see KT, I plan to be a much better musician and person.
12 November 2010
KT Tunstall?
I am not sure how I'm even awake. Or if I'm even awake. I got home after 3AM last night after seeing KT Tunstall. Who was incredible. And cool. And endlessly sweet and down-to-earth. I'm in awe. I can't decided if I'm really awake still. I have her pick. She threw it out into the crowd, and I got it. And then she signed it.
But I'm utterly exhausted. I was at the venue by 9AM and stuck around until I think almost 2AM. And then went to Denny's to eat (I hadn't eaten in like 14 hours; bad idea), but I was just dead. My lips are horribly chapped because it was windy as all hell in Hollywood yesterday. I have a cold. My body is wiped out. And I have no idea how I'm even awake, let alone coherent.
So this is today's post. Sorry. And I'll be camping this weekend, so there might not be anything until Monday or Tuesday.
11 November 2010
An Eleven-Year-Old
A few years ago, I did a writing exercise in which I wrote a letter to my eleven-year-old self. I'm not going to post up what I wrote because the exact words are irrelevant, but I clearly had a lot of animosity toward my eleven-year-old self back then, and I had to wonder why I had been so mad at my younger self. If I wrote a letter to my eleven-year-old self today, there's no way I could be anything but loving.
Eleven, for me, was a major turning point in my life. Fifth grade (the year I turned eleven) was definitely the climax of all my creativity as a child; I had comic books, plays, movies, TV shows, etc, etc. I was doing everything. It was great! I loved fifth grade.
But, being the climax, everything took a nose dive as fifth grade ended. Eleven was when I started spiraling deeper and deeper into the depression that overtook my life for many years of my life. If you've never experienced depression, rejoice. If you have, then you know what I'm talking about when I say I lost interest in literally everything as time went on. When I wrote the letter to my eleven-year-old self right, I was at the upside-down climax of my depression: the lowest point of all lowest points, but also the beginning of a new direction.
It's been a few years since then. While I don't claim to be 24/7 happy, I am not depression's slave any more and never will be again. Now, when I look back at my eleven-year-old self, I see a little girl, perhaps one of my brother's classmates even, who is about to start the hardest years of her life. How could I write an angry letter to her? How could I blame her for making me who I am? How could I judge her for letting depression sneak up on her and begin the downward spiral? How could I be anything but loving and supportive to a small girl who's life is about to come crumbling down on her?
I don't regret struggling with depression. I don't wish it didn't happen. Sure, there are so many years of my life I wish I could have back, years that could have been so much better if I hadn't had to wrestle with something endlessly stronger than me at all times, but who would I be without that struggle? Where would I be? Would I have learned to stand as I stand today without walking through that hell?
I've spent the past few years struggling to find the strength to at last overcome depression, and what has given me hope is the strength and bravery of an eleven-year-old girl. If I wrote a letter to my eleven-year-old self today, I would only thank her for reminding me that I have strength I know not.
Eleven, for me, was a major turning point in my life. Fifth grade (the year I turned eleven) was definitely the climax of all my creativity as a child; I had comic books, plays, movies, TV shows, etc, etc. I was doing everything. It was great! I loved fifth grade.
But, being the climax, everything took a nose dive as fifth grade ended. Eleven was when I started spiraling deeper and deeper into the depression that overtook my life for many years of my life. If you've never experienced depression, rejoice. If you have, then you know what I'm talking about when I say I lost interest in literally everything as time went on. When I wrote the letter to my eleven-year-old self right, I was at the upside-down climax of my depression: the lowest point of all lowest points, but also the beginning of a new direction.
It's been a few years since then. While I don't claim to be 24/7 happy, I am not depression's slave any more and never will be again. Now, when I look back at my eleven-year-old self, I see a little girl, perhaps one of my brother's classmates even, who is about to start the hardest years of her life. How could I write an angry letter to her? How could I blame her for making me who I am? How could I judge her for letting depression sneak up on her and begin the downward spiral? How could I be anything but loving and supportive to a small girl who's life is about to come crumbling down on her?
