Wouldn't it be Lovely?

A movie has made you laugh. A song has brought you to tears. A picture allows you to recreate an entire person's being from a lifeless image. The strings of a violin evoke emotion. The way people speak, the manner in which they look at each other carries so much more importance than the words spoken. 

Whether you believe yourself a creative person, an inspired person, everyone respects beauty. Whether romantic, comedic, satirical, ironic, or excruciatingly painful, we crave beauty. And yes, there is a painful beauty. These kinds of beauty propel a great deal of the world. We seek it, we find it, and we try to preserve it so we may remember it forever.

I became an author to preserve beauty. My characters live in alternate worlds with magical powers and unique abilities. And yet, these are not what catch the reader's eye. For though they live in a fantasy world, their lives mimic ours. They live, they love, and they lose. It is these simple everyday human experiences that are truly beautiful; a conversation that reveals inner emotions, things not seen on the surface. A test of loyalty, friendship, love. This is the true definition of beauty.

We are so distracted in the world today. There is so much at stake. We have high pressured jobs. Pressure coming from every area. We want family, careers, money, knowledge, power. I often think of the world as a room, so large and expansive. The most beautiful room imaginable. The walls are made of carved marble and the stained glass ceiling paints colorful shapes on the ground. And yet, we can't see any of it, because sounding through this room is music so loud and intrusive no other sense could possibly exist. And filling this room is every piece of technology ever invented. It clogs the shaped passageways, the tall emerald columns. It even clogs the light from that beautiful ceiling to ever hit our eyes. 

There is a reason that people escape. We go to plays, we see movies, we listen to music for hours on end. We may even pick up a book or two. And it's because we crave to escape for awhile, to enter another place where every focus of our mind and heart can zero in on something beautiful, on tales and notes so tangible we often fool ourselves into reaching out for them. 

Simple moments, small things still exist. And it's our duty to keep them. The world has always tried to take them away. To mock what is simple and sacred. Marriage, religion, principles, values, ethics, small acts of kindness, prayer, God, love, commitment, hope, strength, innocence, virtue, and other considered old-fashioned, archaic beliefs and traditions. 

The fact that I've written this is proof that we have the power to keep alive our thoughts, our beliefs, so they may never be extinguished without our knowledge, that the world may never cause us to forget what we know... what I know. 

A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.

-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

We ascribe beauty to that which is simple; which has no superfluous parts; which exactly answers its end; which stands related to all things; which is the mean of many extremes.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson 

No title. Titles don't matter I suppose. They're like the superficial layer to a human soul, the peel of an orange. Still, they attract the crowds. But they give nothing away as to what lies inside.

I've been contemplating so much lately. I've moved from home, started my own life, and am trying to live it. I really am. But it's difficult. I would far rather be doing something for others than concentrating on my own goals. It's not unselfish. Selfish if anything.

I think the whole campus atmosphere is a fascinating place. I say this partially sounding idiotic. However, luckily, I understand that fact. No wonder people write so many books, produce so many movies, detail so many self-help pamphlets about high school/college life. It's really a mess. Everyone is trying to fit in, find a speck of happiness in what is virtually a zoo. Really, every social gathering is a mess of people literally jumping on top of each other trying to be heard, to be recognized. It seems like a waste to me. But what do I know? I do it too. Because it's the way to find friends... apparently.

Going to college means becoming a completely whole person. We learn to rely less on our parents and family and neighbors. It's a selfish venture really. We come to socialize (for most it's to find a husband), take classes, advance OUR learning so WE can develop OUR OWN careers and individualistic traits. I'm not saying it's bad necessarily. Just selfish.

This post really has nothing to do with anything. Really. I often wonder why I write them. Do they help me somehow decide what I'm feeling? Are they in any way speaking to someone reading them? No clue. All I know is I write them and post them and gather them up so someday I can look back through them all and wonder at my life (or cry about it... either way).

I want to close by testifying of the Savior. The Savior and His plan for us. I'm not sure why I'm here, why it was necessary for my to break my ACL weeks before moving on campus. I'm not exactly sure why I never had the opportunity of a normal High School life. I honestly don't know. But I believe He is wielding his ultimate wisdom for my behalf. And that's enough for now.

I'll laugh because I can. Dream because I should. And live because I'll never get a second chance!!

Goodnight America!!

Words to Define By

What kinds of things do we hold up in front of us, layering shield upon shield? Things we associate with who we are. They usually begin with I am. I am eighteen. I am a writer. I am a dreamer. Even as I try to fill in a list of I am's, I have difficulty saying what I am. I'm used to saying I love to or I have a passion for, or even my life often revolves around. And it's not the same, isn't right. Before long, if we pile on a list of things we love or places we've been, it means little unless we know who we are during all those events.

This is a short blog, just a musing, but I was filling out a profile page for a new account on a writing website and I wrote as my first sentence, I am eighteen. Does the fact that I'm eighteen define me? Yes, the fact that I write as much as I do and with such neurotic habitualness that I do... yes, I believe that says something about me. But alone eighteen means very little. It's a number. Nothing more. So, here I will try to create a list of I am's, things that build the fabric of my soul. (Yes, that IS cheesy, but I am cheesy)

I am eighteen
I am an author
I am a dreamer
I am cheesy
I am a leg-jostler
I am an artist (at heart, and NEVER on canvas)
I am a musician
I am a song writer
I am a laugher (yes, that sounds weird)
I am a crier (that too)
I am a dancer (only in my kitchen with a wooden spoon microphone)
I am a reader

And yet, these mean little in comparison to the most important I am's.

