You never knew personal privacy was a new-fangled gadget, did you?
I didn't.
But apparently it is.
First one nameless person, who dies her hair and is therefore old (I have no idea how old she is and I won't try to guess because I always offend people when I do that) says that I'm 'prickly' because I don't share my innermost thoughts the moment I enter her presence.
Someone else has complained to me on multiple occasions about how secretive her grandchildren are, because they don't want her in their room(s).
Uh, hello? Teenager (thirteen is a teenager, okay)? Room? Can we say 'Holiest of Holies'? 'Remove shoes before thou treadest on this ground'? How about 'Entry by express permission only; permission must be renewed for each entry; this means YOU'?
A younger woman from Mexico warned me not to leave my journal where my mom could find it, because she got in trouble all the time with her mom for things written in her journal.
So, either personal space is a new invention, or it's an American thing, or I'm an extremely private person. Or all of the above.
Is anyone surprised, or am I alone?
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Suspicious Mind
I'm a very suspicious person. If you ask to read my writing- any of my writing- I'll give you a long, slow, cowboy-deciding-whether-or-not-to-go-for-that-iron-on-her-hip look.
And then I'll say no.
And I won't change my mind.
I wonder why I have a blog?
On another suspicious note, I was at college today waiting for the elevator when I heard- from one of the elevator shafts- a female scream. No one else waiting for the elevator (or an elevator- there are four) seemed alarmed or even to notice. But immediately I thought "Murder!" and imagined the elevator opening to show a bloody, still warm corpse. Of course the police would be involved. We would be questioned. Remembering a scream would be important to determining the time of death (I regretted once again the death of my watch).
But then! What should I say if asked what I thought when I heard the scream? That my first thought was that someone was attacked? Surely that would bring more suspicion towards me, which would slow the capture of the real murderer. But you're supposed to be honest with the police. But....
The real question here is, which came first? The writer, or the suspicious mind? No one else seemed to think someone had just been stabbed (never mind, garroted; a stabbing would have given the victim time to scream louder and longer than that), or to worry over their statement to the police. But I do this a lot. I hope I never do cross tracks with a real murder. I've plotted so many in my mind that a real one would surely be a disappointment.
PS: It lives! My watch has been resurrected! Bwa-ha-ha!
PS2: The Teacher acquired three new hens today, and found three glossy eggs in her nesting spot. She is mildly ecstatic.
And then I'll say no.
And I won't change my mind.
I wonder why I have a blog?
On another suspicious note, I was at college today waiting for the elevator when I heard- from one of the elevator shafts- a female scream. No one else waiting for the elevator (or an elevator- there are four) seemed alarmed or even to notice. But immediately I thought "Murder!" and imagined the elevator opening to show a bloody, still warm corpse. Of course the police would be involved. We would be questioned. Remembering a scream would be important to determining the time of death (I regretted once again the death of my watch).
But then! What should I say if asked what I thought when I heard the scream? That my first thought was that someone was attacked? Surely that would bring more suspicion towards me, which would slow the capture of the real murderer. But you're supposed to be honest with the police. But....
The real question here is, which came first? The writer, or the suspicious mind? No one else seemed to think someone had just been stabbed (never mind, garroted; a stabbing would have given the victim time to scream louder and longer than that), or to worry over their statement to the police. But I do this a lot. I hope I never do cross tracks with a real murder. I've plotted so many in my mind that a real one would surely be a disappointment.
PS: It lives! My watch has been resurrected! Bwa-ha-ha!
PS2: The Teacher acquired three new hens today, and found three glossy eggs in her nesting spot. She is mildly ecstatic.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Something To Look Forward To
I am a writer. I'm not starving, I'm not beaten, and while I am mocked on occasion, I mock back so for the most part people don't pick on me. I'm not very poor and I don't live in a drafty, dusty attic with creaking floorboards (although my room is dusty because I'm too lazy to dust; sometimes I'm too lazy to put my clothes away). I don't have to walk to school in the snow. I don't have to work in a coal mine to earn money for my family. I've never had a traumatizing, scarring experience. I've never had a) an illicit love, b) an unrequited love, or c) a love that died/moved away to never be seen again.
