NaNoWriMo 2012!

Yep.  That's my username in that top right corner.  Which means it's official: I've signed up for NaNoWriMo.  This blog post is for all to see so that I can be held accountable.  As so many already know... it's a lot harder to quit or give up on something when all 400+ of your closest Facebook friends expect something of you.

The basic premise is that those who sign up for NaNoWriMo have all of November to write their novel, which MUST be at least 50,000 words.  (And even though NaNoWriMo is already shortened, I'm going to shorten it more to NNWM, because I'm just that lazy.)  NNWM is very generous in their definition of a novel: "If you believe you're writing a novel, then we believe you're writing a novel."

I have always wanted to do this, and I've always made excuses as to why I can't do it.  It's time to stop hiding behind these excuses... even though some of them are very acceptable.  I'd like to take a moment to reflect on my own insanity by agreeing to attempt NNWM the month before I graduate, which is sure to be one of the most hectic months of my life.  And let's not forget that I turn 22 this month, which will be my golden birthday, and I'm sure to receive 22 solid gold bars as a gift, so I'll have to figure out what to do with all that wealth and luxury, and if that doesn't say DISTRACTION from writing, then I don't know what does.  So, yes, there's a myriad of things to consider for my NNWM 2012 endeavor.

This is why I am changing the NNWM goal for me.  I did not give myself enough time to prepare an idea, background, plot, or anything necessary for writing a novel.  I have zero prewriting done.  Quite frankly, a novel is not the best thing for me to try and squeeze in just for the sake of completing NNWM with my last month of what is sure to be intense schoolwork left.  So instead of a novel of 50,000 words, I am going to be aiming for just 50,000 words of prose in general.  Whatever I write does not need to be connected in any particular way, or go together at all.  I just want to accomplish the 50,000 word deal.  I considered doing the 1,667 words a day version (which is exactly how many words per day of the 30-day month are needed to pass the 50,000 word goal on Nov 30, and would entail exactly 30 individual pieces with 1,667 words each), but I'd like to think that some of my prose pieces will take me longer, or may wind up being connected, or could even form a little baby novella.

I'm not ready to start writing a novel, not ready to take on a novel-in-a-month challenge.  But I am ready to do something.  I am tired of hiding and being afraid and not facing anything because that could mean failure.  If I fail... I fail!  As my dear bestie Jo Rowling has famously said, "It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all-- in which case, you fail by default."

If I'm going to fail, I'm going to fail in a high-flying epic scheme of intensity... like, say, a 50,000 word personal challenge.  I do not want to fail by default, by not trying anything.

Thanks to Fr. Kyle for convincing me to take the plunge, sign up, and commit myself in the best way I can.  And thanks to those that have sent me encouraging messages.  Y'all are great.  If you're considering signing up for and are waiting for a sign, HERE IT IS!  At least try it.  The worst that happens is that you fail, but succeed in gaining some awesome experience.  Check it out here.

Two days and counting until November first, when my first (minimum of) 1,667 are "due."  Wish me luck?

The Question

Can you hear the silence
As you stand
On the threshold
Of everything that matters
Clinging to your footholds and handholds
Listening to the growing hum
Of hundreds of humans
Slowly raising their voices
Until the hum becomes a buzz
And the buzz becomes a roar
And the roar becomes more,
A cacophony of insanity,
People desperately screaming
To make their words heard,
To distinguish their messages

And you, clinging to the edge,
What are you going to do about it?
It’s time, it’s time
Time to make your decision
And share your convictions
Time to get your gears in motion
And add your voice to the commotion
Time to fling the sounds
Your vocal cords have created,
Uniquely yours,
Into the din, until your vowels and your consonants
And your phonetics rise about the rest

Or will you find yourself frozen
Petrified by the devotion of others
That you can’t seem to match
Immobilized by the frenzy
Of those fighting for attention
In a world of self-invention
It is time, it is time
It is time to leap from your hiding place
Or turn your face away from it all
To leap and fly
To leap and fall
To do nothing at all
You rest on the cusp of the rest of your life—
And this is it
It’s time
And it all comes down to you—
What will you do?

Les Misérables: THE MOVIE!

Last night, I was at the movies with some friends, not paying attention to the trailers because my Bunchacrunch box was putting up an excellent fight in not being opened, when someone started singing on screen.  It caught my attention, so I looked up, and within the first three seconds of the trailer, I knew.

Not because of the music, not because of the first two shots of a man I didn't recognize, but because of Anne Hathaway and her haircut.  The desperate song, the hair, and the knowledge in the back of my head of a movie about this book coming out-- Les Misérables.

