NOVEL UPDATE

I'm on page 5 of the final draft.

Woo-Hooo...

Matched by Allie Condie

So I'm reading this book called Matched by Ally Condie [I keep calling her anaconda in my head] and it's about this girl named Cassia who lives in a perfect society--and I mean, like, pretty damn perfect. I would almost not mind living there--where almost everything is chosen for her based on mathematical equations and predictions. Including the person you're going to spend the rest of your life with, called your Match. There is this ceremony that everyone goes through in your 17th year to learn who your Match is, and a subsequent courtship until both of you reach the age of 21, when you get married. Supposedly, the girl gets called up and sees the face of her Match on a screen. But when Cassia is called, her Match is her best friend Xander. Everything is great. Perfect, fairytale ending. Except later, when she's logging on to her computer or whatever to read some rules about courtship [Or whatever] another face flashes across the screen; another boy she knows named Ky.

I'm only 100 or so pages in, but I already know where it's going. She's going to angst about Ky and Xander, and have to deal with the Society and break free of shit as she falls in love with Ky and a) she's going to run away to live happily ever after in the Outlands with Ky, or b) she's gonna overthrow the Society and somehow show everybody that life would be better with out them. [Yeah, okay lady, good luck with that] It's not even like it's really well written or anything. In fact, I would say that Condie is really not such a great writer at all. Cassia come across as wishy washy and a slow, almost dumb which makes me know that Condie was paying way too much attention to making the words pretty when she should have been realizing the effects of her language on her character. It's really just a book you read for novelty. Like the dystopia version of a trashy romance novel.

Anyway, it made me start wondering about the... stereotypes of romance. You have your classic Prince Charming: Everything perfect, sweet, brave, smart. When I think of Prince Charming, I think Peeta Mellark, of Hunger Games fame. I think Disney. I think Will Turner at the beginnings of the Pirates Movies. Anything beautiful, anything perfect. Prince Charming doesn't even know what 'flaw' means.

You've got your Bad Boys. The renegades. The Dangers. Remember Warren from Sky High? He's a Bad Boy. Remember that dude with the motorcycle who turns into a wolf? Possibly a Bad Boy. Gale could be a bad boy. Draco is a bad boy. Irial from Wicked Lovely is a Bad Boy. That ass-clown Heathcliff from The-Book-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named is a Bad Boy. Bad Boy's make your heart race and usually sometimes hurt your feelings.

Then there are your Doofs. Everything that isn't a Prince Charming or Bad Boy falls into this category. Basically. Like Finnick. And Howl [I think] from Howl's Moving Castle. And for comedic purposes, Edward Cullen. (Because let's be honest. He isn't necessarily Prince Charming because Prince Charming has zero danger potential, and he isn't necessarily a Bad Boy because well... he isn't.)

But it's kind of frustrating because in the end, everyone turns into one of those. You could even force the Doof's into being Prince Charming's if you really wanted to because most of them will do whatever you say, either that or they were heading towards perfection anyway. All romantic ideals come down to those main stereotypes and it's kind of annoying. It's annoying to know exactly what a character is going to do when I'm reading their stories, but at the same time it can be really annoying when they do something off the beaten path that I really didn't want them to do/wasn't expecting.

And also, on a personal note, the tragedy that things don't work out this well in the real world. Things keep happening. You never get to put it down and go do something else. There is no nice wrap up where the girl gets the guy and they live happily ever after. There really isn't anyone perfect, it's just a series of connections and experiences and happy moments interspersed by uncomfortable ones.

... I don't know. Then I went on YouTube and lost my train of thought.

Xenocide by Orson Scott Card

I think the thing I love about Card's books the most is how realistic, and while fantastical, and extremely logical they are. None of the characters do anything thats questionable. All of their thoughts are explained or implied in such a way that the reader always knows what the character is thinking or means, even when their train of thought is wrong. It's like physically being the character, having an inside look into their heads.

I love that this particular series is very well rounded. It's not a science fiction book only about space ships and aliens. Card developes the universe that his humans have come to live in. Card writes about everything that would influence a human being-- economics, society, religion, politics-- in just the right way. Lesser writers would try to include these things and be admirable for trying, but simply wouldn't be able to pull it off. It isn't world building, where the new things about this world that he wants to show you are obvious-- everything is tasteful. Mentioned only when the story calls for it. He's very true to the story too, which makes plot-lovers like me very very happy.

Except in this case, at the end of Xenocide.

WHAT WERE YOU THINKING???