I don't regret struggling with depression. I don't wish it didn't happen. Sure, there are so many years of my life I wish I could have back, years that could have been so much better if I hadn't had to wrestle with something endlessly stronger than me at all times, but who would I be without that struggle? Where would I be? Would I have learned to stand as I stand today without walking through that hell?
I've spent the past few years struggling to find the strength to at last overcome depression, and what has given me hope is the strength and bravery of an eleven-year-old girl. If I wrote a letter to my eleven-year-old self today, I would only thank her for reminding me that I have strength I know not.
09 November 2010
Reckless Abandon
I had an incredible weekend. But it didn't start out that way.
Friday, as I joined in with some of my NaNo'ing friends to talk about our progress, I realised I was terribly behind, having not really written all week. And they were ahead, on track, or going to be on track very soon. They were moving, and I wasn't. And I thought to myself, "Figures. I'm just going to end up failing NaNo again because I can't commit to anything. This story is stupid anyway." Maybe I'd just lie and tell everyone I finished. Not like anyone would really know anyway.
So I started thinking about my new, NaNo-free life. It was going to be nice, wasn't it? I could focus on what was really important to me. Like my trip up to San Francisco coming up! First weekend of December, and I'm off to see my best friend! It's going to be awesome.
And then it hit me: first weekend of December. That's when all the NaNo'ers were going to be celebrating finishing NaNo. And wishing it were 1 November again so they could start again. Did I really deserve an exciting trip to see my best friend after failing to commit? Did I really deserve a vacation after taking the month off? It started to bother me that I was going to be celebrating my incompetence. I didn't want to have to tell anyone I'd failed. And lying wasn't really an option; I'd never feel good about it.
Grudgingly, I decided I wouldn't be allowed to go on my trip if I didn't finish. Telling my best friend I couldn't go visit her because I didn't bother to write a stupid story would suck, and what kind of friend would I be? I knew it would be enough motivation to get me through a miserable November. And so I sat down, looked at what little I had so far written, and started forcing out words.
And then something amazing happened: my narrator developed a personality, the story got interesting, and I was suddenly scrambling just to keep up with my out-of-control story. I caught up to the day's quota. And then I got to Saturday's quota: 10K. 20% done! I decided I wanted to hit 15K. And then I did. 20K? Too crazy. I hit it. Going out on a limb, I suggested 25K, and that would be my stopping point. 25K came and went, and I passed 30K Sunday afternoon.
What. A. Weekend. After only a few thousand words, my plot changed and started going in its own direction. Before I knew it, I was sitting at 25K at what should have been the climatic ending. Nearly 30K, and my narrator died. I knew by then I'd lost it, but I kept writing and let things play out.
And boy have things played out. I already know that what my novel has turned into is endlessly better than what it once was. Something about reckless abandon—a senseless disregard for quality and full embracement of spur of the moment ideas—led to what I consider my best work ever. Better than any other story I've written. I love what this story has become, and I cannot wait to see where the rest of it will go.
And then comes the revision.
Friday, as I joined in with some of my NaNo'ing friends to talk about our progress, I realised I was terribly behind, having not really written all week. And they were ahead, on track, or going to be on track very soon. They were moving, and I wasn't. And I thought to myself, "Figures. I'm just going to end up failing NaNo again because I can't commit to anything. This story is stupid anyway." Maybe I'd just lie and tell everyone I finished. Not like anyone would really know anyway.
So I started thinking about my new, NaNo-free life. It was going to be nice, wasn't it? I could focus on what was really important to me. Like my trip up to San Francisco coming up! First weekend of December, and I'm off to see my best friend! It's going to be awesome.
And then it hit me: first weekend of December. That's when all the NaNo'ers were going to be celebrating finishing NaNo. And wishing it were 1 November again so they could start again. Did I really deserve an exciting trip to see my best friend after failing to commit? Did I really deserve a vacation after taking the month off? It started to bother me that I was going to be celebrating my incompetence. I didn't want to have to tell anyone I'd failed. And lying wasn't really an option; I'd never feel good about it.
