Q: Where do you get your ideas?
A: Everywhere. Anything from a leaf to the collapse of the Ottoman Empire can inspire me. In fact, I'm gathering inspiration right now!
Q: What are you doing outside my window?
A: I told you, gathering inspiration.
Q: Does this mean I'm going to appear in your writing?
A: Maybe, but not if you keep wearing those neon argyle socks.
Q: I like these socks!
A: That's not a question. My squad of Q&A Attack Ninjas is en route to your house as I type this.
Q: Are you insane?
A: Despite popular rumors in the affirmative, at least two mental health professionals have assured me that I'm perfectly sane. The voices in my head agree.
Q: Why am I bleeding from an arterial wound?!
A: My ninjas don't mess around.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Conflict Exercise
"I can't believe you!" Marja tossed her backpack on the floor and glared at me. I sighed, leaning against my locker; I really didn't want to have this argument again.
"M," I began wearily, "Why do you care what shows I like? It's not hurting you if I want to watch-"
"Don't say it!" she shrieked, clamping her red gloves over her ears.
I flung my locker door open. "What, does hearing the title burn your soul?"
The glare doubled in intensity. "Very nearly."
Though I just shrugged and set to stuffing my satchel with textbooks, Marta proved unwilling to let it go.
"The original is so much better, Christi," she said in an almost whining tone; "That remake has been dumbed down exponentially to pander to the lowest common denominator, and FURTHERMORE, every remotely scary element has been removed! I don't know how you can watch it without gagging!" With the air of one who is undeniably in the right, she unzipped her pack and began rooting around within.
After a moment, I replied, "So I'm the lowest common denominator?"
Marja swore, prompting me to glance down in alarm; it soon became apparent, however, that a broken pen had aroused her ire rather than my words. She scrubbed futilely with her sleeve at the dark stain on the pink polyester and said, "Now, hon, you know that's not what I meant. You just don't know any better."
I slammed my locker and turned to face her. "Well, what do you suggest I do, Doctor George?" It came out sharper than I'd intended, but I'd had just about enough of this from her.
Judging by the smile that immediately lit her face, the edge in my voice had been lost on my friend. "Come to my house on Friday," she breathed, clasping my hands in hers. "Once you've seen the original, there's no way you'll go back to that popular tripe!"
Oh, Merlin's trousers. Here she went again.
"M," I began wearily, "Why do you care what shows I like? It's not hurting you if I want to watch-"
"Don't say it!" she shrieked, clamping her red gloves over her ears.
I flung my locker door open. "What, does hearing the title burn your soul?"
The glare doubled in intensity. "Very nearly."
Though I just shrugged and set to stuffing my satchel with textbooks, Marta proved unwilling to let it go.
"The original is so much better, Christi," she said in an almost whining tone; "That remake has been dumbed down exponentially to pander to the lowest common denominator, and FURTHERMORE, every remotely scary element has been removed! I don't know how you can watch it without gagging!" With the air of one who is undeniably in the right, she unzipped her pack and began rooting around within.
After a moment, I replied, "So I'm the lowest common denominator?"
Marja swore, prompting me to glance down in alarm; it soon became apparent, however, that a broken pen had aroused her ire rather than my words. She scrubbed futilely with her sleeve at the dark stain on the pink polyester and said, "Now, hon, you know that's not what I meant. You just don't know any better."
I slammed my locker and turned to face her. "Well, what do you suggest I do, Doctor George?" It came out sharper than I'd intended, but I'd had just about enough of this from her.
Judging by the smile that immediately lit her face, the edge in my voice had been lost on my friend. "Come to my house on Friday," she breathed, clasping my hands in hers. "Once you've seen the original, there's no way you'll go back to that popular tripe!"
Oh, Merlin's trousers. Here she went again.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The Means to Meaning
I ought to have been happy. The sun had just begun to sink in the cloudless June sky, casting golden light and long shadows across the Vanderbilt campus. The Program for Talented Youth, a college-like summer camp run by the university, was in its second week; my chosen class, Shakespeare In Film, had thus far proven as fun as it had looked in the brochure. To cap it all, I had just come from an Irish dance lesson. I expected a perfect end to a perfect day.
Coming into the other building used for "Arete" afternoon classes to find my best friend in tears as she removed her jazz shoes understandably altered my mood.
To be honest, the exact insult used slips my mind. Neither of us were popular, even in what had historically amounted to Nerd Camp, but that day one of her Capoeira classmates had crossed the line. It's very likely the word "witch" came into it somehow; both of us loved fantasy and dressed in slightly medieval ways, dangerous practices in the Bible Belt. But the exact wording doesn't matter. This friend had impressed me from the start with her confidence and lack of regard for others' opinions; to see her red-eyed and sobbing over someone's words was a shock. Contrary to what I'd spent years telling myself, words COULD hurt.
