"Dan in Real Life" (Which Dan?)

Today I'm going to be a bit snappy as to be honest I'd quite like to read my newest book ("Magonia" by Maria Dahvana Headley... It's a strange mix between John Green-esque writing and fantasy fiction. It's quite good although nowhere near being the best) so I'm not going to elaborate a whole lot.

1). I believe we tend to write about what we know, but every now and then it's good to write about what we're not sure about, especially in fiction. We sometimes need to stretch outside our comfort zones and write about something we're not knowledgeable about or don't know how to write for. If you always write about your life, than write about a made-up person for once. If you're always making things up, write about yourself (something I've yet to do in this class). Write about what you know, sure, but don't JUST write about what you know.

2). The three tips I would give about teenagers? Remember how it was to be a teenager, and make sure you understand we make mistakes, and we make a lot of them. A little forgiveness for losing control and snapping back every now and then wouldn't hurt. Remember, understand, forgive.

3). I wouldn't want to write for a newspaper because I like for what I write about to sit for a few days so I can come back and go "Oh, that could be better, let's change that and improve that." Raw writing like I'm doing right now can be good sometimes but, frankly speaking, your best work always comes when you finish it then come back later and realize all the things that you didn't see the first time you finished. I'm still going back to poetry I wrote years ago and seeing all these places to improve. I never change the meaning, just how I portray it. Newspapers are almost always raw writing. Maybe not quite like this, but you typically don't get any time to have it sit in the back of your brain. Newspapers also have deadlines. Writing doesn't.

4). Dan did in fact want his kids to follow that age-old saying at first, and that's the wrong thing to do. Kids look at their parents for knowledge, advice, and guidance. When a child sees their parents doing something, in their heads it's the right thing to do, because their parents are doing it. Parents always have to remember that what they do is far more impressionable than what they say. Actions speak louder than words, right?

5). Age isn't important with love or dating. It's maturity. It's about being careful and wise about your decisions. A thirty year old could be too immature for a serious relationship and a fifteen year old could be wise beyond their years. Age has no claim on love. Emotional maturity is a different matter, something that doesn't grow with the body but rather with the life and memories. Wearing a thong might be something more attuned to physical maturity, but the concept is the same. If you're not mature enough, it doesn't matter how old you are. Our society puts way too much emphasis on age. In some cases it's vital, in others it varies far too much from person to person.

And that concludes today's questions. Yay. Bye.

Nonexistent Movie Quotes

Unfortunately, I'm not much of a movie watcher, and I could never tell you a single quote from any movie I've ever seen except for the "Everything is Awesome!" song from the Lego movie or "One does not simply walk into Mordor." from Lord of the Rings, Fellowship of the Ring. I'd love to amaze you with quotes from Silence of the Lamb or any number of Bill Murray or Robin Williams movies. Might even throw an Adam Sandler movie in there. But I don't pick out certain quotes from books, movies, or songs. I absorb all of it, and it wouldn't be real to tell you a bunch of quotes that don't really mean anything to me because it's not about the specific things said it's about the entire movie, right? We don't watch a movie for one quote we watch it for the message of the entire movie. Silence of the Lambs is one of the best written movies of all time yet I couldn't tell you a single line even though they're all mostly great ones. But the movie as a whole is deep and dark, and penetrating. The movie is fantastically twisted and lovingly evil. But no quotes. Why? I'm not that kind of person. Neither will I look online for random quotes from some movies I've seen in the past, because they don't mean anything. It's the movie as a whole and if only one line in a movie captures the meaning of the movie then I've either not seen it or don't care to remember seeing it. Besides, some of the best, most memorable pieces of art in our lives are ones without words. Like Ruska, by Apocalyptica. What a beautiful, soul-wrenching piece of music. Played by four cellos and a piano? Come on. There's not a single word in that entire song yet the entire song speaks of dying and losing the things we care about. The entire song sings of transitioning into change and accepting new things. The entire song is beautiful and filled with love and sadness and meaning. Let me tell you a quote: There is none! There's not a single word in the song, it's only the instruments played by four extremely talented gentlemen. The only word associated with the song is the name: Ruska, which means "fall colors" in Finnish. Haunting, isn't it? I think I've made my point.