Grudgingly, I decided I wouldn't be allowed to go on my trip if I didn't finish. Telling my best friend I couldn't go visit her because I didn't bother to write a stupid story would suck, and what kind of friend would I be? I knew it would be enough motivation to get me through a miserable November. And so I sat down, looked at what little I had so far written, and started forcing out words.
And then something amazing happened: my narrator developed a personality, the story got interesting, and I was suddenly scrambling just to keep up with my out-of-control story. I caught up to the day's quota. And then I got to Saturday's quota: 10K. 20% done! I decided I wanted to hit 15K. And then I did. 20K? Too crazy. I hit it. Going out on a limb, I suggested 25K, and that would be my stopping point. 25K came and went, and I passed 30K Sunday afternoon.
What. A. Weekend. After only a few thousand words, my plot changed and started going in its own direction. Before I knew it, I was sitting at 25K at what should have been the climatic ending. Nearly 30K, and my narrator died. I knew by then I'd lost it, but I kept writing and let things play out.
And boy have things played out. I already know that what my novel has turned into is endlessly better than what it once was. Something about reckless abandon—a senseless disregard for quality and full embracement of spur of the moment ideas—led to what I consider my best work ever. Better than any other story I've written. I love what this story has become, and I cannot wait to see where the rest of it will go.
And then comes the revision.
06 November 2010
Luce's Dream
Hey! Guess what? Another excerpt for Call Me Lux is available for your viewing, free of charge! Yeah, I'm that nice. Of course, since this is in the middle of everything I've been writing (still in the early parts of the book though!), you won't know who all the characters mentioned are, but that's not terribly important right now. Just enjoy the excerpt!:
I don’t remember falling asleep— I must have fallen asleep immediately—, but I remember dreaming about the posters. They were demanding that I hand Whatsername over, but, for some reason, I was refusing. I didn’t know why they wanted her or, more importantly, why I seemed to have her held hostage from them, but it made perfect sense to dream me. My subconscious.
The posters began to turn violent after I continued to refuse to let them have her. They called in reinforcements. Grace and Hayley (though I’d never met Hayley) both came to get Whatsername, and Eamon was there too, though I wasn’t really sure whose side he was on. I think he was on mine because he was telling the posters just to let Whatsername and I be, but he also seemed to want to take me away from Whatsername.
It didn’t make much sense, like any normal dream, but the weirdest part was the lightning. It was everywhere. Everything I touched erupted with electricity. But the posters didn’t care about being electrocuted. I could zap Grace and Hayley, even Eamon and Whatsername if I wanted, but the posters were immune.
And then, suddenly, the electricity turned in on me, and I felt my whole body being electrocuted. I woke up screaming. The light was on again, and bright enough to blind anyone. Whatsername groaned, and then jerked awake suddenly. Within a second, she was at my side, sputtering nonsense. The electrocuted feeling subsided, and I stopped screaming.
“Luce! Luce! Are you okay?”
I groaned. “Yeah. Just had a bad dream, I guess.” Silence. “Was the light always that bright?” Whatsername looked up at the light, furrowing her brow.
“I thought I turned it off.” The light flickered. “I’m going to tell my dad to check the wiring. Maybe it’s the circuit breaker.” She stared at the light as the flickering slowed. This time, it stayed off. “God, that’s so weird. Ever seen a light do that before?”
“No.”
“So weird.”
Silence. I looked at the clock. It was flashing 12:03. The power must have just gone out.
“Three am, Luce.” She must have seen me look at the clock. Or just realised I’d probably want to know the time. “I’m going to go back to sleep if you’re okay.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Silence.
I don’t remember falling asleep— I must have fallen asleep immediately—, but I remember dreaming about the posters. They were demanding that I hand Whatsername over, but, for some reason, I was refusing. I didn’t know why they wanted her or, more importantly, why I seemed to have her held hostage from them, but it made perfect sense to dream me. My subconscious.