I am obviously seriously handicapped.
I've often agonized over this. How can I be a great writer when I can't be self-pitying with a straight face, when I don't hate anyone, and when I don't look good in black? I have mood swings, but they're never very inspiring. And I'm too practical to work myself into a healthy fit of black despair.
(Being practical is a curse of Titanic proportions when you're trying to court the muse. Or a muse. Any muse will do, I'm not picky.)
And being cursed with reason, I'm not very interested in seeking out a traumatizing, scarring experience.
As a writer, I'm not very writerly.
But! There's something most writers do that I can do to!
(Drum roll.)
I can go on a writing retreat!
Except that I can't drive, and I don't have that much money, and a real retreat would have crowds and would be therefore uncomfortable. I'm not comfortable with crowds.
But I could give myself a writing retreat! I could write by candlelight. I could listen to music over and over and over (not that I don't do that, but I could do it without someone yelling at me, which would be nice). I could make a tent and write under the kitchen table. I could go write in my treehouse. I could (gasp) outline one of my ideas into book form! I could write bad poetry. I could write blog posts for those days when I don't have anything to say. I could break out one of my old first drafts and practice editing. I could write alternate endings to my favorite stories. I could do anything!
(On the more practical side, I could cook all my meals ahead of time so I wouldn't have to stop writing to cook or clean.)
I need to start leaving bed&breakfast pamphlets around the house for my parents. It could take a while for them to get the hint, but I can be very persistent.
I am obviously seriously handicapped.
I've often agonized over this. How can I be a great writer when I can't be self-pitying with a straight face, when I don't hate anyone, and when I don't look good in black? I have mood swings, but they're never very inspiring. And I'm too practical to work myself into a healthy fit of black despair.
(Being practical is a curse of Titanic proportions when you're trying to court the muse. Or a muse. Any muse will do, I'm not picky.)
And being cursed with reason, I'm not very interested in seeking out a traumatizing, scarring experience.
As a writer, I'm not very writerly.
But! There's something most writers do that I can do to!
(Drum roll.)
I can go on a writing retreat!
Except that I can't drive, and I don't have that much money, and a real retreat would have crowds and would be therefore uncomfortable. I'm not comfortable with crowds.
But I could give myself a writing retreat! I could write by candlelight. I could listen to music over and over and over (not that I don't do that, but I could do it without someone yelling at me, which would be nice). I could make a tent and write under the kitchen table. I could go write in my treehouse. I could (gasp) outline one of my ideas into book form! I could write bad poetry. I could write blog posts for those days when I don't have anything to say. I could break out one of my old first drafts and practice editing. I could write alternate endings to my favorite stories. I could do anything!
(On the more practical side, I could cook all my meals ahead of time so I wouldn't have to stop writing to cook or clean.)
I need to start leaving bed&breakfast pamphlets around the house for my parents. It could take a while for them to get the hint, but I can be very persistent.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
The Purpose of Life
There was a time when I sincerely believed that my purpose in life was to make people laugh. No joke. I thought that was the whole reason I had been sent to earth: make people happy. (I think this was when I was around nine. But then, most things I'm not sure about when they happened I think they happened when I was nine. I was a very busy nine year old.)
Probably I got this idea from a well-meaning teacher who said that Heavenly Father gives us talents to use and develop in life and that's our job. The Parable of the Talents. But I'm not sure, so I won't point fingers. It's possible I thought it up myself.
But the point is, there was a two or three time period when I was specifically working to make people laugh. Not just cracking jokes, but training in the Martial Art of Happiness.
I'm glad I did. I have a friend who is very depressed. So depressed that one of my nightmares is getting a call saying that she killed herself. I'm not talking white make-up and Shakespeare and angsty wallowing in the fun of being depressed. My friend isn't wallowing. She's drowning.