In the Future, I'm Not Writing About My Future

On Monday, we had the privilege of meeting Mr. Jim Odom, an author who has published a book! On this eventful day, many things were discussed. Let's take a look...

We discussed several ways of publishing a book or other literary work. This was extremely interesting as I one day hope to self-publish a book. And...that's really all I have to say about that.

The second thing we talked about was his writing style. He had some unique ideas but I didn't particularly agree with them. I have a different writing style and I like to write in different, strange ways. I'm either very serious or very silly. Or something in between like this, where I need to be serious but I want to be silly, so I manage to shove some weird random stuff in between serious sentences. Read: previous sentence. And that concludes this portion of...I'm not sure.

If I could ask one question, it's "If you could write about anything regardless of how long or difficult it would be, what would you write about?" I'd ask this because it's a silly question. The answer is, of course, "What I'm writing about now." Because to an author, it doesn't matter. We write what we want to write about. The end. Period.

In one year, I see myself being one year old. In five years, I see myself being five years older. In ten years, I see myself being ten years older. In fifty years, I see myself being dead. Nah, I'd just be fifty years older. In all reality, I just want to live. Computer programming? Sure. Writing? I'm okay with that. A nice car? It's not essential but hey I'll take it if it comes. I'm not really thinking about the future, at least not like this question wants me to. I'm on the path I'm on and if I decide to change it later on I will, but right now this is where I'm heading.

The picture is the newly announced Microsoft Lumia 950 XL. It's a gorgeous powerhouse of a phone and one day I'd like to be a developer programming applications for Windows 10 (this phone runs Windows 10).

Clown Chronicles: Cool, Charlie's Calling

Allow me to begin my tale with a simple revelation. A tiny fragment of a much larger truth. An iota of deep meaning in a sea of random sarcasm and silly plot. This story makes no sense. It is not supposed to. It is not supposed to make you cry, or to make you think. This story will not send you spinning into weeks of quiet contemplation and silent conversations with yourself. It will not make you fall in love with the characters, or draw you in with its clever innuendos and beautifully articulated metaphors. This story is hilariously moronic in its nature, and it begins... Now!

.  .  .

 It's not easy being a clown. The task of entertaining the children weighs heavily on every clown's shoulder, and constantly dealing with that incessant, needling fear of clowns that is so common; it truly makes you age. If I had any hair left it would be solid grey. If you could see my face through the white paint it would be full of wrinkles. I nearly don't need my red nose because my nose is already tomato-red from the sniffles. I feel like I rely more on my painted smile than I do on my real smile. I can't even remember what my real smile feels like.

Allow me to explain. My name is Cal Carnaghan. To be more precise, Clown Cal C. Carnaghan, and I live in California. What a beautiful state it is, but it has little need for clowns such as I. Yet, I survived, somehow. Even when children cried at the sight of me or women shied away in fear, I persevered. I continued...clowning. I was good at it, whatever anyone might tell you. When the circumstances and audience was right I could truly amaze the crowd. My balloon animals were breathtakingly beautiful. My face painting skills rivaled DaVinci in spectacular skill and precision. I could juggle, right a unicycle, trapeze, tight-rope, anything their little hearts desire. But shows like that were so few and far between it nearly broke my heart.

Then Charlie called. You see, Charlie is my twin brother, and he is a lawyer. Not just any lawyer. He's The Lawyer. He wears the most expensive Rolex, drives the most gas-guzzling Hummer, has the most generic family, and lives in the most cliche white picket fenced house. He's successful and handsome, and rich, and successful. I'm just a clown. Anyways, Charlie called me and said something like,

"Yo, Cal-dog, what's up?"

Or maybe,

"Greetings, Brother Cal, how do you fare?"