The posters began to turn violent after I continued to refuse to let them have her. They called in reinforcements. Grace and Hayley (though I’d never met Hayley) both came to get Whatsername, and Eamon was there too, though I wasn’t really sure whose side he was on. I think he was on mine because he was telling the posters just to let Whatsername and I be, but he also seemed to want to take me away from Whatsername.
It didn’t make much sense, like any normal dream, but the weirdest part was the lightning. It was everywhere. Everything I touched erupted with electricity. But the posters didn’t care about being electrocuted. I could zap Grace and Hayley, even Eamon and Whatsername if I wanted, but the posters were immune.
And then, suddenly, the electricity turned in on me, and I felt my whole body being electrocuted. I woke up screaming. The light was on again, and bright enough to blind anyone. Whatsername groaned, and then jerked awake suddenly. Within a second, she was at my side, sputtering nonsense. The electrocuted feeling subsided, and I stopped screaming.
“Luce! Luce! Are you okay?”
I groaned. “Yeah. Just had a bad dream, I guess.” Silence. “Was the light always that bright?” Whatsername looked up at the light, furrowing her brow.
“I thought I turned it off.” The light flickered. “I’m going to tell my dad to check the wiring. Maybe it’s the circuit breaker.” She stared at the light as the flickering slowed. This time, it stayed off. “God, that’s so weird. Ever seen a light do that before?”
“No.”
“So weird.”
Silence. I looked at the clock. It was flashing 12:03. The power must have just gone out.
“Three am, Luce.” She must have seen me look at the clock. Or just realised I’d probably want to know the time. “I’m going to go back to sleep if you’re okay.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Silence.
05 November 2010
Buried Treasure
Okay, I'll admit it: I miss blogging daily. I should focus on NaNo, but I need to blog. It makes me think and reflect even when I don't want to. Blogging, as annoying as it gets sometimes, is fun. It's freeing, liberating—it understands me. You understand me. Even if you don't.
When I blog, I explore a little corner of my mind, find some buried treasures, and re-organise everything so I can find those treasures more easily next time. Blogging, for me, is a never-ending process of cleaning and discovering and re-organising what's in my head. And translating. Somehow, the clutter must be turned into coherent words for others to understand, and the process of doing so helps me to appreciate my own self more.
I cannot stay mad when I blog. If I'm angry or upset or unhappy in anyway, blogging helps me see what's bothering me, and then, more importantly, find a way out. Blogging gives me solutions to the problems lost within my cluttered head, even if it never spells anything out for me.
Without blogging, I don't think I would have made it to today, to the point I am at right now. I wouldn't be able to hold the weight of all the things I hold if I did not take time every day to make sense of everything. Because what I do is not just narrate, but analyse. I have to analyse. I'm incredibly analytical, even if, for those who know me beyond this blog, I'm also incredibly emotional.
Blogging has helped me come to realise who I am, in a way. I've learned to throw out the either or definitions and embrace my own definitions of fluidity. Because nothing is black and white. I'm not only analytical or only emotional; I'm not only feminine or only masculine; I'm not only extroverted or introverted—I am all that and more.
I like those silly "How male/female are you?" checkbox tests, actually. I mean, the criteria for being male and the criteria for being female are both incredibly stupid, but a high "male" score doesn't mean a low "female" score, nor does a low male score mean a high female score. You could be anywhere from 0% male and 0% female to 100% male and 100% female. Masculinity does not mean the absence of femininity just as femininity does not mean the absence of masculinity. Nor does introspection mean a lack of extroversion or emotion a lack of logic.
I know this instinctively. It's in my nature to recognise this. Blogging has helped me dig this inborn instinct out from underneath all the learned ideas about society and human nature from my environment and culture. With every moment I spend blogging, I am digging up more and more buried treasures, all the things I knew before society burdened me with conflicting knowledge.
