I've basically transitioned into using my Tumblr for arbitrary-thought-sharing:
everythinghopeful.tumblr.com
It's easier to update on the go and such, and it's a bit more interactive. I didn't mean to desert my dear Waltzes With Weirdos, it just kind of happened. So I thought I'd let you know where I've been (and will continue to be) and thank you for your interest in my brain. :)
Love always,
Megan
PS: This'll stay here because I like to laugh at myself and look at the pictures from time to time. Just in case you were worried.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
The Burning House.
I was recently introduced to this website and very much captivated by what someone's possessions could say about them. We always view possessions as superficial, something to be ignored and in many cases even looked down upon. But this is sort of different. It's not asking you to show off your flashiest, most expensive stuff, but the stuff that's most important to you. Hopefully they're not one in the same. Because I don't think that would make you too interesting.
I wondered what I'd pick if I were asked to gather my most prized possessions. So I tested it. Gave myself fifteen minutes and grabbed things without thinking too hard. A few of the things I chose surprised me.
I wondered what I'd pick if I were asked to gather my most prized possessions. So I tested it. Gave myself fifteen minutes and grabbed things without thinking too hard. A few of the things I chose surprised me.
Starting from the top, left to right, and in no particular order of importance:
- Simba.
- Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (original midnight copy).
- Piece of the set of Anything Goes, the musical I was in during senior year of high school (underneath).
- Glass bluebird candle. One of the most thoughtful gifts I've ever received.
- Parrot bottle opener that used to be my great-grandmother's.
- Little glass bird, given to me at Christmas by my sister Rachel.
- Rainbow's favorite orange mirror.
- Tiny winter music box from my stocking one year.
- My first iPod (First Generation Mini, pink).
- One of the Disney mugs I collect.
- My Swatch.
- Little Chinese buddhist man from San Francisco.
- Box of photos that used to cover one wall of my bedroom (top).
- Box of stories I wrote when I was younger (bottom).
- Journals, from 10th grade onward.
- Album of letters from relatives, given to me on my thirteenth birthday (underneath).
- My charm bracelet.
- Nikon camera my mom used in college.
- Old love letters.
- My sixth grade yearbook.
- T-shirt signed by Ben Folds at one of his shows.
So. There I am, I suppose. I think that if I were to think about what I was picking while I was picking it, it might have turned out a bit differently. I think I'd like to rescue the picture of my Dad I used to keep by my bed while he was away training for his current branch of work. As well as maybe the guitar I barely know how to play. And definitely more letters and pictures. But I don't know doing things that way would've described my subconscious quite as well. You never know what's going to come out of that thing.
If anyone else decides to do one of these, please let me know. I think it's endlessly fascinating.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Some Thoughts on This Weekend's Internet History Log
1. Swimfan. I watched it. Even though my obsession with Jesse Bradford happened in the fifth grade when I was a wee little sproutling, just coming into the knowledge of what it really means to my life when a man happens to have extremely pouty lips that become asymmetrically aligned when he is pleased about something. I decided I was long overdue for rekindling that fantasy. (It also relieves me that I can be attracted to someone with brown eyes. Everyone I’ve ever dated has green eyes. It concerns me, sometimes, about the dealings in my subconscious which I am hereto unaware of).
But anyway, yes. Swimfan. It’s like this psycho girl who stalks this really delicious guy even though he has a girlfriend. And he swims. Um, yeah. I give it four and a half stars, because the psycho chick and I bear a somewhat unnerving resemblance in the hair, eyes, and facial structure categories.
2. In pop culture news, I learned that Bristol Palin is now dating a kid from “That’s So Raven”. Also, Justin Bieber feels that abortion is wrong because “it’s like, murdering babies?” The internet community was all up in arms about these things several months ago. But I don’t like to know everything on time - it keeps me humble.
3. There is a man in the book I am re-reading named Brian Cox. THERE IS A MAN NAMED BRIAN COX IN REAL LIFE, TOO. HE IS AN ACTOR. HE HAS BEEN IN THINGS THAT I HAVE WATCHED. It’s probably the same guy.
4. Never Let Me Go. I actually haven’t seen this movie since February. But nobody watches it when I tell them to! Which I don’t understand, because it’s one of the best films I’ve ever seen. (Not just because of Andrew Garfield. (More brown eyes. Winning. (Can you put parenthesis within parenthesis like this?))) WHY WON’T ANYONE WATCH IT? I just don’t understand this cultural phenomenon. You can pack a theater when there are blue aliens running around speaking gibberish in a futuristic version of Pocahontas, but you can’t get anyone to rent Never Let Me Go. Ay carumba.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Sidewalk Chalk
Sometimes I get like this:
I can't predict when it's going to happen, and I can't even really explain why - I guess at some point in my life I got used to people, whether it was a boyfriend or a best friend, being really attentive and caring and going out of their way to make sure I was happy. At some point, that stopped. It's unreasonable to expect anyone to do this for me, yet it's what I crave when I'm at my most vulnerable. I guess we're really growing up in certain ways - my brain occasionally recognizes that fact and then acts like an attention-seeking five-year-old to counteract the process.
Everyone gets this way sometimes, and we joke about it because it's such a cliche thing to worry about. But I've realized that for me, one of my greatest fears is legitimately being alone and unappreciated for the rest of my tiresome, emo little existence. (I'm still making fun of it, even while trying to be serious. Call me Chandler Bing, I guess. Or Freddie Mercury).
Someone needs to be there to reassure me that I don't suck when I write an inexcusably catastrophic excuse for a story, or say something insensitive without meaning to, or just feel like I'm not that stand-out as a human being and probably shouldn't expect anything too excellent to come out of my life. This is what my meltdown spaz brain believes I will one day look like if I don't have those things:
Yes. I will be unable to support the upper half of my body, including my ambiguously-colored flat afro. I will be forced to move to New York City, establish my reputation as "Stoop Kid," and live on a slab of dirty cement until I die of some kind of stroke from all the blood gathering in my head. That is what will happen if nobody loves me, according to my meltdown spaz brain.
My rational brain, though, (which normally makes an appearance sometime between noon and 5pm on weekdays, but not always), would probably argue differently. I can't be sure, because I haven't seen her in a while, but my rational brain might tell you that if nobody loves me, I will look something like this:
Yay, no afro! You see, in this version, I appear vaguely satisfied with myself, but not enough to appear pretentious. Since I haven't been on a date since age 18, I have found the time to earn a PhD, which makes me feel smart and successful even though it's a creative writing PhD, which doesn't really mean much in the smarts department. I have also adopted an asian baby, who in this picture appears to be depicted in an incredibly racist fashion due to my lack of computer drawing skills. But I can assure you, I love her very much and there are no racial slurs in our house. I also read her stories all the time, and none of them are about vampires at all. We do not own chopsticks, nor do we know how to use them. She gets a Happy Meal every third Tuesday of the month for her good behavior while Mommy is off at work being smart.
If I had a crystal ball, I could tell you which of these scenarios will wind up being true. But since I don't, I feel like all I can hope for is something a little bit happy. And the more I think about it, the more I think that either one of these scenarios could make me at least a little bit happy. Even the worst-case one. If I have to be Stoop Kid, I'll get to meet Arnold. And I'll be sure to stock up on the sidewalk chalk. I think that could keep me happy for months.