Or possibly just,

"Hey."

But you can't possibly expect me to remember stuff like that. Charlie said something that might have meant "Hello, how are you?" and I replied "Life stinks and I want to die." For some reason, he ended up coming out and signing me up for therapy. He made me stop being a clown. And suddenly, life was better. Until he got hit by a bus. Then life stunk again. I went back to clowning. Now I'm sitting in this restaurant, writing on a napkin, and I'm about to run out of space. I only have one more thing to tell you, and it's very profound: You have to remember to—[END OF NAPKIN]

Spinning Off: George Stubbs Paintings

There once was a horse;

An unoriginal way to begin

Yet that's how I'm starting

You'll just have to cope

Anyways, there once was a horse;

Ah, the rhythm is off now

Let me start over again

We'll get it right this time around

There once was a horse;

He was beautiful and strong

Proud, and wild as the wind

He ruled where he ran

No animal could match his stride

His gait faster than any other

When canter turned to gallop

The ground shook beneath him

Many tried to tame this horse

Many attempted to saddle him

None came close, none touched

And he stayed free of the bridle

Yet, alone and full of pride

He still had a friend

A dog, pure white and giddy

Who loved the horse blindly

The horse stopped running

The ground no longer shook

Head no longer held proudly

As he lowered his nose

The horse loved his dog

The dog followed his horse

The dog couldn't keep up

So the horse slowed down

There once was a horse;

Running with a dog

What a sweet story—

Only hearts were caught

On a grand farm—

In a place far from this time and place

Sunlight takes the stars

And soft beams fill every dark space

On dark, moist ground—

Where life manifests with majestic aplomb

Comes a rhythmic sound

That heralds the coming of a new dawn

Over green hills—

Across fields two white specks quickly run

The sound becomes still

A snort and neigh joins the rising sun

Two playful mutts—

Barking and chasing in careless glee

Fly over a rut

Colliding into a horse they didn't see

On a grand farm—

In a place far from our now and here

Sunlight takes the stars

And three friends play without fear

This Is a PAINTING (of Some Sorts)

The sky is a soft, steely grey standing atop a bar of vivid pinks and oranges. There is a purple outline of land against the lightening sky. This marvelous cascade of colors highlights a deep, dark blue expanse of ocean. The ocean rushes to meet black, jagged crags and a dark blue behemoth is torn to fine mist and white froth against the sharp teeth of the rocks. Hidden rocks lay buried under the churning white waves. The broken water lazily meanders away, slowly eating away at the crags.

Oceans border the
Vivid hues of a new sky
Black crags break white waves

And then a man comes
And he's bored
So he decides to swim
On the floor
Made of sand
And a few crabs
He cuts his hands
But he doesn't care
The waves come
And wash over him
And he splutters
But doesn't move
Who knows what is
Going through his head
Interrupting his thoughts
Is another wave
He might drown
If he doesn't move
But he's having fun
'Cause he's no longer bored
So he keeps swimming
On the floor
Made of sand
And a couple crabs
With the sun
Coming up
Or going down
We can't really tell
No one really cares
Just like that one man
Who's swimming on the floor
Made of sand
And a few crabs
Oh no the crabs are gone
They had enough of him
He's had enough of him
He gets up
And leaps into the ocean
But the ocean says no
And throws him back onto
The beach made of
Sand, and a few crabs
Oh wait no crabs
And he cries
For no serious reason
He's a total moron
He sobs on the floor
And his tears
Increase the size of the ocean
No, not really
There is no possible way
To measure how much
If at all
His tears added to
The size of the ocean
It was so miniscule
And insignificant
That to attempt to
Measure the amount
Or the percentage
Would be a silly
Endeavor
And it's best to forget
All about it
Or you might be a moron
Just like the old man
Crying on the floor
Made of sand
And no crabs
Where he used to swim
When he was a bit younger
And wasn't crying
While the sun comes up
Or falls down
Over a blue ocean
Breaking on black crags
Making white foam
Along a sandy shore
With no crabs

The Adventurous Blog-Strider, Chapter 2

 

I am back (and so is Zachary-In-Parentheses)! I have once again chosen three of my fellow authors (they were chosen for me) to leave insightful (might as well be blind) comments on their work.