I'm back to blogging every day already.
When I blog, I explore a little corner of my mind, find some buried treasures, and re-organise everything so I can find those treasures more easily next time. Blogging, for me, is a never-ending process of cleaning and discovering and re-organising what's in my head. And translating. Somehow, the clutter must be turned into coherent words for others to understand, and the process of doing so helps me to appreciate my own self more.
I cannot stay mad when I blog. If I'm angry or upset or unhappy in anyway, blogging helps me see what's bothering me, and then, more importantly, find a way out. Blogging gives me solutions to the problems lost within my cluttered head, even if it never spells anything out for me.
Without blogging, I don't think I would have made it to today, to the point I am at right now. I wouldn't be able to hold the weight of all the things I hold if I did not take time every day to make sense of everything. Because what I do is not just narrate, but analyse. I have to analyse. I'm incredibly analytical, even if, for those who know me beyond this blog, I'm also incredibly emotional.
Blogging has helped me come to realise who I am, in a way. I've learned to throw out the either or definitions and embrace my own definitions of fluidity. Because nothing is black and white. I'm not only analytical or only emotional; I'm not only feminine or only masculine; I'm not only extroverted or introverted—I am all that and more.
I like those silly "How male/female are you?" checkbox tests, actually. I mean, the criteria for being male and the criteria for being female are both incredibly stupid, but a high "male" score doesn't mean a low "female" score, nor does a low male score mean a high female score. You could be anywhere from 0% male and 0% female to 100% male and 100% female. Masculinity does not mean the absence of femininity just as femininity does not mean the absence of masculinity. Nor does introspection mean a lack of extroversion or emotion a lack of logic.
I know this instinctively. It's in my nature to recognise this. Blogging has helped me dig this inborn instinct out from underneath all the learned ideas about society and human nature from my environment and culture. With every moment I spend blogging, I am digging up more and more buried treasures, all the things I knew before society burdened me with conflicting knowledge.
I'm back to blogging every day already.
04 November 2010
Thursday
I am in love with this cover of "Maps" by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Karen O doesn't realise this, but "Maps" is actually about the unconditional love of a parent (biological or otherwise) for their child.
I don't really have much to say. This week has been dragging on, and I'm a little behind with my NaNo'ing right now, but we're ahead of schedule with rehearsals for Where the Wild Berries Grow, so I have a little time to catch up now before Monday. Nevermind the 20-something-page paper I'm writing this weekend.
But it's an autobiography; I could write about myself for 200 pages and still have more to write about.
I know this is short, but I'm fighting a cold, so I'm going to get some sleep. See you Tuesday!
I don't really have much to say. This week has been dragging on, and I'm a little behind with my NaNo'ing right now, but we're ahead of schedule with rehearsals for Where the Wild Berries Grow, so I have a little time to catch up now before Monday. Nevermind the 20-something-page paper I'm writing this weekend.
But it's an autobiography; I could write about myself for 200 pages and still have more to write about.
I know this is short, but I'm fighting a cold, so I'm going to get some sleep. See you Tuesday!
02 November 2010
Call Me NaNo-ing
It is November. I am exhausted. (When am I not?) National Novel Writing Month has begun.
I realise I haven't posted in a few days, and I apologise. Don't worry; it's not permanent. But we're down to a T/Th blog (with more posts when I can) for right now, okay? I'll post up excerpts from my NaNo throughout the month so you can see what I'm working on. Like the except we have below. These are the first words, completely unrevised, of my novel, Call Me Lux:
Call me Lux. I used to be known as Luce, Lucine Merrick, but almost no one knows me as Luce these days. That's what happens when you're famous. Oh well.