I can't predict when it's going to happen, and I can't even really explain why - I guess at some point in my life I got used to people, whether it was a boyfriend or a best friend, being really attentive and caring and going out of their way to make sure I was happy. At some point, that stopped. It's unreasonable to expect anyone to do this for me, yet it's what I crave when I'm at my most vulnerable. I guess we're really growing up in certain ways - my brain occasionally recognizes that fact and then acts like an attention-seeking five-year-old to counteract the process.
Everyone gets this way sometimes, and we joke about it because it's such a cliche thing to worry about. But I've realized that for me, one of my greatest fears is legitimately being alone and unappreciated for the rest of my tiresome, emo little existence. (I'm still making fun of it, even while trying to be serious. Call me Chandler Bing, I guess. Or Freddie Mercury).
Someone needs to be there to reassure me that I don't suck when I write an inexcusably catastrophic excuse for a story, or say something insensitive without meaning to, or just feel like I'm not that stand-out as a human being and probably shouldn't expect anything too excellent to come out of my life. This is what my meltdown spaz brain believes I will one day look like if I don't have those things:
My rational brain, though, (which normally makes an appearance sometime between noon and 5pm on weekdays, but not always), would probably argue differently. I can't be sure, because I haven't seen her in a while, but my rational brain might tell you that if nobody loves me, I will look something like this:
If I had a crystal ball, I could tell you which of these scenarios will wind up being true. But since I don't, I feel like all I can hope for is something a little bit happy. And the more I think about it, the more I think that either one of these scenarios could make me at least a little bit happy. Even the worst-case one. If I have to be Stoop Kid, I'll get to meet Arnold. And I'll be sure to stock up on the sidewalk chalk. I think that could keep me happy for months.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Directions.
Listen to some Coldplay, or the Mumford and Sons CD you just bought from iTunes even though everyone else has had it for six months or so. Play it loudly while you're in the shower, even though the jerks upstairs will probably get mad. Wash your hair with comforting lyrics and long, dripping guitar chords. Let them tell you that they understand, that it's okay. Save the rest of the workshops for the morning, along with your physics homework, even though some of it is due in half an hour.
Lose sleep for no good reason - give some to your homework, and some to the story you've been piecing together about the couple who met on a slushy sidewalk. Give some to a song you've been trying to play, even though it's indecently late or early to be playing a song.
Shut your door and keep people out - spend some time by yourself, staring at the ceiling and playing on figurative jungle-gyms that grow in your mind. Climb to the top, and then hang upside down in the middle. Realize they're hollow and see-through. Desert them.
Talk to everyone you know and let them know how much you love them. Send your best friend a letter covered in Disney stickers. Tell them about your problems while they boil water for tea and mix pasta and vegetables together in big pans. Go for a walk. Wear a jacket.
Think of words that rhyme, or at least kind of rhyme. Frustration, temptation, deflation, damnation, sensation, translation, vacation, vibration, dalmatian. Think about coming back in your next life as a world-famous violinist.
Fixate on your loneliness and your stress. Dissect them. Put them in boxes and try to sort them by color, or size, or category. They won't make sense anymore.
Lose sleep for no good reason - give some to your homework, and some to the story you've been piecing together about the couple who met on a slushy sidewalk. Give some to a song you've been trying to play, even though it's indecently late or early to be playing a song.
Shut your door and keep people out - spend some time by yourself, staring at the ceiling and playing on figurative jungle-gyms that grow in your mind. Climb to the top, and then hang upside down in the middle. Realize they're hollow and see-through. Desert them.
Talk to everyone you know and let them know how much you love them. Send your best friend a letter covered in Disney stickers. Tell them about your problems while they boil water for tea and mix pasta and vegetables together in big pans. Go for a walk. Wear a jacket.
Think of words that rhyme, or at least kind of rhyme. Frustration, temptation, deflation, damnation, sensation, translation, vacation, vibration, dalmatian. Think about coming back in your next life as a world-famous violinist.
Fixate on your loneliness and your stress. Dissect them. Put them in boxes and try to sort them by color, or size, or category. They won't make sense anymore.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
A Pinch of Self-advertising.
I usually don't like the middle-school, AIM buddy profile dissertations that go, "If you're a good boyfriend, you'll tell her she's beautiful when she's in her pajamas and is crying and has boogers hanging out of her nose and you won't get mad at her when she's completely selfish and unreasonable." But this one is too awesome not to repost (thanks Nikki).
Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes.
Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes.
Friday, January 28, 2011
People who live in the English countryside don't usually kill themselves.
The suicide rates in places like that are astonishingly low when you compare them to places like L.A. or Philly or Hong Kong. And it's not just because there are fewer people there.
I think it's because when you live in a place with a nice view of the earth, you automatically have a nice view of the world, too.
I think it's because when you live in a place with a nice view of the earth, you automatically have a nice view of the world, too.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
This is what I want.
Yes, well, clearly that worked out.
Five days into January and I quit cold turkey. But it wasn't my fault. I blame college. And Panera Bread. But that place is to blame for mostly everything.
Do not fear, dear Reader, this does not mean I have forsaken my quest to drown you in my useless opinions about books. I'll finish all thirty days eventually. Just, you know. Clearly not within thirty days.
At this particular time, I venture only slightly from my usual book-rant. I just finished The Hunger Games, which was recommended to me by several bookish, trustworthy friends (including the lovely Amy, which is why she gets her own section). And Catching Fire. And Mockingjay. And I have to say, nothing has captivated me so completely in quite some time. As much as I'll admit that, stylistically, it's not the best thing ever, the plot is essentially golden. And they're making it into a movie, you see, which is set to be released in 2013 if we all don't die next year anyways.
Assuming we don't, I'll be anxiously gearing up for this release. Harry Potter will be over by this summer (not that this can really compare), and Breaking Dawn is only going to be exciting because I really want to see Kristen Stewart's uterus being ripped open by Robert Pattinson's teeth so that a mutant baby can claw its way out.
So, yeah. I thought, since the only thing we know about this movie is that it's going to exist eventually, I decided to weigh in on my votes for the cast. I've seen a lot of people doing this, and most of them pick really lame actors. So I thought I'd fix that. Feel free to stop reading if you've never read the series/don't care. This is mostly for my entertainment anyway.
Side note: I would also like this entry to serve as proof that I read and fell in love with this series before it became the new band-wagon thing to do. I can see this becoming the next horribly over-hyped Twilight series. I can feel it in my blood. And I don't like it even a little bit. So back off, eleventeen-year-olds. We read it first.
Megan's Picks:
Five days into January and I quit cold turkey. But it wasn't my fault. I blame college. And Panera Bread. But that place is to blame for mostly everything.
Do not fear, dear Reader, this does not mean I have forsaken my quest to drown you in my useless opinions about books. I'll finish all thirty days eventually. Just, you know. Clearly not within thirty days.
At this particular time, I venture only slightly from my usual book-rant. I just finished The Hunger Games, which was recommended to me by several bookish, trustworthy friends (including the lovely Amy, which is why she gets her own section). And Catching Fire. And Mockingjay. And I have to say, nothing has captivated me so completely in quite some time. As much as I'll admit that, stylistically, it's not the best thing ever, the plot is essentially golden. And they're making it into a movie, you see, which is set to be released in 2013 if we all don't die next year anyways.
Assuming we don't, I'll be anxiously gearing up for this release. Harry Potter will be over by this summer (not that this can really compare), and Breaking Dawn is only going to be exciting because I really want to see Kristen Stewart's uterus being ripped open by Robert Pattinson's teeth so that a mutant baby can claw its way out.