And so when I'm with her, I try to make her laugh. I practically turn cartwheels (I don't, because I have a bad back and I don't know how anyway). And I'm glad I've been in training for this, because it's hard.
I wish there was a happy, up-lifting sort of note to end this on, but I can't think of one.
Probably I got this idea from a well-meaning teacher who said that Heavenly Father gives us talents to use and develop in life and that's our job. The Parable of the Talents. But I'm not sure, so I won't point fingers. It's possible I thought it up myself.
But the point is, there was a two or three time period when I was specifically working to make people laugh. Not just cracking jokes, but training in the Martial Art of Happiness.
I'm glad I did. I have a friend who is very depressed. So depressed that one of my nightmares is getting a call saying that she killed herself. I'm not talking white make-up and Shakespeare and angsty wallowing in the fun of being depressed. My friend isn't wallowing. She's drowning.
And so when I'm with her, I try to make her laugh. I practically turn cartwheels (I don't, because I have a bad back and I don't know how anyway). And I'm glad I've been in training for this, because it's hard.
I wish there was a happy, up-lifting sort of note to end this on, but I can't think of one.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Spanish
Spanish is both making me sing and making me cry out in despair.
I watched a movie this morning. There was a brief- like twenty seconds- scene in Spanish, where first an ambulance and then a ride to the hospital was offered to the bloody main characters, and turned down. And I understood every (almost) word! After five weeks of Spanish class, I can understand twenty seconds of conversation! Yayyy!
But just now, I couldn't remember how to spell salad. There is a direct ratio between my knowledge of Spanish and my spelling ability. Spanish goes up, spelling goes down.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
I watched a movie this morning. There was a brief- like twenty seconds- scene in Spanish, where first an ambulance and then a ride to the hospital was offered to the bloody main characters, and turned down. And I understood every (almost) word! After five weeks of Spanish class, I can understand twenty seconds of conversation! Yayyy!
But just now, I couldn't remember how to spell salad. There is a direct ratio between my knowledge of Spanish and my spelling ability. Spanish goes up, spelling goes down.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
100
This is my 100th post! And I actually swore when I started my blog that I wasn't going to do those lame cop-out 'it's the anniversary' posts some blogs (and web-comics) do. Just as I don't plan to ever sit down and do a specific post for Christmas, or Thanksgiving. You know what a holiday is. You can figure it out yourself.
But 100 is just cool. I'll feel the same way about 1000. Sorry.
10 things (I'm not doing a hundred, sorry) I plan to do someday, and that might get blogged about here:
1: Publish my first book.
2: Own a dog. The Perfect Dog, so this will take a while. I want it to be a her so I can name her Lacey.
3: Have a husband to cut the brisket for me. (Do you have any idea how long it takes to slice brisket?)
4: Know enough Spanish to visit Colombia without a guide. Or any hispanic country without a guide. I want to see those dancers with the loud shoes and the red skirts that look like roses would look like if roses danced.
5: Spend four to five to six months in Washington, D.C. The capitol! The Library of Congress! The Smithsonian Museum!
6: Graduate from high school someday. It's a stretch, hard to imagine, but it might happen.
7: Join a critique group. With real writers. The awesomeness of that overwhelms me even as I write.
8: Write one poem a day for a year. Just to see if I can.
9: Find out what it's like to be in love, and see if my theory that it damages your brain is correct. (All my current observations bear out this hypothesis, but more testing is necessary before it can become Scientific Law. Or so I'm told.)
10: Publish my second book.
But 100 is just cool. I'll feel the same way about 1000. Sorry.
10 things (I'm not doing a hundred, sorry) I plan to do someday, and that might get blogged about here:
1: Publish my first book.
2: Own a dog. The Perfect Dog, so this will take a while. I want it to be a her so I can name her Lacey.
3: Have a husband to cut the brisket for me. (Do you have any idea how long it takes to slice brisket?)