I'm not at all familiar with the musical, Les Mis (because I am uncultured and uncouth?), nor do I know any of the music from it.  But I know the book.  Allow me to catch you up with events leading up to me reading Les Mis:

1.  The Abridged Heidi Incident
2.  Desire to read more classics
3.  Started reading the abridged Les Mis
4.  Panic upon realization of another abridged book
5.  Purchase of a brick known as unabridged Les Mis

Les Mis took me almost an entire year to read cover to cover.  It is, by far, the most difficult book I have ever read.  I can't say that I understood every last detail or grasped every last symbol or even appreciated every last reference to historical events that I should know more about but don't.  My French history knowledge is rusty at best, and my God, was Hugo ever determined to make sure his readers understood Waterloo.  I still can't believe that one book took me a year to finish.  Granted, that was a very busy year for me and a very wordy, very elaborate, very difficult book to finish, but still.  I was a little ashamed of how slow my reading pace went with Les Mis.

But I'm so glad I read it.  And seeing the movie trailer gave me chills, truly, like, goosebumps all up and down my arms and hair standing up and everything.  It just absolutely blows my mind that things like this can happen, can transcend time and country and language.  This book was written in 1862.  I wish I could capitalize letters to impress how insane I think that date is.  EIGHTEEN SIXTY TWO!  In the year one thousand, eight hundred, and sixty two, Victor Hugo wrote a book as a social commentary on various subjects about the lives of these damned and somewhat helpless French lower-class citizens that we can still relate to today.  Centuries later, we have made songs from it and a movie from it, and if I can cry about the death of a fictional prostitute (driven to such a profession by her miserable circumstances) from the 1800s, then surely I can be moved to see the current world in which I live in a different light, and make a difference-- can't I?

Books and the themes with which they present us are meant to light a fire within us that catapults us to a new state of thinking and being.  When I read, I want to be faced with an idea or opinion or belief that I have never yet encountered, and if it's uncomfortable or something I've been opposed to before, all the better.  Make me think.  I am a conscious, sentient human being, and I want to be challenged and made to consider options I never would have thought of on my own.  My favorite books have shown me worlds and ways of thinking that make me hungry for more.

It was incredible for me to see the trailer for Les Mis, to see scenes so similar to what I had pictured in my head in bright, moving images before me.  I swear, the barricade scene during the émeute was almost exactly like what I had conjured in my mind, and that visions like this can happen astounds me.  And it all started from a brick book.  A book that it was my absolute privilege to read.

Banned Books Week has recently finished, and even though I'm quite late on addressing that topic, just give me a couple of sentences more to say-- books should never be banned.  Even when I think a book is stupid and worthless (and oh, I could name a few), I do not believe they should be banned.  There are so many worlds to discover and so many new ways of thinking to try.  I want so badly to share this sentiment through my own writing.  One day!

La douleur

What happens when our tired, aching feet,

grown too big for their shoes,

absolutely refuse to pull us out and

around to where our old stomping

grounds used to be, when our meeting

place is nothing more than the lost and

found for memories of old, forgotten days?

What happens when we scatter silently,

here and there and everywhere, like 

dandelion fluff, carried by a puff of

leisurely breeze at its ease,

to each their own, to find a home,

as the breeze turns into a wind, and

blows us to all four corners and more

of the earth, how will we continue

to determine our friendship's worth?

What happens when you are where 

you want to be and have forgotten me,

when I am lost in the middle of 

my mind, and cannot find my

way out through the maze I traced

from older days, when we 

used to know the path, but when

you are where you want 

to be, who will help to set me free?

What happens then?

Thank you for reading.  I am learning.  I am growing.  I am changing.

Own Your Talents

I set goals for myself allllll the time.  All are serious in nature, as they pertain to edging me along the way to the life I want to have for myself, but they all vary in size and difficulty.  Examples:

• "Make small talk today."  (I despise small talk.  I'm actually quite good at it, but I prefer silence over forced conversation.) 
• "Don't look at the sidewalk/down as you walk."  (There's so much more to be seen!)
• "Walk slower."  (Not that I would EVER have any wishes to be confused for a slow-walker, but I tend to walk quickly and with an extreme purpose, and this sometimes means that I miss out on awesome things around me.  Coincides with above goal.)
• "Don't drink Coke for three days in a row."  (It's bad for me.  I know this.)
• "Write down one good thing about every day for an entire year in order to change how you view your life."  (YOU GUYS KNOW ABOUT THIS ONE)
• "Make a blog post at least once a month for all of 2012."  (Safari, s'goodi!)
• "Write at least one poem a month."  (I have very much exceeded this, to my own surprise.)
• "Own your talents.  No more hiding."