So, yeah. I thought, since the only thing we know about this movie is that it's going to exist eventually, I decided to weigh in on my votes for the cast. I've seen a lot of people doing this, and most of them pick really lame actors. So I thought I'd fix that. Feel free to stop reading if you've never read the series/don't care. This is mostly for my entertainment anyway.
Side note: I would also like this entry to serve as proof that I read and fell in love with this series before it became the new band-wagon thing to do. I can see this becoming the next horribly over-hyped Twilight series. I can feel it in my blood. And I don't like it even a little bit. So back off, eleventeen-year-olds. We read it first.
Megan's Picks:
Katniss Everdeen
The protagonist is essentially a bad-ass. She's the only multi-dimensional character in the book (don't yell at me, it's true), so hers is the most crucial but also the most difficult to cast. She's moody and anxious and sort of innocently stunning. She can kick your ass even if you're armed with a nuclear assault missile and she's got a few sticks and a piece of string. And she's in one of those Bella-Edward-Jacob-esque love triangles, except nobody's a vampire or anything and it doesn't make you want to scoop out your brain with a fork.
Rooney Mara.
Recognizable these days as Erica Albright in The Social Network (and also that chick from the Steig Larson movies), but essentially she looks exactly the way I picture Katniss. And I really think she could pull off this role. She's pretty in a powerful sort of way, and she does look like she could maybe kick your ass if she wasn't in such a pretty dress.Peeta Mellark
This is actually the one I've given the most consideration to, given the fact that I'm probably in love with Peeta (it's hard not to be). As it were, he's got to be pretty bad-ass as well, (though not quite as much so as Katniss), but also quite adorable and sweet. His sole purpose in life is keeping Katniss alive because he's completely in love with her. And he likes to decorate cakes, or something.
Hugh Freaking Dancy.
Seriously, it can't go wrong. Dye those curls blond, and bam. You've got the strength and build that Peeta needs because he's not from the Seam, but you've also got the boyish charm and sincerity that's so important in him as well. Mix the two together, and you've got Mr. Dancy.Gale Hawthorne
Part of me wants to say something along the lines of Adam Brody, but I feel like he's too friendly-looking. Gale's characterization in the books is flimsy at best, and basically the only dimension he gets is an angsty, stick-it-to-the-man sort of guy. So if Adam could keep from smiling for the entire film, I guess he could do it.
Alex Pettyfer.
Bear with me. Just picture him with his hair dyed dark. THERE. DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE? It's got Gale written all over it. Just give him a crossbow.Haymitch Abernathy
As much as I'm sure Hugh Laurie could be amazing in this role, I think he might be too recognizable in a really young, unappreciative film audience sort of way. People would be like "Hehe, OMG, Dr. House!" And that's not what I want for this film. But Haymitch actually does have a few dimensions to his character, though we rarely see him as anything but a tough, scruffy drunk man.
Robert Downey Jr.
So clearly, our friend Bob here is also recognizable, but not in the same way. You wouldn't pin him to one role and have a hard time getting that one role out of your head the whole time, you know? Like when Mr. Feeny shows up in Blades of Glory (which sucks, by the way). But I digress. I think Robert could be hilarious, but also poignant and memorable as Katniss and Peeta's mentor.Primrose Everdeen
Though she's not involved in a ton of the book(s), she's important plot-wise. She's twelve, but I picture her as being very young and innocent looking. She's Prim. 
Chloe Moretz.
You'll remember her as Tom's younger sister in (500) Days of Summer. But seriously - this photo is basically exactly how Prim looks in my brain. It's fantastically creepy.So there. That's my all-star cast involving nobody from Twilight or the Disney Channel or the Spy Kids franchise. And if I can get Hollywood to listen to me on this, then I might start to come to peace with the fact that there are five Twilight films. (Might).
Amy's Picks:
I have to say, I kinda love this idea, even though absolutely no one cares about who we think would best suit the characters in the book. But I think it's great that we can match real people to the characters in our heads. So here goes:
[side note: I love all of Megan's picks. I just thought I'd add some others. What's great about novels like this (or any novel, really) is that you can make it your own through pure imagination!]
Katniss
Probably because the books are told in first person, I always pictured myself as Katniss. Am I badass? No. Can I shoot a bow and arrow? Hell no! Would I survive the Hunger Games? Of course not.
That aside, I think I like Megan's pick better than any that I could come up with on my own. I toyed around with different ideas (Kristen Stewart even popped in my head for a second, but only because she's devoid of emotion all the time). In the end, though, Megan's choice is solid.
Peeta
Peeta was possibly the easiest choice for me, but only because I fantasized about him so much that I had a clear picture in my head of what exactly he should look like. My pick for him would have to be Mitch Hewer, who play Maxxie on the British TV show Skins. (Don't ever watch the American version - it is so terrible that it made me want to vomit and kick the TV screen in at the same time, and I'm being kind).
He's boyish, yet strong, and his smile makes me want to melt in a puddle of happiness.
Gale
Gale, I thought, was difficult. I pictured him as being ruggedly handsome, and I have to say that not many young actors these days can pull off both dirty and sexy. When they attempt this, the result is typically gross. After some serious thought, I decided that Ben Barnes might make a good choice. Yes, yes, I know, everyone hates Prince Caspian. But I think Ben is manly enough to pull Gale off.
Haymitch
I love Robert Downey Jr., and I think that he would make a hysterical Haymitch. But jut for the sake of deviation, I'm going to throw out that Jack Black might make a funny Haymitch, too.
Effie
Kristen Chenowith for shiz.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Day 5: A book that makes you happy
"It's so hard to talk when you want to kill yourself."
Yes, that is the first line of the book. And no, I'm not suicidal - that's not why a book that starts like that makes me happy. It's such a matter-of-fact, quirky way of telling a story that could be really sad and hopeless, but ends up being really humorous and actually uplifting. It's called It's Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini, and they made it into a movie recently (but what aren't they doing that to these days?)
Craig, the main character, is odd. He has strange ways of organizing his thoughts, and he lets the reader in so immediately that it kind of takes you off guard for a little while. But then you realize that his openness isn't related to ingenuity - it's just his character. And then you love him with all your heart.
It's my first day back at college after Christmas and I'm not thinking as fluently as I want to be to do the book justice - too much else going on. But I wanted to stick to my days, and I wanted you to know that you should read this book. You'll find it in the Young Adult Fiction section (my apologies). But it's not about vampires.
It's Kind of a Funny Story - Google Books
Yes, that is the first line of the book. And no, I'm not suicidal - that's not why a book that starts like that makes me happy. It's such a matter-of-fact, quirky way of telling a story that could be really sad and hopeless, but ends up being really humorous and actually uplifting. It's called It's Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini, and they made it into a movie recently (but what aren't they doing that to these days?)
Craig, the main character, is odd. He has strange ways of organizing his thoughts, and he lets the reader in so immediately that it kind of takes you off guard for a little while. But then you realize that his openness isn't related to ingenuity - it's just his character. And then you love him with all your heart.
It's my first day back at college after Christmas and I'm not thinking as fluently as I want to be to do the book justice - too much else going on. But I wanted to stick to my days, and I wanted you to know that you should read this book. You'll find it in the Young Adult Fiction section (my apologies). But it's not about vampires.