I can't got back to sleep.
You know why?
Because, like an idiot, I rubbed my eyes at 6:30 in the morning and now all the sleep is gone and all I can do is lay here and think to myself you should probably finish the next book inthe the Ender series (Xenocide). You should probably finish reading that book. Yeah. You should do that.
Only I'm not going to do that. You know why? Because I'm lazy. Because I'm laying here in bed and my eyes are still tired and the rest of me wants to be awake. It wants something to do without doing to much. I think the sad thing is that I probably could have slept another couple of hours, I could lay here and doze if it wasn't for my stupid brain imagining all these things. I have so many thoughts running through my head right now. Don't you hate when that happens?
Like I remembered those shoes that my mom wanted me to exchange when I went shopping with my dad and now I'm really hoping that she'll forgt about them because I'm going to the mall again today but with someone and I really don't want to haveto carry a giant shoe bag around, particularily because the last time we went to the mall I had to make him stop in the shoe store to BUY a new pair of the same boots for my aunt. So mother stress is combining with social stress and that is really not fun.
Also I'm starting to realize that this is really not what I set put to do with this blog. I wanted to talk about stuff in the literary world and give you cool ideas and Fu. Things to go read and see bit it's not really turning out that way so I apologize. I wanted to give book reviews and talk about what it means to write but it's hard to concentrate on the big picture when your own little view is beautiful enough. I don't think people appreciate the food things they have enough. Little things like their own rooms or food or friends but also things like the place around them where they live. That they can see and hear and taste and feel. In my case it's my family and my friends. My whole life. I feel like I preach being lucky and thankful a lot but it's important to realize: it might help you get happy; might help you realize that all you really need is right around you.

Written Back in October

"Carmle, you need to get out of my fricking head."

"But I live here."

"Do I look like I fricking care?"

"Why are you yelling at me?" He whines.

"'Cause I'm upset!" I pause, breathe, wait for the words to come as they pour into my head, "Why does anyone yell?"

He's calm of couse. The smug jerk. "Why are you upset?"

"Because!"

It's not a reason, but Carmle doesn't say that. He just waits, smiling slightly.
I sigh, frustrated. At this point I think I begin to pace. "Because I'm frustrated. Because I just hate people right now. Why do you think I'm talking to you?" I gesture violently.

He ignores the insult. "What happened?"

"Nothing." My throat is closing up now, it's tight, the way it gets before I cry. "I just can't stand them. I just can't handle their--" lost words, "them! I can't! I don't want to anymore!"

I think the great thing about my version of Carmle, the one that lives just inside my head, is that he doesn't have to speak to get his point across. He doesn't have to talk to make me feel better, to make anyone understand him. He pulls out a chair and lightly grabs my hand. I have to do this gulpy-swallow thing to keep the tears from trickling out. I have to breathe deep to keep my face from turning red and puffy.

The dumb thing about me is that I keep talking, and that only makes it worse. "And I'm upset all the time. And I don't want to go to that place again where I feel worthless--" and on that word a hiccup bursts out and the tears start pouring. I can feel my face do that weird rubber band thing I do when I cry. I hate that face. I don't look at him, I stare at the kitchen table and I want to cover my face but he hasn't let go of my left hand so my right comes  up and sort of hovers around my cheeks, and then wipes at the tears (go away!) and covers my mouth (stupid rubber band) because I'm trying to keep talking and sob at the same time. And I'm peaking at his face really fast and then away. He looks sad too.

"But I think I'm going there anyway because I'm always tired and I feel like, slow, and... I don't know, like I'm not really here. And I keep zoning out. And I talked to Mr Great yesterday and he helped for a little while but only enough to get me home and I'm still MAD at them. And I just want to sleep." I'm so tired, "And I miss her."

And then I'm sobbing these great hiccuping sobs and evertyhing is running running; My eyes, my nose. My mouth is open and I'm sure I look crazy, but it's hard to care about what you look like when you're bawling.

It's hard to care what you look like, but I'm always conscious of what I sound like--I'm trying to stifle the sobs becuase I feel like I should be a lot quieter. We're in my house at the kitchen table and I know no one is home, but like a dream, I also know I need to be quiet because Thomas is upstairs sleeping maybe.

Camle lets go of my hand for a second to pull a tissue out of his inside pocket like Doctor Who and I cover my face then and wipe my hands on my jeans and I'm still crying. Carmle hands me the tissue and when I've slimed it into a ball, he hands me another one. He must have a never ending supply in there.

But he's quiet as I cry--I don't think he knows yet how to comfort people.
"I just miss her." I manage to get out whilst crying, "I just miss her." He's nodding.
When I've calmed down a little, Carmle's staring out my kitchen doors into the back yard. I don't know what he's looking at, but it's fall and the trees are beautiful.

"You've lost someone before." I don't ask it, becuase as his creator (or discoverer) I know weverything there is to know about him. I don't mention his loss by name, becuase I don't want to hurt him. Evertime I hear her name it's like a slap to the face.

"Yes..." He answers slowly, still in his own world outside the glass, "My father..."