That last one is a toughie because it's a life-long kind of thing, you know?  It's not like I make it to the end of a day/week/month/year and think, "Phew, that's over!  Glad I did it.  Hope I learned something."  I have several goals that are constant, day-to-day efforts, and I do mean "efforts" in the truest sense of the word.  They can be physically taxing in how difficult they are for me to achieve.  They can bring me to tears when I feel that I've failed.  They can follow me for the rest of my life, because I can fail them, but I don't know that I can ever fully achieve them.  It kind of sucks.  But I seriously do feel that it's something I have to do, because I've made a commitment to myself to honestly be a better person, for the sake of others and for myself.

So, of all of my many faults and shortcomings, one of which I am most ashamed is how long it took for me to own my talents.  I like to think that I have (had?) some sort of talent-dysmorphia.  Body-dysmorphia is a real thing, in which people truly cannot see their own bodies for the way they actually are; they seem them as distorted and ugly and so on and so forth.  I feel like for me, I could never see my talents as things worthy of sharing and things of which to be proud.  To say I am smart, to say I write well, to say things of that nature, is to be a braggart, immodest, lacking humility, vain, self-centered, etc.  I could never share my talents on a wide scale because it would be, in short, wrong.  

It has taken me years to be at this point, where I can say good things about myself and what I can do with only minor flinching (kidding...?).  It's one of the most awkward things for me to do.  But it's okay.  Owning my talents does not make me a bad person.  Claiming myself for who I am does not mean I'm bragging.  Hiding what I do well and putting down any compliments is only doing a disservice to myself and to the God who gave me these to share, to increase the joy of others, when possible.  And I hate thinking that not owning who I am is doing exactly the opposite of what my God intended.

There are so many levels on which I have convinced myself that I ought to be ashamed, and it's exhausting.  It's even more exhausting for me to put those old self-views aside and lay claim to my talents.  But it's the kind of exhaustion that I think will be worth it in the end.

So my goal to claim my talents and own what I do started small.  Publish a couple of poems on Facebook.  And God, that was TERRIFYING.  I had to stop.  It was too much, too soon.  I think I put up all of 2 poems before the panic set in.  Too many people could identify me with those words.  So I tried something even smaller.

I started publishing my poems on my tumbr, where very few people knew me for me.  And that's when the change started happening.  People started liking and reblogging my poems.  I have written about this, which I consider to be somewhat of a phenomena, before.  People genuinely seemed to like what I was writing, for the words themselves, not because I was Erica and they knew me and "had" to like it.  Some of my poems have been exceptionally well-received.  I was so proud of myself, which is not a feeling I am overly familiar with.  Proud of the things that I had been keeping from people who love and support me, and always have, for so long.

I shared a couple of poems with people I know in real life, and I'm finally ready to break through and share not only a poem, but the scanned image of it in its original form in my poetry notebook, which is very personal and close to my heart.  That's as raw as it gets.  But I have to post it in its own blog entry... because as my favorite creative writing teacher told me, no disclaimers to your writing.  I'm cheating by having this blog post as an ENORMOUS disclaimer here.  The poem I've chosen to share is not only one of my favorites, but just had a pretty nice reception on tumblr.  So... the poem will be up here in a couple of days... stay tuned!

Erica in Ireland

I know, I know.  I went to Ireland 4 months ago.  Now is hardly the time to writing about it.  But I didn't want to write about Ireland when it was the appropriate time, because I'm fussy like that.  And now that an appropriate blog post would be Isaac and hurricanes and Katrina and New Orleans and my whole maudlin opinion on such topics, I find myself exhausted at the idea of having to write about that when everyone's already so sick of hearing about such things.

So, forgive me for my tardiness, but I'm actually going to write about Ireland now.  And by "write about", I'm going to transcribe my notebook entries while in that gorgeous country.  I was so determined to writewritewrite about Ireland, and I didn't, until the last couple of days.  What could I say about everything?  What words could I possibly choose to describe what I was experiencing?

In the end, I chose to write about the people.  Here's what I finally poured out through my pen:

May 30, 2012

I think I've been avoiding writing about Ireland.  It's true that we've been going fairly non-stop, and in our down periods, we SLEEP, but there's just so much to say that the idea of sitting down to journal about it is overwhelming.  I wanted so badly to find inspiration here that I've been putting off writing in case I didn't find what I wanted.