It's Kind of a Funny Story - Google Books
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Day 4: Your favorite book of your favorite series.
I'm just going to plagiarize off the Megan of four days ago, because I wrote this on Facebook for something and now I am going to paste it here. (I cheat, and I eat pumpkins). :)
I'd tell you what you want to hear and say "Oh my god, it's just like Sophie's choice! It's just like Joey Tribbiani choosing between food and sex!" But it's not. As an endearing/obnoxious fan of the series, I've given this a great deal of thought. While Goblet of Fire has got all the buildup, mystery, and suspense you'll ever want from a novel, Order of the Phoenix is the emotional peak of the chain, and Half-Blood Prince is nothing short of brilliant in terms of plot devices, the biggest slice of my love is reserved for the one-and-only Deathly Hallows. It's essentially the Mecca of the series - the one we waited for for ten years of our lives. I spent so much time speculating, along with the rest of the world, what was going to happen in this book. It was like the best game ever. Is Snape on the side of good or evil? Will Voldemort die? Will Harry die? Should Harry die? Blaaaargh! And nobody ever had the answers until July 21, 2007. Nobody could win these arguments - all they could do was ferociously tear through the books, searching for clues to back up their cause (much the same way people do with the Bible. Except, you know, this is less important). You better believe my kids aren't going to be allowed to date or drive or have fun until they read the entire series, but even they won't get to experience that thrill of not knowing what was going to happen to the pretend people you loved throughout your entire childhood. And the book did not disappoint. It had everything I hoped it would and more. Everything converged in a spectacular array of twists and emotional ups and downs and...I can't even. It was just perfect.
[I suppose this next part contains some vague spoilers. Just in case you haven't read it and nobody has ruined it for you in the past 3 and a half years. :)]
And to the person who's sitting there thinking, "Okay, but what about the epilogue? The epilogue sucked." I agree that Albus Severus is an awful thing to name a child, but you've got to admit that the characters were all consistent, the scene was realistic, and the biggest argument people have against it is that it was "too happy." Personally, I don't think it needed to have a dark ending. I think the literary world is too pessimistic, and that the idea of good triumphing over evil in the end shouldn't be such a cliche, but something appreciated as realistic. There is good in the world, you know. I think this book did an excellent job conveying that. Through all the chapters. Even the epilogue.
BUT LOOK! NOW I'M DONE! I have officially used up my quota of Harry Potter talk - it's over for my 30 Days of Books-a-thon. Aren't you glad I got it out of the way early?
....Aren't you? :)
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Google Books
I'd tell you what you want to hear and say "Oh my god, it's just like Sophie's choice! It's just like Joey Tribbiani choosing between food and sex!" But it's not. As an endearing/obnoxious fan of the series, I've given this a great deal of thought. While Goblet of Fire has got all the buildup, mystery, and suspense you'll ever want from a novel, Order of the Phoenix is the emotional peak of the chain, and Half-Blood Prince is nothing short of brilliant in terms of plot devices, the biggest slice of my love is reserved for the one-and-only Deathly Hallows. It's essentially the Mecca of the series - the one we waited for for ten years of our lives. I spent so much time speculating, along with the rest of the world, what was going to happen in this book. It was like the best game ever. Is Snape on the side of good or evil? Will Voldemort die? Will Harry die? Should Harry die? Blaaaargh! And nobody ever had the answers until July 21, 2007. Nobody could win these arguments - all they could do was ferociously tear through the books, searching for clues to back up their cause (much the same way people do with the Bible. Except, you know, this is less important). You better believe my kids aren't going to be allowed to date or drive or have fun until they read the entire series, but even they won't get to experience that thrill of not knowing what was going to happen to the pretend people you loved throughout your entire childhood. And the book did not disappoint. It had everything I hoped it would and more. Everything converged in a spectacular array of twists and emotional ups and downs and...I can't even. It was just perfect.
[I suppose this next part contains some vague spoilers. Just in case you haven't read it and nobody has ruined it for you in the past 3 and a half years. :)]
And to the person who's sitting there thinking, "Okay, but what about the epilogue? The epilogue sucked." I agree that Albus Severus is an awful thing to name a child, but you've got to admit that the characters were all consistent, the scene was realistic, and the biggest argument people have against it is that it was "too happy." Personally, I don't think it needed to have a dark ending. I think the literary world is too pessimistic, and that the idea of good triumphing over evil in the end shouldn't be such a cliche, but something appreciated as realistic. There is good in the world, you know. I think this book did an excellent job conveying that. Through all the chapters. Even the epilogue.
BUT LOOK! NOW I'M DONE! I have officially used up my quota of Harry Potter talk - it's over for my 30 Days of Books-a-thon. Aren't you glad I got it out of the way early?
....Aren't you? :)
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Google Books
Monday, January 3, 2011
Day 3: Your Favorite Series
I reckon you'd have to be barking mad not to know immediately what goes in this category.
If you answered "yes," you're going to LOVE the Harry Potter series, brought to you by a Scottish lady and some publishers! Never before seen before 1999, this series is taking the world by storm - it's like MAGIC! You, too, can have all seven books memorized at little to no cost - just pay shipping and processing, and donate your soul to the pursuit of proving that magic does, in fact, exist. Act now and get this FREE glow-in-the-dark wand, courtesy of Home Depot:
Plus, order in the next fifteen minutes and receive this AUTHENTIC Hogwarts acceptance letter, signed by ALBUS DUMBLEDORE HIMSELF!
You'll never see an offer like this EVER AGAIN, so call NOW! Don't miss your one and only chance to join the ranks of the extreme nerds, who make silly Harry Potter blog posts in their spare time. :)
You'll never see an offer like this EVER AGAIN, so call NOW! Don't miss your one and only chance to join the ranks of the extreme nerds, who make silly Harry Potter blog posts in their spare time. :)
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Day 2: A book that you've read more than three times.
Here's where I talk about what's probably my favorite book next to the Harry Potters (which I sort of lump together into the number-one spot) - The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffeneger. I know a lot of people who didn't care for this book because:
a.) It's really confusing for the first 3-4 chapters until you hit a rhythm with it. The author tries to make it less confusing by telling you the date and the ages of the characters at the beginning of each section, but it's still a brain-bender until you get a decent way in.
b.) There are a few cases where the sex gets a bit descriptive. (Hey, it's a romance).
c.) It's a romance.
Now here's where I counter-argue those points and convince you that this book is one of the best things ever (because it is).
a.) True, there may have been a way for the author to clarify what Henry's time-travel actually means. Sort of map it out, in a sense, earlier on in the book. But I think she wants you to have to figure it out, and I think that's important. The characters don't really get it, either, until a few chapters into the story; therefore, neither does the reader. She's very careful about only revealing things to us that both Clare and Henry understand - actually, there are times when Henry understands something that Clare doesn't, and the readers are left in the dark until Clare catches on as well (and vice-versa). Because the two of them share the story's narrative, it really helps to drive home the idea that both of them - and, in a sense, their relationship - are the main character. Not one or the other.
b.) If you don't feel the emotions that the characters feel, you can't care about what happens to them. I think it makes their relationship more human, because the settings and situations are so surreal. Also, it's a romance. Not a trashy one, but still a romance.
c.) This is one of the few books that's ever made me sob uncontrollably. Like, cry-like-your-boyfriend-just-broke-up-with-you cry. And I'm always amazed when that happens. In the midst of my crying, I sort of start to chuckle at myself. Here's me, sitting at the end of my bed, splashing salt water all over a book and making the pages wrinkle, for people and situations that only feel like they existed but never truly did. It takes honest-to-goodness talent to be able to do that to someone. I don't exactly know what is it that makes people able to get so emotionally invested in this book - I think it might be how she gives you enough time to really know the characters inside and out, but there has to be more to it than that. Regardless, this book has everything you could want in a story. It has fear, suspense, love, trauma, family - though it's classified as a romance, it's a lot more than that. And if you're reading this, and you're one of the people who stopped reading the book after chapter 3 because it confused you, pick it up again. I promsie you it's worth it. (And don't watch the movie first. It's not a horrible adaptation, but as usual, it just doesn't do the text justice).