She recovered with a 14-year-old's normal resilience and we resumed our happy conversations and adventures. However, a few days later we had to confront the program's most notorious bully. As I recall, the point of contention was the right to watch a movie on the TV lounge's big-screen; while he wanted to watch "Tenacious D," a counselor had promised that we could watch "Bridge To Terabithia." We won, and he stormed off down the hall with a promise to "take photos of us and post them on his blog with the label, 'The Worst Bitches In The World'."
It stung; I won't pretend it didn't. But my primary concern was for my friend. Would this be the killing blow to her confidence, finishing the work of the Capoeira-class tormentor? She merely ignored him, though, and led the way back into the lounge. We didn't get to watch our movie without further interruption, but that's another story.
Within a space of three days, it would seem that I'd learned conflicting lessons about words: that they had infinite capacity for harm and that they could not touch a truly self-confident person. However, upon closer examination, these lessons resolved themselves into one coherent fact. Words could hurt just as much as blows, but as with physical harm, that which does not kill us only makes us stronger.
Coming into the other building used for "Arete" afternoon classes to find my best friend in tears as she removed her jazz shoes understandably altered my mood.
To be honest, the exact insult used slips my mind. Neither of us were popular, even in what had historically amounted to Nerd Camp, but that day one of her Capoeira classmates had crossed the line. It's very likely the word "witch" came into it somehow; both of us loved fantasy and dressed in slightly medieval ways, dangerous practices in the Bible Belt. But the exact wording doesn't matter. This friend had impressed me from the start with her confidence and lack of regard for others' opinions; to see her red-eyed and sobbing over someone's words was a shock. Contrary to what I'd spent years telling myself, words COULD hurt.
She recovered with a 14-year-old's normal resilience and we resumed our happy conversations and adventures. However, a few days later we had to confront the program's most notorious bully. As I recall, the point of contention was the right to watch a movie on the TV lounge's big-screen; while he wanted to watch "Tenacious D," a counselor had promised that we could watch "Bridge To Terabithia." We won, and he stormed off down the hall with a promise to "take photos of us and post them on his blog with the label, 'The Worst Bitches In The World'."
It stung; I won't pretend it didn't. But my primary concern was for my friend. Would this be the killing blow to her confidence, finishing the work of the Capoeira-class tormentor? She merely ignored him, though, and led the way back into the lounge. We didn't get to watch our movie without further interruption, but that's another story.
Within a space of three days, it would seem that I'd learned conflicting lessons about words: that they had infinite capacity for harm and that they could not touch a truly self-confident person. However, upon closer examination, these lessons resolved themselves into one coherent fact. Words could hurt just as much as blows, but as with physical harm, that which does not kill us only makes us stronger.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Problem With Small Children
The first time, Royce Murdoch had tried to ignore the phenomenon. He pretended not to see the small, chittering bumps that appeared beneath the carpet. No matter how they roved around the living room, he simply acted as though nothing was amiss. Even at night, when his and his wife's sleep was interrupted by loud screeches and the sound of tiny claws, he forced himself to blame his imagination.
Things had, after a while, quieted down; Royce (and, indeed, the entire Murdoch family) had breathed a sigh of relief. Timmy and Jane had returned to their carefree games, Edith had smiled again, and life had returned to normal.
Two weeks passed, and it happened again.
Those darn kids, Royce reflected as he raised the chair like a lion tamer, a maniacal gleam in his eyes, had better to stop letting mice in.
Things had, after a while, quieted down; Royce (and, indeed, the entire Murdoch family) had breathed a sigh of relief. Timmy and Jane had returned to their carefree games, Edith had smiled again, and life had returned to normal.
Two weeks passed, and it happened again.
Those darn kids, Royce reflected as he raised the chair like a lion tamer, a maniacal gleam in his eyes, had better to stop letting mice in.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Xenophobia
There are many things I know.
Spring, for example, always brings rain. For sixteen years I've watched drops soak the grass from this window; even this chair has stood by the window as long as I can remember.
I know the grass and the chair and the window. My fingers have felt this same whitewashed sill day after day, month after month- until I thought I'd scream if I saw the view from it once more. Now it reassures me for a moment, before I remember that I won't here much longer.
"I'm sorry to tell you folks this, but money doesn't last forever."
Spring-smell rises from the wet ground, and I smile. How could I have not realized the sweetness of that scent? I know so much, but didn't realize the most important things until now. Until it was too late.
On a normal spring day, there'd be boys dashing around outside, getting as wet and muddy as possible. Cousin David would probably be at their head, his boots missing and shirt unbuttoned; poor Aunt Kitty has more trouble with him than Mama got from Luke and Carpenter put together.