Everything is beautiful.  Everyone is beautiful. 

That's the summary of what I'm taking away from this experience.  The land, the people, the interactions, everything-- beauty.

Claire O'Presco-- young woman who grew up working in Ireland's bogs with her great-uncle.  If she was good, she got to go inside and watch the weaving.  Graduated with a BA in textile arts.  Reassembled a 100-year old loom and now works as an artist making scarves, bags, stuffed animals, etc.  Loves her job.  All animals she makes have their "own little personalities."  Never wastes a scrap of wool.  So loving.  Close-cropped asymmetrical hair, dyed, reddish-purple-brown, fuzzy untweezed eyebrows, glasses.  Beautiful.

Eugene-- OPW worker at Boyle Abbey- closes gates at 5:15 but doesn't leave until 6.  White hair, white beard, blue-blue eyes, small gold glasses.  No wedding ring.  Loves the Abbey.  Loves it so much.  Wonders about what the builders were thinking.  Let us buy 4 postcards for just 1 euro (undercharged).  Climbed Croagh Patrick with a blind man.  He and the guide held onto the stick at one end, while the blind man held onto the other end.  Short, a little stout, like a medium Santa.  Beautiful.

Man at Croagh Patrick-- climbs it every day before work.  Gets up early to make his climb.  Best time: 1 hour 15 minutes.  Bleach-blonde hair, no shirt, running shorts.  Crazy.  Beautiful.

Woman in Roscommon gift shop-- very soft-spoken.  Short blondish hair in a gentle bob around her wrinkly face.  Glasses.  Sat on a stool behind register and talked to us.  Wanted to know if she could climb Croagh Patrick at age 68.  I don't know if we convinced her or not.  Seemed lonely not in life, but behind that counter.  Ended our conversation with "God bless."  Beautiful.

Man with Famine cottages-- tall.  Strawberry blonde hair.  Gentle eyes and soft voice.  Must have known Gaelic-- stumbled in English.  Heavy Irish accent.  Was sitting in truck with border collies when we approached.  Left truck to sell us tickets (to see the cottages) from a small ticket booth a foot next to his truck.  Had hand-drawn maps and info for us.  Stayed in his truck while we looked and learned.  Gave us food for his animals.  No one in Ireland talks about the Famine-- small miracle he kept those cottages on his land for viewing purposes.  When we came back, he genuinely wanted to know if we thought it was worth the price he charged us (only 2 euros/ticket).  We explained how sad it was but how amazing it was to see it.  He seemed proud to have been able to show and share his cottages.  Beautiful.

Thomas Christopher Coyne-- artist, craftsman, artisan-- sitting at a small table outside of ancient Celtic tomb (Poulnebrone).  Red cheeks from sitting in sun all day, white rock dust scuffed across under his eyes.  Bright eyes.  Rough working apron, tunic with hood pulled up over head to protect from sun.  Rough, sure, gentle, strong hands.  Deftly handled the pewter.  Interesting-- making money, but did not seem to be a tourist scam.  Truly, truly loved what he was doing.  Had several books at his little table.  All very well-loved.  Showed us his book that defined what trees the Celtic letters stood for and what they meant/represented.  This book was so loved.  It was a friend.  He handled it beautifully.  Great accent, great conversationalist.  Must enjoy both talking to people and the occasional solitude of his work.  Kind soul.  Beautiful.

Rory-- OPW worker at New Grange.  Tallish, brownish hair.  Blue eyes.  Baby face, round owl face.  Nice accent.  Great sense of humor.  Looks young but must be in early 30s.  Has held OPW job for 8 years.  Constantly reading/doing research on monument and era.  Doesn't like math/science but appreciates the subjects.  Has experienced winter solstice at New Grange TWICE-- "very humbling experience."  Prefers idea of birth/death/rebirth for Neolithic entrance stone drawings-- thinks it the "nicest of the theories."  Loves what he does.  Curious.  Good with people.  Friendly.  Funny.  Beautiful!

Pablo-- flight attendant on our 8 hour flight from Ireland to Atlanta.  Very funny!  Stays in great humor.  Short, happy, pepper hair and happy eyes.  Uniform, but has an extra something to it-- happiness/satisfaction in career choice?  Lovely accent.  Jokes with passengers and other flight attendants.  Jokingly asked me if I was writing about him.  I smiled and said yes; he thought I was joking, but I am.  Very kindly.  Truly cares.  Makes connections, I think.  Rare kind of person.  Beautiful.

...

I dislike the fact that I will probably never know if the 68 year old woman will climb Croagh Patrick.  I think that will be on my list of questions to ask God when I die.