I first started with M'Kenna, who was very good at depicting color and emotion. She wrote a lot about her grandmother and about living in the South, and you really felt her intentions in writing her work. My personal favorite was probably "The Creaking Door," as it captured a fragment of a true, substantial emotion. My comments for her were:
Good morning, M'Kenna,
I really enjoyed this piece. You put some depth to your speculations and everything you said had a ring of truth and certainty even though you weren't certain what she had done with the prayer rock. You took an ordinary stone and made it extraordinary. Well done, I had a good time reading this. Now I'm off to read more!
Have a lovely night,
Zachary
Good morning, M'Kenna,
This reminds me of a piece I wrote a few years ago, "Ashes of a Memory" that depicted in rather gruesome details the consequences of drunk driving and the horrors of losing someone close to you. It's a terrifying, ripping feeling to be suddenly bereft of your loved ones. Good job capturing the quiet, dark emotion of this scene.
Have a lovely night,
Zachary
Good morning, M'Kenna,
I can tell your grandmother is very important to you. This story was an endearing fragment of your relationship with her and the fantastic life she must've lead. I can't imagine the stories she can and has told you about her past. I wonder how much her past has shaped your future?
Have a lovely night,
Zachary
Good morning, M'Kenna,
What a fantastic use of your colors! It really added a sophisticated ring to this tiny piece, and cast vibrant images through my mind. I could see everything you described. There was truly a lot of yellow there, wasn't there? I feel you could do this with any color under the sun (and moon).
Have a lovely night,
Zachary
Good morning, M'Kenna,
You're a very prolific writer, and I've been thoroughly enjoying reading some of your work. All three of these pieces were in-depth and colorful, and portrayed some hidden, profound meaning of family or emotion.
Have a lovely night,
Zachary

Next was Riley, who put interesting twists in his stories that made them unique and interesting. He had a straightforward style that was pretty endearing. My favorite story was probably "The MGI Patch," as it was simple, and awoke some important memories. My comments for him were:
Good morning, Riley,
I've had lots of friends in Marching Band and I've heard legendary stories about Drum Line. I'm certain it is an unforgettable experience every competition, and I'm happy you get to experience it.
Have a lovely night,
Zachary
Good morning, Riley,
This was a unique, interesting piece. You took information as if from a history book and put your own personal spin on it, weaving "informal" words throughout to make it yours. It was interesting, and the comparisons were very artful.
Have a lovely night,
Zachary
Good morning, Riley,
This was an interesting story, and I enjoyed reading it. You placed colors where they shouldn't "belong" and used them to your advantage, crafting a unique world and story. I wish I knew what happened afterwards.
Have a lovely night,
Zachary
Good morning, Riley,
I too would like to know the answer to Mrs. Fraser's question. I enjoyed these pieces, particularly the last one which had some clever usage of color and description. The Frog King is definitely unique.
Have a lovely night,
Zachary
Good morning, Riley,
I almost feel as if your stories are inspired by the pictures. You find a weird picture and create an amazing, unique story from it. Or maybe I'm wrong.
Have a lovely night,
Zachary

Finally, but not least (that's a really clichè line), was Jacob. His style was varied yet still followed the same line and it was interesting to read his work. My favorite was his "7 Line Poem," as it held such detail and a carefully cultivated moment. My comments for him were:
Good morning, Jacob,
This was great, and I loved your use of ellipsis's to continue your thought all the way to the end, letting the reader finish for you. It was very cleverly done.
Have a lovely night,
Zachary
Good morning, Jacob,
I loved the simple yet deep meaning to this story, and how you told the whole story like you were living it. You were excited and emotional and it made the story more enjoyable.
Have a lovely night,
Zachary
Good morning, Jacob,
I agree with this completely. Smells make us relive a lot of memories and there can be thousands of memories attached to a single smell. This is an accurate representation of that effect.
Have a lovely night,
Zachary
Good morning, Jacob,
You filled this short poem with such captivating detail. It was joy to read. I hope you continue writing like this!
Have a lovely night,
Zachary
Good morning, Jacob,
I can relate to this precisely, as I remember long winter nights spent with the family. We have to appreciate the little things.
Have a lovely night,
Zachary