Disjointed tapping sounds on the floorboards behind me: my mother demonstrating her uncanny knack for turning up just as you think of her. I turn, saying more out of politeness than inclination, "Hello, Mama."
Without speaking, she makes her way to the window. Her white, drawn face amplifies my own feelings. Anything that can rattle Mama is a force to be reckoned with. Standing, I take her hand and help her to the chair; again, a courtesy, as she's quite capable of doing it without aid. We sit in silence for a while, before she quietly speaks.
"You'll get your wish now, Torie."
I am dirt, no, worse, lower than dirt. I am one of the little white worms that ruin the orchard fruit. I am scum, because this is all my fault. Somehow, some cosmic force heard my silly words and took them to heart.
"Don't you understand? I want to leave and never see this place again!"
"What will happen to us?" The words sound distant, and I realize with a start that they are mine.
She strokes my hand with her thumb, her face turned toward the window, and replies, "I don't know."
The tremor that has been rocking my stomach for three days past begins again. And that's the worst of it, what Mama just said: no-one knows. We all know the stories, the ones we've heard from childhood. The Towns are covered always with smoke, to never see the sun. Nothing grows in them- or, if it does, it is quickly uprooted. Women are nothing there, treated like chattel and used by men. People kill each other for bits of metal and paper.
These are things everyone thinks they know. But really, we know nothing.
"Surely," I say hesitantly, "you must know something about the Towns." It only makes sense. After all, since Grandfather died, Mama is the only one who's left Covington Wood; it's a story I've begged her to tell over and over.
But she shakes her head. "No," she says, adjusting her shawl, "I don't. There was a loud and strange noise, and a man with an odd way of speaking. He mentioned a vehicle, so there must be carriages. That is all I know, Torie, as I've been telling you for years." Her voice has taken on a familiar tone of exasperation, and I know not to press further.
We sit together in silence, watching and hearing the rain as it falls on our world. The world which will not be ours tomorrow.
There are many things I know, but I know nothing.
Spring, for example, always brings rain. For sixteen years I've watched drops soak the grass from this window; even this chair has stood by the window as long as I can remember.
I know the grass and the chair and the window. My fingers have felt this same whitewashed sill day after day, month after month- until I thought I'd scream if I saw the view from it once more. Now it reassures me for a moment, before I remember that I won't here much longer.
"I'm sorry to tell you folks this, but money doesn't last forever."
Spring-smell rises from the wet ground, and I smile. How could I have not realized the sweetness of that scent? I know so much, but didn't realize the most important things until now. Until it was too late.
On a normal spring day, there'd be boys dashing around outside, getting as wet and muddy as possible. Cousin David would probably be at their head, his boots missing and shirt unbuttoned; poor Aunt Kitty has more trouble with him than Mama got from Luke and Carpenter put together.
Disjointed tapping sounds on the floorboards behind me: my mother demonstrating her uncanny knack for turning up just as you think of her. I turn, saying more out of politeness than inclination, "Hello, Mama."
Without speaking, she makes her way to the window. Her white, drawn face amplifies my own feelings. Anything that can rattle Mama is a force to be reckoned with. Standing, I take her hand and help her to the chair; again, a courtesy, as she's quite capable of doing it without aid. We sit in silence for a while, before she quietly speaks.
"You'll get your wish now, Torie."
I am dirt, no, worse, lower than dirt. I am one of the little white worms that ruin the orchard fruit. I am scum, because this is all my fault. Somehow, some cosmic force heard my silly words and took them to heart.
"Don't you understand? I want to leave and never see this place again!"
"What will happen to us?" The words sound distant, and I realize with a start that they are mine.
She strokes my hand with her thumb, her face turned toward the window, and replies, "I don't know."
The tremor that has been rocking my stomach for three days past begins again. And that's the worst of it, what Mama just said: no-one knows. We all know the stories, the ones we've heard from childhood. The Towns are covered always with smoke, to never see the sun. Nothing grows in them- or, if it does, it is quickly uprooted. Women are nothing there, treated like chattel and used by men. People kill each other for bits of metal and paper.
These are things everyone thinks they know. But really, we know nothing.
"Surely," I say hesitantly, "you must know something about the Towns." It only makes sense. After all, since Grandfather died, Mama is the only one who's left Covington Wood; it's a story I've begged her to tell over and over.
But she shakes her head. "No," she says, adjusting her shawl, "I don't. There was a loud and strange noise, and a man with an odd way of speaking. He mentioned a vehicle, so there must be carriages. That is all I know, Torie, as I've been telling you for years." Her voice has taken on a familiar tone of exasperation, and I know not to press further.
We sit together in silence, watching and hearing the rain as it falls on our world. The world which will not be ours tomorrow.
There are many things I know, but I know nothing.
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