There are 7 billion stories to share and tell, and I can't seem to imagine even just one of them.  Maybe I should travel the world and just collect stories and retell them...

Writers Read and Readers Write

I love to read.  I think that may go without saying.  I used to tear through books as quickly as I could get my hands on them when I was younger.  To say that I was a voracious reader would be an understatement.  My punishments were often having my book of the day taken away.  I would get a new book from the store or the library, and my mother would have to keep it from me until we got home-- she would be annoyed at how far I would get into a book just on the ride home.

And then there was the traumatic Heidi incident.  At my elementary school, we had the AR program.  Certain books were marked as part of the program, and each book had a different point value assigned (the more difficult reading level or length of the book, the more points the book was worth).  When you finished reading the book, you took a test on the library's computer, and your score on the test determined how many AR points you received out of the book's given point value.  I loooved the AR program and would tear through books to get more points.

And then Heidi.  Oh, Heidi.  In fourth grade, I went for Heidi because it had a high point value... but I accidentally read the abridged version.  I had no idea that there was such a thing as "abridged" and "unabridged" books.  Needless to say, the AR test pulled questions from the unabridged version, and to my shame and horror, I failed the AR test.  My reading pace slowed down considerably from then-- I read books so carefully, I take in every word-- if I skip a word and try to pass over it, it eats at me until I go back and reread the entire page.  I don't know if this is entirely Heidi's fault, or if I've just grown to be a more careful reader over time.  Regardless, I've turned into a relatively slow reader.

But I love reading.  I love books so much.  I could write hundreds of blog posts on why I love books to such a degree.  Unfortunately, my commitment to my schoolwork often overtakes the time I would normally dedicate to reading for pleasure.  I have been trying to read more for my own purposes, not for school, but I find it difficult.  And then I tried to tackle Les Mis last summer, and fell short.  I promised that I wouldn't read any other books except those for school until I finished Les Mis (I broke that promise, but only a little).  It was kind of... dare I say... miserable.

So this summer, I made another promise to myself.  I would read 15 books (roughly one for every week of summer).  This would have been nothing a few years ago, but it was a BIG goal for the Erica of today.  I finished Les Mis before my 15 weeks started and then started.  My books were all different lengths (one being quite short indeed...), and I finished 14.5 books in my allotted time.  I'm still working on that last one!  My list does not include the books that I've read so many times I can nearly recite them, which I always pick up on the odd day and polish off passages just for the fun of it.

The purpose of my goal was to rediscover how much FUN reading is.  My creative writing teacher, Ms. Hopkins, told us that if we truly love something, we should have to find time to STOP doing it, not try to make time FOR it.  She was right.  It's something that she said in passing, and I don't think she expected it to resonate with anyone, but it's something that has burrowed its way into my brain and stuck with me ever since.  And I'm proud to say that this summer, I found myself have to convince myself to put my book down and do something else from time to time.  I was immersed in literature again.

I read new things and old things.  I read graphic novels, which I've never done before.  I read an autobiography, which I've never done before.  I read nonfiction, which I normally dislike.  I read a play, which I have only done voluntarily (not for school) once before.  This was another side trip in this journey of bettering myself and getting towards the Erica I want to be.  I'm so glad I did this for myself.  As I learned in 6th grade from my teacher Mrs. North, writers read and readers write.  The two go hand in hand.  And, as part of my journey of bettering myself by exploring
my subconscious and handling my personal issues through writing, I must, of course, write-- and to write better, I must read.

Does that make any sense?  Not only was it important for me to get back to doing something I love, it was also important to include this as an actual step in my journey.  Ironically, I feel horribly scatterbrained and as if I'm not making much sense tonight.  I think I might be repeating myself, too.

I apologize if this blog post is not as well-written as I would normally like, but I've got half an eye on one of my favorite shows, Criminal Minds, and half my attention glancing back at my book, as I try to decide which I want to focus all of my attention on after I post this... ;)

My summer reading, though not in the order in which they're stacked:

Les Misérables by Victor Hugo (finished)
Home by Julie Andrews
A Glamorously Unglamorous Life by Julia Albain
Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi
Persepolis 2 by Marjane Satrapi
Twisted by Laurie Halse Anderson (an all-time favorite author!)
Paper Towns by John Green
The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
I am the Messenger by Markus Zusak (a new favorite author!)
The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky
Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw
Milkweed by Jerry Spinelli (reread)
The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman (reread)
The Subtle Knife by Philip Pullman (reread)
The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman (reread... and not done yet!)