4: Know enough Spanish to visit Colombia without a guide. Or any hispanic country without a guide. I want to see those dancers with the loud shoes and the red skirts that look like roses would look like if roses danced.
5: Spend four to five to six months in Washington, D.C. The capitol! The Library of Congress! The Smithsonian Museum!
6: Graduate from high school someday. It's a stretch, hard to imagine, but it might happen.
7: Join a critique group. With real writers. The awesomeness of that overwhelms me even as I write.
8: Write one poem a day for a year. Just to see if I can.
9: Find out what it's like to be in love, and see if my theory that it damages your brain is correct. (All my current observations bear out this hypothesis, but more testing is necessary before it can become Scientific Law. Or so I'm told.)
10: Publish my second book.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Abandon All Sense, Ye Who Read Here
I used to worry about people reading my journals. I wrote long, agonizing entries about it. I almost had a phobia about it. I planned to cut people out of my will if they read them before I died, and worried that wouldn't be enough either.
No more.
If you think that my blog is erratic, you have no idea how much I filter this. You're getting the good senseless meanderings. I've even spared you the long, incoherent brainstorms about half-named characters. And that's not all.
I can't put stickers on my blog. I can't tape poems, quotes, postcards, or letters into my blog. (The letters are like a fold out picture book; I tape part of it down and write around it and it unfolds when I want to read it. My journal isn't going to close when I'm done with it.) You don't get mental whiplash on my blog.
You don't see a postcard of a sailing ship taped in the middle of an entry about cooking experiments. You don't see a quote about eternal marriage next to one of my entries about how I've never dated and apparently never will. You don't see a poem about suicide next to one of my lists of things that make me happy. (I love making lists. Making lists is like chopping life up until it's smaller than you are.) Heck, you don't have to read my poetry, for which you should be eternally grateful. Even the stickers and postcards can't coordinate. I've got everything from misty mountain stickers to Winnie the Pooh and Tigger (I love Tigger), and postcards of oil-painted landscapes (lots of misty light that says 'magic can happen here') to watercolor coastal stuff (lots of faded boats and docks that says I don't know what but I like it anyway) to bright pink and yellow flowers from a cancer-survivor card. (I used to hate pink. I still don't love it. But some pink is less evil than other pink.)
So I don't worry about people reading my journal anymore. Their brain would bleed. Unless they were like me, and like feeling like they're on a mental merry-go-round with no way off, in which case I'm sure we can be friends.
No more.
If you think that my blog is erratic, you have no idea how much I filter this. You're getting the good senseless meanderings. I've even spared you the long, incoherent brainstorms about half-named characters. And that's not all.
I can't put stickers on my blog. I can't tape poems, quotes, postcards, or letters into my blog. (The letters are like a fold out picture book; I tape part of it down and write around it and it unfolds when I want to read it. My journal isn't going to close when I'm done with it.) You don't get mental whiplash on my blog.
You don't see a postcard of a sailing ship taped in the middle of an entry about cooking experiments. You don't see a quote about eternal marriage next to one of my entries about how I've never dated and apparently never will. You don't see a poem about suicide next to one of my lists of things that make me happy. (I love making lists. Making lists is like chopping life up until it's smaller than you are.) Heck, you don't have to read my poetry, for which you should be eternally grateful. Even the stickers and postcards can't coordinate. I've got everything from misty mountain stickers to Winnie the Pooh and Tigger (I love Tigger), and postcards of oil-painted landscapes (lots of misty light that says 'magic can happen here') to watercolor coastal stuff (lots of faded boats and docks that says I don't know what but I like it anyway) to bright pink and yellow flowers from a cancer-survivor card. (I used to hate pink. I still don't love it. But some pink is less evil than other pink.)
So I don't worry about people reading my journal anymore. Their brain would bleed. Unless they were like me, and like feeling like they're on a mental merry-go-round with no way off, in which case I'm sure we can be friends.
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