"Mr Great says it gets better." I say, "But it's been a year and this--still happens. It still hurts so much."

"It gets better and worse," He says, "It's been ten years since my dad died and I still miss him, but not everyday. I don't think about him all the time, which is good. Mr Great said it's good to live life." He smirks at me, reminding me that while he's in my head he knows what I know and my memories are his memories. he sobers. "But...I also can't remember him as well. It's like you said yesterday, he feels farther away."

My face crumples for a moment because the grief as chosen to come again. To remind me, and I don't want to lose her. I feel rotten inside, like the parts of me no one cane see are being burned up. I feel hollow.

Carmle takes my hand again. "It's okay," His voice is rough. I think there are tears in his eyes. "It's gonna be okay? Right? 'Cause you have us, right?"

He's asking me, which is cute and weird at the same time. Like he's trying to comfort me, failing and so asking to be comforted in return.

"Right!" I  laugh/cry, smile, pat his hand, "Right. You have me and I have you."

For an instant I can feel the walks of my house expand and fall away so that Carmle and I are sitting at a table in the middle of an infinite room. And like ghosts, the room is filled by hundreds upon thousands of figures. I know them. They are the people that I've kept in my head, and the ones I will keep and the one's I've read about and the people I will read about, all standing around our tables, looking at me. They whisper: "And us..."

And vanish.

We wait for a little while, just sitting together. It got brighter which doesn't make sense since my kitchen is brighter in the morning.

"I don't want to be here, though." I say, looking at him.

And he leans back and interlocks his fingers behind his head. "Well, I don't blame you. Seems like your school is exceedingly dull."

I smile. "It is. I wanna go home and sleep."

"Or write about me."

"I told you, not until November!"

He pretends to be suprised, "But!"

"No buts!"

He gets out of his chair, chuckling. "Okay. See you later then, love." He kisses me on the forehead and walks into the light coming from the hallway.

I'm back in the library. "Everything is Fine" by Motion City Soundtrack isplaying continuously on my iTouch and my arm aches from its awkward angle. Forty minutes before the bell.

[hahaha! I love Carmle to pieces. This was just an excersise I did with his character, but looking back on it, it seems more like an exploration of me. :p Look for more stuff like this. I think I'll try and get more of these out since I'm not going to get to Carmle's part of the novel anytime soon, and I really need a Carmle fix once in a while. :)]

The INTERNET IS BROKEN.

At my house.

I have no idea what is going on but I've been once-again reduced to writing posts during school hours.

Not much is occuring in my life expect that. I'm officially eighteen, which is pretty cool. Or at least, it's cool in theory. In reality, it's kinda the same as being seventeen, except now I can lord over the rest of my friends who are now younger than me.

Life pretty much exists of reading (OMG ORSON SCOTT CARD IS A GENIUS. SERIOUSLY, YOU ALL NEED TO GO READ ONE OF HIS BOOKS RIGHT NOW. If my attention span wasn't the size of a glow-worm right now, I'd write about Ender's Game, or Speaker for the Dead, or the latest one I've finished of his, Seventh Son. Maybe I'll return to this later...) writing the second draft of Atramentum and dealing with the dramas of high school. January is becoming really really busy.