This book is awesome. Case closed. I'm right. :)
The Time-Traveler's Wife - Google Books
a.) It's really confusing for the first 3-4 chapters until you hit a rhythm with it. The author tries to make it less confusing by telling you the date and the ages of the characters at the beginning of each section, but it's still a brain-bender until you get a decent way in.
b.) There are a few cases where the sex gets a bit descriptive. (Hey, it's a romance).
c.) It's a romance.
Now here's where I counter-argue those points and convince you that this book is one of the best things ever (because it is).
a.) True, there may have been a way for the author to clarify what Henry's time-travel actually means. Sort of map it out, in a sense, earlier on in the book. But I think she wants you to have to figure it out, and I think that's important. The characters don't really get it, either, until a few chapters into the story; therefore, neither does the reader. She's very careful about only revealing things to us that both Clare and Henry understand - actually, there are times when Henry understands something that Clare doesn't, and the readers are left in the dark until Clare catches on as well (and vice-versa). Because the two of them share the story's narrative, it really helps to drive home the idea that both of them - and, in a sense, their relationship - are the main character. Not one or the other.
b.) If you don't feel the emotions that the characters feel, you can't care about what happens to them. I think it makes their relationship more human, because the settings and situations are so surreal. Also, it's a romance. Not a trashy one, but still a romance.
c.) This is one of the few books that's ever made me sob uncontrollably. Like, cry-like-your-boyfriend-just-broke-up-with-you cry. And I'm always amazed when that happens. In the midst of my crying, I sort of start to chuckle at myself. Here's me, sitting at the end of my bed, splashing salt water all over a book and making the pages wrinkle, for people and situations that only feel like they existed but never truly did. It takes honest-to-goodness talent to be able to do that to someone. I don't exactly know what is it that makes people able to get so emotionally invested in this book - I think it might be how she gives you enough time to really know the characters inside and out, but there has to be more to it than that. Regardless, this book has everything you could want in a story. It has fear, suspense, love, trauma, family - though it's classified as a romance, it's a lot more than that. And if you're reading this, and you're one of the people who stopped reading the book after chapter 3 because it confused you, pick it up again. I promsie you it's worth it. (And don't watch the movie first. It's not a horrible adaptation, but as usual, it just doesn't do the text justice).
This book is awesome. Case closed. I'm right. :)
The Time-Traveler's Wife - Google Books
Saturday, January 1, 2011
30 Days of Spasmodic Imagery
Welcome to the new year! Same place, same oddball, different slice of history.
Because I usually have trouble motivating myself to get through the first three-ish months of the calendar year (Pittsburgh is just so dark and gray around this time. It's depressing), I was poking around the lovely world-wide web for something to occupy my time with (aside from school and work and such). I found this little situation on Tumblr that people call "30 Days of Books." (I also found 30 Days of Harry Potter, which I could probably run all the way to Russia with, but I figure that caters to a significantly slimmer audience). :) So for the next thirty days, you'll be getting daily updates from me about bookishness. Because that's the kind of person you're dealing with here. My apologies.
Disclaimer: I feel like you might expect a Fiction Writing Major to have really literary and intelligent interests and things to say about her reading material. And while I've definitely been exposed to some really excellent literary bits this past semester, a lot of my favorites are still along the lines of popular fiction. So. You know. You'll live, I'm sure.
Day 01: Best Book You Read Last Year
Immediately I'm reminded of the fact that I don't read enough, I don't read NEW things enough, and I don't keep a good enough record of what I've read. When I get time to read, I usually turn to Harry. Remind me to expand my horizons this year.
Okay. So I didn't read Freedom by Jonathan Franzen. SORRY.
Actually, just over Winter Break, I read a book called Room by Emma Donoghue that I sort of wish I had written first. It was one of those things that makes me sort of euphoric to be reading such an awesome story, but also pissed because it's just the sort of formula I've been searching for in my own stuff and someone else got it perfectly, absolutely right. (Not to say I could write something at this time in my life that would hit the NYTimes Bestseller List). But it's got the characters - they're flawed, of course, and their situation isn't exactly idyllic, but they're so real I still kind of want to be them. Or at least know them. It's got the emotion - it blurs the lines between happiness and fear, something we almost always see in black-and-white. It's got psychology and politics and family. Oh, and the whole thing is narrated through the eyes of a child (difficult to pull of in and of itself) who is held captive with his mother in an 11x11-foot room.
The woman's got skills.
It's not exactly a straightforward, effortless read. But such is life.
Room - Google Books
Because I usually have trouble motivating myself to get through the first three-ish months of the calendar year (Pittsburgh is just so dark and gray around this time. It's depressing), I was poking around the lovely world-wide web for something to occupy my time with (aside from school and work and such). I found this little situation on Tumblr that people call "30 Days of Books." (I also found 30 Days of Harry Potter, which I could probably run all the way to Russia with, but I figure that caters to a significantly slimmer audience). :) So for the next thirty days, you'll be getting daily updates from me about bookishness. Because that's the kind of person you're dealing with here. My apologies.
Disclaimer: I feel like you might expect a Fiction Writing Major to have really literary and intelligent interests and things to say about her reading material. And while I've definitely been exposed to some really excellent literary bits this past semester, a lot of my favorites are still along the lines of popular fiction. So. You know. You'll live, I'm sure.
Day 01: Best Book You Read Last Year
Immediately I'm reminded of the fact that I don't read enough, I don't read NEW things enough, and I don't keep a good enough record of what I've read. When I get time to read, I usually turn to Harry. Remind me to expand my horizons this year.
Okay. So I didn't read Freedom by Jonathan Franzen. SORRY.
Actually, just over Winter Break, I read a book called Room by Emma Donoghue that I sort of wish I had written first. It was one of those things that makes me sort of euphoric to be reading such an awesome story, but also pissed because it's just the sort of formula I've been searching for in my own stuff and someone else got it perfectly, absolutely right. (Not to say I could write something at this time in my life that would hit the NYTimes Bestseller List). But it's got the characters - they're flawed, of course, and their situation isn't exactly idyllic, but they're so real I still kind of want to be them. Or at least know them. It's got the emotion - it blurs the lines between happiness and fear, something we almost always see in black-and-white. It's got psychology and politics and family. Oh, and the whole thing is narrated through the eyes of a child (difficult to pull of in and of itself) who is held captive with his mother in an 11x11-foot room.
The woman's got skills.
It's not exactly a straightforward, effortless read. But such is life.
Room - Google Books
Monday, December 6, 2010
To make sense of it all.