I always figured I was pretty ordinary. I wasn't particularly happy about it, but I accepted it. It was out of my control, so I knew better than to dwell on it. My hair was brown, plain, flat. It didn't do much but sort of hang there. It never held curl very well, it wasn't shiny, and it wasn't even a particularly nice shade of brown. It was just brown. Like fresh dirt. Like my eyes. My eyes were brown and dull and plain too. Some people had interesting eyes if you looked closely, like some bright colours mixed into their plainer eyes, but not me. My eyes were just brown. Plain. My skin was even plain. I had a few freckles, a little acne in my youth, but I never had that beautifully perfect skin. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't good either. It was just there, like everything else about me. Like me.
In school, I was never an outcast, but I was never popular either. Grace, my best friend since pre-school, was just popular enough to make sure I was never unpopular. She was prettier than me. Her dark blonde hair was shiny and naturally waved in some apparently attractive way. Her eyes were green, and everyone seemed to like green eyes. Her skin wasn't perfect either though. Like I said, she was "just popular enough", not super popular. We weren't queen bee material. If you've ever seen the movie Mean Girls, we were definitely not like those girls. Our high school didn't quite have those girls though either. There were definitely girls who thought they were the queens of the school, but there were too many people who didn't care.
My brother was the hot bad boy to everyone but me. He was Danny from Grease, but not as in love. He acted tough a lot, and I think he convinced himself that's who he really was, but before he got to high school, he had been a loving brother to me, three years my senior. Jules was his name. I loved him as a kid, and I still did after he changed in high school, but things just weren't the same. He seemed angry. He made my head hurt. I couldn't figure out what happened to him, and I slowly gave up on trying to understand him. Of course, this whole "bad boy" act made him hot stuff to all the girls. I think I had friends who were just my friends because they had a crush on my brother. I didn't really care though. I was okay with being used because I knew everyone used everyone. It was just how things worked.
I realise I haven't posted in a few days, and I apologise. Don't worry; it's not permanent. But we're down to a T/Th blog (with more posts when I can) for right now, okay? I'll post up excerpts from my NaNo throughout the month so you can see what I'm working on. Like the except we have below. These are the first words, completely unrevised, of my novel, Call Me Lux:
Call me Lux. I used to be known as Luce, Lucine Merrick, but almost no one knows me as Luce these days. That's what happens when you're famous. Oh well.
I always figured I was pretty ordinary. I wasn't particularly happy about it, but I accepted it. It was out of my control, so I knew better than to dwell on it. My hair was brown, plain, flat. It didn't do much but sort of hang there. It never held curl very well, it wasn't shiny, and it wasn't even a particularly nice shade of brown. It was just brown. Like fresh dirt. Like my eyes. My eyes were brown and dull and plain too. Some people had interesting eyes if you looked closely, like some bright colours mixed into their plainer eyes, but not me. My eyes were just brown. Plain. My skin was even plain. I had a few freckles, a little acne in my youth, but I never had that beautifully perfect skin. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't good either. It was just there, like everything else about me. Like me.
In school, I was never an outcast, but I was never popular either. Grace, my best friend since pre-school, was just popular enough to make sure I was never unpopular. She was prettier than me. Her dark blonde hair was shiny and naturally waved in some apparently attractive way. Her eyes were green, and everyone seemed to like green eyes. Her skin wasn't perfect either though. Like I said, she was "just popular enough", not super popular. We weren't queen bee material. If you've ever seen the movie Mean Girls, we were definitely not like those girls. Our high school didn't quite have those girls though either. There were definitely girls who thought they were the queens of the school, but there were too many people who didn't care.
My brother was the hot bad boy to everyone but me. He was Danny from Grease, but not as in love. He acted tough a lot, and I think he convinced himself that's who he really was, but before he got to high school, he had been a loving brother to me, three years my senior. Jules was his name. I loved him as a kid, and I still did after he changed in high school, but things just weren't the same. He seemed angry. He made my head hurt. I couldn't figure out what happened to him, and I slowly gave up on trying to understand him. Of course, this whole "bad boy" act made him hot stuff to all the girls. I think I had friends who were just my friends because they had a crush on my brother. I didn't really care though. I was okay with being used because I knew everyone used everyone. It was just how things worked.
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