I loved everything I read, and I hope to read more at a later date (I'll be busy from now until forever, so schedule accordingly). And I'm also glad Zachary-In-Parentheses wasn't quite so invasive and annoying (I'm never annoying... Possibly invasive though).
Have a lovely night,
Zachary

Dreaming... Dreaming... Aw, Awake

We constantly dream. It's what humans do. We're faced with a situation that we analyze and overcome (or we sit down and cry), and we move on to another situation, yet the entire time we dream about not being in these situations. We struggle through life (or we sit down and cry some more), and the entire time we dream about a life without struggle. I find myself most often dreaming about the books that I've recently read, and how I would react to their situations and to the people in their worlds. I craft worlds around me with inspiration from stories I've read, and from stories I'd like to read. I even dream about changing the circumstances of our world and placing myself in a new life, a new body. I rarely remember my dreams when I sleep, so most of my dreams are when I'm awake. I can't put a whole lot of stock into dreams, as I barely remember any of them, but I understand that used properly they can have phenomenal power.
And what can we use that power for? Anything at all. Entire worlds are created out of the remnants and fragments of subconscious thought, and people emerge from those embers and craft their own lives. Franchises that have made millions and amazed just as many people were created from dreams. Maybe I should put more stock into my dreams, or maybe I already am, I just don't realize it.

Famous First and Last Lines (of Books, Not Lives)

"Of all the things that drive men to seas, the most common disaster, I've come to learn, is women."
-Charles Johnson, Middle Passage

Charles R. Johnson was born April 23, 1948, and is still alive today. He's a prominent scholar and has attended many colleges and universities, and his writing has influenced a lot of people.
Middle Passage was published in 1990.
The book is about a freed slave, Rutherford Calhoun, who has fallen in love with a wild, adventurous lifestyle. However, he meets a young woman who is determined to make a proper man out of him.
I would like to read this book, because I read practically everything. I have no guarantee that I'd enjoy it, but I'd at least like to have the experience.

 "But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing."
-A. A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner

  Alan Alexander Milne was born January 18, 1882 and died January 31, 1956. He's most famous for his two Pooh books about a boy named Christopher Robin (named after his son) and his bear Winnie the Pooh (originally named Edward but changed later on).
The book is a classic, something where countless childhood memories have been built. Winnie the Pooh is an adorable yellow bear that is constantly getting into trouble and teaching life-long lessons.
I would like to read this book to see where the legend of Winnie the Pooh started, and to see how close the animated series are to the books.

They Only Gave Me Six

Me, Myself, and I:
Can describe life in six words.
Schizophrenic: me, me, and me disagree.
Too busy being myself to answer.
This can almost nearly make sense.
Six words, only writes five (six).
How come I'm only given six?
Sorry, can't hear you because reasons.
I'm being creative by being creative.
Once upon a time...I'm out.
Way too excited by six words.
Insomnia: I slept, except I didn't.

Meghan:
Insanely loud personality—yet barely talks.
Thinks too much about six words.
She needs to stop erasing (seriously).
I'm writing about her—she won't.
Really didn't want another six words.

Emma:
Absolutely gorgeous—more excited by food.

Laura:
Still listens, even listening to music.
Why is her journal like art?
She keeps creativity in her hair.

Other:
Ariel Bloomer is amazing—enough said.
Nikola Tesla—the under-appreciated super genius.
Terry Brooks—the reason I'm writing.