To the left:
I have one of those big car-washing sponges, shaped like a figure-8 with the holes filled in. I'm holding it next to your ear and soaking up the things that come trickling out of your brain. Slowly but surely, the sponge gets saturated and I wring it out into a bathtub. Pretty soon, the bathtub is full. So I start to fill an empty swimming pool instead. Sponge by sponge. Squeeze by squeeze.
How far can I go?
Will your thoughts need an entire swimming pool to contain them? Something the size of one of the great lakes, maybe?
Could you fill up the basins and the trenches in the ocean?
And would it take you your entire life to do so, or maybe just a week or two?
To the right:
It doesn't matter.
If you flood the earth with thoughts about clothing catalogues, self-obsession, materialism, doubt, negativity - all you're doing is ruining the place. If you can fill a bathtub with thoughts about ways to be happy and ways to spread happy, of love and family and friendship, then you're going to end up taking the most wonderful bath anyone's ever had.
Sink or swim; regardless, you've still got to worry about what it is you're soaking in.
I have one of those big car-washing sponges, shaped like a figure-8 with the holes filled in. I'm holding it next to your ear and soaking up the things that come trickling out of your brain. Slowly but surely, the sponge gets saturated and I wring it out into a bathtub. Pretty soon, the bathtub is full. So I start to fill an empty swimming pool instead. Sponge by sponge. Squeeze by squeeze.
How far can I go?
Will your thoughts need an entire swimming pool to contain them? Something the size of one of the great lakes, maybe?
Could you fill up the basins and the trenches in the ocean?
And would it take you your entire life to do so, or maybe just a week or two?
To the right:
It doesn't matter.
If you flood the earth with thoughts about clothing catalogues, self-obsession, materialism, doubt, negativity - all you're doing is ruining the place. If you can fill a bathtub with thoughts about ways to be happy and ways to spread happy, of love and family and friendship, then you're going to end up taking the most wonderful bath anyone's ever had.
Sink or swim; regardless, you've still got to worry about what it is you're soaking in.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Run fast for your mother.
I like knowing that however inconveniently timed their presence, I can still be inspired by the little things. It makes me feel like maybe I haven't gotten too old yet. Even if twenty is creeping up on me like some sort of enticing, colorful plague. There's still some kind of six-year-old Megan in my brain, watching Gullah Gullah island and somersalting through the house.
- Your friendly neighborhood fortune cookie
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Every Little Thing The Reflex Does.
If you seat a child who has recently returned from fat camp at the dining room table and fill it with cupcakes, bags of chips, and those bagged pastries you can buy at the gas station, his poor, deprived little mouth is going to suck them down faster than the speed of light. It doesn't matter that he spent his entire summer running six miles per week or learning various forms of self-control when it comes to over-indulgence. If you push him just far enough, all of the controlling he learned to do with his mind will sink swiftly into his stomach. And he'll feel bad afterwards. But during? While he's swimming in a sea of the snacks he's fantasized about for four months? He'll feel oh. So. Good.
Gluttony comes in many forms. Obviously food, sex, drugs, and the like are most addressed by society because they're the most popular outlets. But there are a few secret, underground gluttons who prefer to remain less apparent. They skulk around the vast, dusty shelves of libraries, digging for spare change in gutters so they can pay their overdue fines. They avoid bookstores because most of their debts can be traced back to an overly enthusiastic trip to Borders. The bookworms. The readers. Those whose relatives buy them the latest bestseller for Christmas without even asking first. They may not be outwardly harming themselves with their gluttony, but trust me. The bookworm is just as dangerous a glutton as any. And most of them were born this way - there's nothing they can do about it.
As one of the aforementioned cursed-at-birth bookworms, I experience the side-effects of my gluttony much the same way the kid with the smorgasbord of snacks would. When I find a book that captures my imagination to the degree that part of my mind is thinking about the characters and their desires while the book is closed and on my bookshelf, I have no choice but to give it my utmost attention. I cancel plans. I close the door to my room and don't bother talking to anyone. I neglect the cleanliness of my carpet, my laundry, my e-mail, any form of regular eating schedule - the only place I go is to class, and even then I bring the book along because it makes me feel better. If I get too bored or stressed while I'm there, the characters will be right there next to me. It's like having a friend in my backpack. And it feels oh. So. Good.
On the other hand, similar to the fat kid, I suck that story down at the speed of light. After about 24 to 36 hours of the inexplicably wonderful comfort of being curled up on my comforter with a book that practically stabs me with its demand to be read, it is gone. The last page flutters closed along a few more filler pages in the back of the binding, and then the back cover slips between my fingers and the book closes itself to me. And I can't get back in, because it's not the same anymore. If I open it back up right away, the characters will be too tired to tell me their story quite as well. I have to let them rest.
The next phase is what I like to call the aftermath. It's when I spend the next 2 to 3 days sulking, inwardly pissed that I finished the book so quickly, but not having an adequate way to outwardly express this bizarrely fantastic frustration. I want to slip back into the book's world - I want to feel what the book feels, I want to teleport and cast spells and fall in love and watch people die. But I can't get back in, no matter how hard I try. Sometimes I even open another book, hoping it will sweep me away on some new adventure so I can get over the old one. But the new book is just a rebound. It just makes me miss the old one all the more, and I usually throw it aside and glare at it for trying to replace something so epic.
This is the trigger to my current aftermath, and even Harry Potter couldn't heal my separation anxiety. I might write a review soon, but for the time being I just want to bask in how good I felt while I was reading it. As a writing major, I get sucked up in the battle between literary fiction and the sort of fiction that normal people who aren't hipsters or college kids or angsty white writer men read. This one reminded me why reading is important, and why I don't care about securing a space in the VIP literary fiction lounge. It also reminded me why I write.
Read slowly, friends.
Gluttony comes in many forms. Obviously food, sex, drugs, and the like are most addressed by society because they're the most popular outlets. But there are a few secret, underground gluttons who prefer to remain less apparent. They skulk around the vast, dusty shelves of libraries, digging for spare change in gutters so they can pay their overdue fines. They avoid bookstores because most of their debts can be traced back to an overly enthusiastic trip to Borders. The bookworms. The readers. Those whose relatives buy them the latest bestseller for Christmas without even asking first. They may not be outwardly harming themselves with their gluttony, but trust me. The bookworm is just as dangerous a glutton as any. And most of them were born this way - there's nothing they can do about it.
As one of the aforementioned cursed-at-birth bookworms, I experience the side-effects of my gluttony much the same way the kid with the smorgasbord of snacks would. When I find a book that captures my imagination to the degree that part of my mind is thinking about the characters and their desires while the book is closed and on my bookshelf, I have no choice but to give it my utmost attention. I cancel plans. I close the door to my room and don't bother talking to anyone. I neglect the cleanliness of my carpet, my laundry, my e-mail, any form of regular eating schedule - the only place I go is to class, and even then I bring the book along because it makes me feel better. If I get too bored or stressed while I'm there, the characters will be right there next to me. It's like having a friend in my backpack. And it feels oh. So. Good.
On the other hand, similar to the fat kid, I suck that story down at the speed of light. After about 24 to 36 hours of the inexplicably wonderful comfort of being curled up on my comforter with a book that practically stabs me with its demand to be read, it is gone. The last page flutters closed along a few more filler pages in the back of the binding, and then the back cover slips between my fingers and the book closes itself to me. And I can't get back in, because it's not the same anymore. If I open it back up right away, the characters will be too tired to tell me their story quite as well. I have to let them rest.