Story I Was Working on: 1st Chapter

"Number Three burst out of the tree line and hit the beach running. She didn't look back, she didn't slow down. Behind her, the droning noise of dune buggies came closer and closer. The sun was slowly frying her skin-- She hadn't seen real light in such a long time. The sand stung her legs as she ran and her heart thudded in her chest as she began to feel like she wasn't going anywhere. The sand was too soft and slippery. It was slowing her down.
Luckily for her, Number Three could not remember fear. All she knew was the instinct inside her to correct her misfortune. She kept her knees high and her contact with the sand minimal as she picked up speed. She kept her eyes on her goal; straight ahead, cliffs cut out into the surf. If she could just swim around the jutting rock, she might gain enough time to find a decent hiding place. Then she could plan what to do next.
She reached the cliffs and ran into the water, struggling as the waves pushed her back towards shore. She would have to swim farther out than she thought. The current was too strong.
The positive of that was she could swim under the water and perhaps her chasers would lose sight of her. Number Three caught glimpses of men on the beach shouting at each other. The dune buggy drone was gone. She did not look back. She wouldn't think of what she was running from; of the scientists in the lab with their round goggles and their cold hands; of the compound she had thought for so long was the only world she'd ever see. She wouldn't think of what would happen if the men caught her. Now that she was out, Number Three wouldn't let them take her back. She focused ahead of her, keeping sight of the shoreline, looking for a safe place to come in and hide.
The water was cool on her hot skin and even harder to move in than the sand. Now it felt like she was going backwards. The water was thick. There was too much of it. She had gotten tired from running for so hard so long and now a new bunch muscles were called to keep her safe. Number Three didn't like the feel of the water pressing against her chest and the suspension of her legs as the waves pushed and pulled her. She threw herself down into the water and struggled with the new experience of swimming under the surface. Number Three hadn't been prepared for the feeling of the submersion and the memories it brought up; for an instant she was back in the tank, in that forced floating sleep, unable to breath or move; suffocating. Gasping, she splashed on the surface of the water and wiped uselessly at her eyes.
She could hear the voices of the men on the beach, men calling to each other, searching for her and in the distance the whirring roar of a helicopter. She swam for the shoreline on the other side of the cliff--she would just have to hope that she was far enough across not to get swept into the walls of the cliff--and reached the beach just as the crack of a machine gun echoed into the air. She ducked her head and ran for cover; over to the rocks and tidal pools. There were several cries from behind her and lots of splashes as bullets hit the waves. Heavier splashes as a few men ran onto the shore behind her; she saw them from her hiding spot--two men in black came stumbling out the surf, going as quickly as possible to get away from the machine fire, and were gunned down; their bodies flew forward as the bullets hit them from behind. Another helicopter flew into the air space and a garbled loud speaker called unintelligently to the enemy. Number Three stayed still, watching the skies with alarm and confusion. Another helicopter was coming towards the others from the opposite corner of the island when men appeared at the top of the cliffs and opened fire on the first helicopter.
Number Three was confused. Now that she had gotten to the rocks, she didn't quite know what to do. Obviously, with all this mayhem, now was the time to act. The likelihood of the chasers seeing her running away was minimal now that they were distracted by this lucky enemy. But she didn't know where to go. Back in the lab, the janitor that freed her hadn't given her very specific instructions. There hadn't been much time. Only enough to pull open her cell door and shove her towards an exit that was mysteriously free of guards. He had been telling her something, fast directions that she could barely understand, that she didn't understand--only the end when the absent guards began arriving and he shoved her towards the beach and called run! run! don't stop, no matter what happens! keep running for the rocks beyond the cliff! keep running! So she had done as he said. She ran, her instincts took over, then she was there. She was at the rocks.
An explosion a few feet from where she was hiding made her cringe behind her rocks. It doesn't matter what the janitor wanted her to do. She had to move. With a quick glance around, Number Three ran back to another rock and then another one. She rock hopped down the beach, away from the fighting. The newest helicopter wasn't helping it's comrade like she expected it would, but dived down to the beach, then back into the sky, maneuvering and evading around the shots of the enemy. It came closer to her, and then away, closer and away. Number Three hid behind the last rock and watched it with annoyance and suspicion. She couldn't get away if the helicopter kept drawing fire towards her.
The explosions and machine gun fire died down. Number Three heard a giant splash and peaked over her rock just in time to see the first helicopter sink into the water. The remaining helicopters turned on each other, but before the enemy could fire it burst into flames and joined the first in the sea. The last helicopter hovered over the wreckage looking for survivors. Number Three took this opportunity to make a run for it.
She sprinted down the beach, heading for the curve in the island. She decided to run straight into the brush, out of sight. Number Three was halfway there when she heard the hum of the helicopter coming after her. She ran like she did before when the men were chasing her. It wasn't enough.
The helicopter roared over her head and dropped down a hundred feet away. It blocked her exit. She'd have to enter the surf to get around it or run up the incline of the sand dune on the other side. Number Three stopped warily. Her head buzzed and her muscles tingled with suspicion and expectation. What were they doing? What was going on? Would
The helicopter hadn't fully stopped before a man dressed in camouflage green jumped out and ran towards her. He kept his arms above his head in a sign of peace and stopped twenty feet away from her.
"Come on!" He called to her over the whir of the helicopter blades. "Let's go!"
Number Three glanced over her shoulder at the remains of the chasers. The people that had been shot down would have taken her back to the lab, where there was nothing but darkness and dust. Nothing new, nothing interesting, where every minute Number Three had wondered if there was more out there. Those people would have taken her back, but what would these people do?
More people came running up at the top of the cliff. One of them stopped and pointed, called something to the rest of them that Number three couldn't hear--there she is!-- and the men knelt down and put the sights of their rifles to their eyes. Number Three ran forward onto the helicopter with the man. Better she was away from the island with some strangers than stuck with the people she knew. Anything was better than the dull confines of the laboratory. She wanted to know what the world was like. She wanted to know what she had been missing out on. There must be more to life than black metal floors, and florescent lights.
Number Three clung to the seat of the open helicopter as it lifted away, soldiers on either side of her firing back at the men on the cliff. They whirred away and around the edge of the land. The turquoise water became a blur as the beach, the island, got farther and farther away. "