The next phase is what I like to call the aftermath. It's when I spend the next 2 to 3 days sulking, inwardly pissed that I finished the book so quickly, but not having an adequate way to outwardly express this bizarrely fantastic frustration. I want to slip back into the book's world - I want to feel what the book feels, I want to teleport and cast spells and fall in love and watch people die. But I can't get back in, no matter how hard I try. Sometimes I even open another book, hoping it will sweep me away on some new adventure so I can get over the old one. But the new book is just a rebound. It just makes me miss the old one all the more, and I usually throw it aside and glare at it for trying to replace something so epic.
This is the trigger to my current aftermath, and even Harry Potter couldn't heal my separation anxiety. I might write a review soon, but for the time being I just want to bask in how good I felt while I was reading it. As a writing major, I get sucked up in the battle between literary fiction and the sort of fiction that normal people who aren't hipsters or college kids or angsty white writer men read. This one reminded me why reading is important, and why I don't care about securing a space in the VIP literary fiction lounge. It also reminded me why I write.
Read slowly, friends.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Fish, trees, and Louis Armstrong.
Occasionally random patterns of thought will barge their way into my mind dressed up like they're going to the premiere of Gene Kelly's first feature film. They announce themselves lavishly, then make themselves comfortable on the cushier parts of my brain. They talk animatedly and make a lot of noise. They drink Cosmopolitans. Louis Armstrong blows music through a trumpet in the dimly lit corner. And while they're hanging out in there, it's impossible for me to fall asleep at night. They're just too damn loud.
A significant amount of the time, I welcome their presence in there. It's kind of flattering that they choose to come back so much - my brain must be a nice, comfortable venue. And they're interesting company - usually they talk about things I never would've come up with on my own. I enjoy what they have to say and even agree with it most of the time.
Last night, however, they arrived just as I was on the brink of sleep after a particularly exhausting day, with their trumpeting and their drinking and all. And as nice as they are, I really wasn't in the mood for them at that particular moment in time. I actually said out loud to my semi-darkened bedroom, "Go invade someone else's brain tonight, you guys. I'm tired." They didn't seem to hear me, but I think the chilly air that filled my room got a good chuckle out of my soliloquy. It probably thought I was crazy.
The even more obnoxious part about their completely unannounced, inconveniently timed party was that the conversation didn't even make sense. They must have been drinking before they even got there, which is a little trashy, if truth be told. (They usually have more class than that). All they kept saying was, "Did you ever think about how ridiculously awesome the world is?"
I flatly told them no, I hadn't, and I didn't really think this was a good time to start. They giggled and kept repeating that same phrase, louder and louder until I couldn't distinguish their shouts from the buses charging past my window. "THE WORLD IS SO COOL, THOUGH!! ISN'T IT!?"
"I don't really know what the crap you're talking about," I finally had to reply in the best imitation of a furiously angry person I could muster in my particular state of consciousness.
So they said, "Oh! We'll show you." And they pulled out a projection screen and a teeny little brain-sized version of Chaz, my darling MacBook, and they proceeded to play me a slide show. If you were in my room at that moment in time, I bet you could have seen the colors from the projection screen reflecting out of my eyes and making little rainbows on my ceiling. Stepford Wives-style. Granted, these aren't the exact images they had, but they'll give you a pretty solid idea:
A significant amount of the time, I welcome their presence in there. It's kind of flattering that they choose to come back so much - my brain must be a nice, comfortable venue. And they're interesting company - usually they talk about things I never would've come up with on my own. I enjoy what they have to say and even agree with it most of the time.
Last night, however, they arrived just as I was on the brink of sleep after a particularly exhausting day, with their trumpeting and their drinking and all. And as nice as they are, I really wasn't in the mood for them at that particular moment in time. I actually said out loud to my semi-darkened bedroom, "Go invade someone else's brain tonight, you guys. I'm tired." They didn't seem to hear me, but I think the chilly air that filled my room got a good chuckle out of my soliloquy. It probably thought I was crazy.
The even more obnoxious part about their completely unannounced, inconveniently timed party was that the conversation didn't even make sense. They must have been drinking before they even got there, which is a little trashy, if truth be told. (They usually have more class than that). All they kept saying was, "Did you ever think about how ridiculously awesome the world is?"
I flatly told them no, I hadn't, and I didn't really think this was a good time to start. They giggled and kept repeating that same phrase, louder and louder until I couldn't distinguish their shouts from the buses charging past my window. "THE WORLD IS SO COOL, THOUGH!! ISN'T IT!?"
"I don't really know what the crap you're talking about," I finally had to reply in the best imitation of a furiously angry person I could muster in my particular state of consciousness.
So they said, "Oh! We'll show you." And they pulled out a projection screen and a teeny little brain-sized version of Chaz, my darling MacBook, and they proceeded to play me a slide show. If you were in my room at that moment in time, I bet you could have seen the colors from the projection screen reflecting out of my eyes and making little rainbows on my ceiling. Stepford Wives-style. Granted, these aren't the exact images they had, but they'll give you a pretty solid idea:
(Credit for the last photo goes to Marilyn Harris, but as for the others, I found them on StumbleUpon and saved them to my computer because they looked cool. So if you have any idea who took them, feel free to let me know). :)
Once the slideshow ended, the partygoers packed up their stuff and left me at peace. But their words rang in my head, and I couldn't think of a better way to put things. I still can't, which is why I turned to pictures. (As much as I love words, sometimes they just don't work).
Honestly, though, THINK about it. Just take a second or two next time you're outside and look around you. Trees survive a bajillion times longer than we do, and they don't even move. They find food right where they are, and it's enough to satisfy them for their whole lives. And the atmosphere - it's just freaking hanging out up there, holding everything in. It's doing all kinds of stuff for you even when you can't see it. And there's these huge, massive bodies of water - so massive we can't even comprehend them. There's another entire universe and way of life in there - we all coexist in the same area of space, but we really don't know anything about each other because they can't survive out here and we can't survive in there. And there are deserts, and big huge chunks of ice, and...fish! And here we are, worried about degrees and programs and jobs and internships, when the whole world is always out there just being awesome. And we never even think about it. The world is really just SO cool.
And don't even get me started on the moon and stars and stuff.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Food for thought.
stand with your lover on the ending earth-
and while a(huge which by huger than
huge)whoing sea leaps to greenly hurl snow
suppose we could not love,dear;imagine
ourselves like living neither nor dead these
(or many thousand hearts which don't and dream
or many million minds which sleep and move)
blind sands,at pitiless the mercy of
time time time time time
-how fortunate are you and i, whose home
is timelessness:we who have wandered down
from fragrant mountains of eternal now
to frolic in such mysteries as birth
and death in a day(or maybe even less)
- my favorite poet ever
(e.e. Cummings, 95 poems)
and while a(huge which by huger than
huge)whoing sea leaps to greenly hurl snow
suppose we could not love,dear;imagine
ourselves like living neither nor dead these
(or many thousand hearts which don't and dream
or many million minds which sleep and move)
blind sands,at pitiless the mercy of
time time time time time
-how fortunate are you and i, whose home
is timelessness:we who have wandered down
from fragrant mountains of eternal now
to frolic in such mysteries as birth
and death in a day(or maybe even less)
- my favorite poet ever
(e.e. Cummings, 95 poems)
Monday, August 23, 2010
5 People You Should Know (And Love)
I couldn’t fall asleep last night because my dad’s snoring sounded like a giant industrial machine coming to kill me and my family, it was raining, and random thoughts and vague fantasies were exploding in my head like schizophrenic fireworks.
So I shut my eyes and tried to drift off happily into a world of dreams. I’ve heard that the harder you focus on falling asleep, the harder it is to actually fall asleep. To distract myself, I decided to think of all the people in the world that I’d like to meet.
In my brain, these people paraded themselves in front of me in a form of competition that was a bit like “Survivor” mixed with “America’s Next Top Model”. What follows is a list of the people who won in my imagination. I have put them here because everyone should know and love these people, not only because all of them look good in Anna Sui, but also because they are incredibly talented.
1. Louise Rennison, the evil genius/mastermind behind the Georgia Nicholson diaries. She practically created her own language filled with words and phrases like “boy entrancers”, “nuddy-pants”, and “double cool with knobs”. Through all of her hilariousness, she’s always insightful and makes those of us who are probably clinically insane feel a little better.
2. Chris Colfer, the actor who portrays the adorable Kurt Hummel on Ryan Murphy’s “Glee”. He’s a good role model because his character is strong but relatable, and Colfer is a believable actor. His fashion sense is top-notch. In all of the interviews that I’ve seen with him, he seems poised and sincerely sweet.
3. Ellen DeGeneres, who voiced Dory in “Finding Nemo” and is a warm and friendly talk-show host. I feel like I know her personally. She has written books that are filled with laugh-out-loud funny-ness, and her TV show brightens the most dismal of mornings.
4. Javier Bardem. Sex God extraordinaire with a gorgey accent.
5. Michael Cera, who has his roots in Arrested Development. He is as cute as a button but he’s capable of playing a jackass.
The runners-up include: 1. Jane Austen, the brilliant woman behind six nearly perfect novels that I’ve read at least twice each; 2. Oscar Wilde, pretty much because he’s Oscar Wilde. I don’t care if he was gay. If I could go back in time, I would spend all of my time trying to seduce him; 3. Robin Hood, because he stole from the rich and gave to the poor. Duh. 4. Shonda Rhimes, the writer of my favorite TV show. I think I would actually eat a hot dog if it meant I could be on "Grey's Anatomy".
So I shut my eyes and tried to drift off happily into a world of dreams. I’ve heard that the harder you focus on falling asleep, the harder it is to actually fall asleep. To distract myself, I decided to think of all the people in the world that I’d like to meet.
In my brain, these people paraded themselves in front of me in a form of competition that was a bit like “Survivor” mixed with “America’s Next Top Model”. What follows is a list of the people who won in my imagination. I have put them here because everyone should know and love these people, not only because all of them look good in Anna Sui, but also because they are incredibly talented.
1. Louise Rennison, the evil genius/mastermind behind the Georgia Nicholson diaries. She practically created her own language filled with words and phrases like “boy entrancers”, “nuddy-pants”, and “double cool with knobs”. Through all of her hilariousness, she’s always insightful and makes those of us who are probably clinically insane feel a little better.
2. Chris Colfer, the actor who portrays the adorable Kurt Hummel on Ryan Murphy’s “Glee”. He’s a good role model because his character is strong but relatable, and Colfer is a believable actor. His fashion sense is top-notch. In all of the interviews that I’ve seen with him, he seems poised and sincerely sweet.
3. Ellen DeGeneres, who voiced Dory in “Finding Nemo” and is a warm and friendly talk-show host. I feel like I know her personally. She has written books that are filled with laugh-out-loud funny-ness, and her TV show brightens the most dismal of mornings.
4. Javier Bardem. Sex God extraordinaire with a gorgey accent.
5. Michael Cera, who has his roots in Arrested Development. He is as cute as a button but he’s capable of playing a jackass.
The runners-up include: 1. Jane Austen, the brilliant woman behind six nearly perfect novels that I’ve read at least twice each; 2. Oscar Wilde, pretty much because he’s Oscar Wilde. I don’t care if he was gay. If I could go back in time, I would spend all of my time trying to seduce him; 3. Robin Hood, because he stole from the rich and gave to the poor. Duh. 4. Shonda Rhimes, the writer of my favorite TV show. I think I would actually eat a hot dog if it meant I could be on "Grey's Anatomy".
Friday, August 20, 2010
Something I wrote nine months ago and never posted because I thought it was stupid, but now I think it's actually pretty good, considering.
"Sometimes there's airplanes I can't jump out
Sometimes there's bullshit that don't work now
We all got our stories, but please tell me
What there is to complain about."
- Good Life, OneRepublic
It just takes some time.
Since I've been revoltingly sparse on the writing front these past three months, allow me to provide a general idea of what's been choking my sanity:
Way down, back up, plateau, stop this train, brick wall, way down, back up, gobble gobble.
I knew everything would change once people left for college - in the back of my mind, I really did. But I didn't expect the change to be so instantaneously obvious. I figured it would be gradual - we'd all make new friends, start to care about other things, and eventually forget about high school. But until now, we've all been more-or-less on the same pattern at the same speed. Nobody really got so far ahead you couldn't see them anymore, and no one got stuck in the dust, because the only dust there was to get stuck in was middle school. (Less mature dust than what we were in during high school, but still pretty much the same dust). When college started, some people took off, some people stayed in the same place, and some people are still hanging out in the ambiguous middle-area, wondering where they belong.
"The moon is shining now and shadows are what's left of all the noise,
simple silhouettes and cut-outs, as if we had the choice."
Hi. I'm Megan, and I'll be your tour guide for the popular middle-area. The area where "..." is an expertly descriptive sentence, and gray is the new black. I can't think of anyone more qualified to give you a tour of what floating around in ambiguity feels like right now, though there are probably a handful of people out there who are. But all the same, I've done a lot of floating, and a lot of thinking. More thinking than I probably should have. And here is what I realized:
..
...
Yup. That. Nothing.
I realized that I know nothing.
Sometimes there's bullshit that don't work now
We all got our stories, but please tell me
What there is to complain about."
- Good Life, OneRepublic
It just takes some time.
Since I've been revoltingly sparse on the writing front these past three months, allow me to provide a general idea of what's been choking my sanity:
Way down, back up, plateau, stop this train, brick wall, way down, back up, gobble gobble.
I knew everything would change once people left for college - in the back of my mind, I really did. But I didn't expect the change to be so instantaneously obvious. I figured it would be gradual - we'd all make new friends, start to care about other things, and eventually forget about high school. But until now, we've all been more-or-less on the same pattern at the same speed. Nobody really got so far ahead you couldn't see them anymore, and no one got stuck in the dust, because the only dust there was to get stuck in was middle school. (Less mature dust than what we were in during high school, but still pretty much the same dust). When college started, some people took off, some people stayed in the same place, and some people are still hanging out in the ambiguous middle-area, wondering where they belong.
"The moon is shining now and shadows are what's left of all the noise,
simple silhouettes and cut-outs, as if we had the choice."
Hi. I'm Megan, and I'll be your tour guide for the popular middle-area. The area where "..." is an expertly descriptive sentence, and gray is the new black. I can't think of anyone more qualified to give you a tour of what floating around in ambiguity feels like right now, though there are probably a handful of people out there who are. But all the same, I've done a lot of floating, and a lot of thinking. More thinking than I probably should have. And here is what I realized:
..
...
Yup. That. Nothing.
I realized that I know nothing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)