I am a daughter
I am a sister
I am an aunt
I am a friend

I am someone who writes these extremely strange blogs and somehow gets you all to read them!!

No, but really... Who are we all?

The Ever Enlightening (and NOT depressing), Hilarious, and oh so Enchanting Post

I am not a depressing person. I love humor and comedy. I make up my life by seeing beauty, by noticing small ironies... even by imagining the beauty and irony, symbolism and redeeming moments I cannot find in the real world. In my books, my characters encounter frightening things, horrible circumstances, but I would never consider it a depressing story. On the contrary. I find their story a hopeful one, an assurance that the promise of new beginnings and happy endings can unfold for anyone. 


Yet, there is someone out there (actually, a few more than just a someone) that tells me my posts make him/her want to jump off a bridge. Okay, so here's my attempt at being light and humorous. Here's my try at taking my readers off the bridge and letting them swim (not drown) in the water. 


Huh, I guess I could get carried away writing about a clown called Chuckles who works at the Pirate Circus. Then again, when I think of writing that, I instantly want to turn the pirates into clown-hunting ghosts. Would that be depressing? You tell me! 


I think laughter is the most therapeutic activity a person can do... the MOST. There are times when I laugh, and it's all I can do to stop. I laugh, not even really about anything. And I know everyone in the room is staring me down, reaching for the phone to cal Bellevue. But there's something inside of me that doesn't want to quit, a holding I grasp for into a happier world. I laugh because there are times I know if I wasn't laughing, I'd be crying. 


Okay, again I think I'm straying into the depressing zone. Should we debate the validity of leprechauns and the myth of the rainbow? Or is destroying that hope too depressing to bear? 


Yeah, so this post is going completely catastrophic! Really, all this attempt at levity is making ME want to jump off a bridge. Goodnight, my readers. Yes, both of you. 

Inspiration, Mutilation, Irritation

Everyone knows inspiration. We've all experienced it. We've had a thought, seen an action, took a journey that gave us exactly what we needed... enlightenment. For me, it was a stupid bedtime story I had been telling my niece and nephew at the time. For a few minutes each night, I created my own world, my own reality. And as I began to personalize my character, I realized I had drawn a mirror of myself. 

Months, even over a year passed before I made anything from it. Lying in a hospital bed, I began to write a story, one that was intended to fill a page... maybe two. Nearly four years later, I have finished a 105,000 worded fantasy novel with 15,000 words into the sequel. I was inspired. Whether for the best or not, I was drawn to write a story that honestly changed my life. 

Here's where the mutilation takes a role. So often we (including most predominantly myself) take the inspiration we're given and destroy it in the way we present it. We try to exactly duplicate what our hearts feel, the way we experience things of meaning. We try to share it with others, and when they can't understand we seem to fail. I want people to read my book, tell me what they think, but no matter how hard I try, no one will be able to share my experience in writing it. It was mine and mine alone. I can bring people into the worlds that I create, but they may never feel at home there like I do. 


Okay, so you officially think I'm crazy. Well, before you call out the loony squad, hear this. Maybe when inspiration comes, inspiration that is meant for only ourselves, that is impossible to share (perhaps even inappropriate to share), maybe we are given these types of information to share it with someone else. And who better to listen to our thoughts, understand the strings in our heads than our Father? Who better to give us insight, to prepare us for peak moments of thought, actual seconds in time where the pieces fit together?


I know I started talking about my book and ended with divine inspiration. But maybe that's what my book is. Not for anyone else, but for me. Maybe giving me the ability to write this book was my own kind of inspiration? I already know a lot of my own personal answers can be found in its pages, things I didn't even mean to write in. Yes, it's quite possible that my book will never become a bestseller, never get even so much as an interested agent. Maybe that's okay. Maybe the reason I wrote this book was not to share it with others, let people in to the characters I love, the fictional places I've visited. Maybe there's another plan in mind. And... well, who am I to put my plan over His? 


PS... Note that I'm saying maybe. I do not pretend to know His plan either so... agent, publisher, if you're out there and thinking that my book may be freaking fantastic... comment below!! 

Memories

I hold an old cardboard box. It's worn and beaten. It has no value. Even its contents are aged, aged to where they've seen better days but to where they hold no classic style. A few wooden blocks, maybe a pair of mismatched baby socks. That's all you'd find. A passerby wouldn't glance a second time at this old battered box, but I kneel. I hunch over until my back is strained.

A treasure trove is this rotting container, full of things I've missed for so long. The crayons that I drew with, the dolls that I dressed. They're bringing back, carrying me on waves of time, of years, of lives. I see myself so clearly, holding this ratty doll. I see myself so young, brushing her hair so smoothly. There's a light in the fireplace, there's a peaceful hum, a lilting murmur of voices.

And then I'm back, pulled into the world I tried to escape. I'm sitting on a musty floor, cradling a soiled doll. The image has left, but never that little girl's smile, a smile I used to know. I can feel it surrounding me with every grin of my own. So I hold the doll, realizing who I am and the person I've become. I can see that little girl, that happy little girl. I am not that girl anymore. I cry and I hurt, a hurt so deep that it punctures my heart. But I'm strong. I don't feel the strength, but it's there even as the tears fall.

I lay the doll inside the box. I close the lid with an inward sigh. I could throw it away, be rid of the sad little box of memories. But I tuck it carefully into the corner of a darkened room and close the door. It will always be there. There will always be that dimpled grin in the back of my mind. And living with it makes each day easier.

That little box would have no value, not to anyone in the world. But like it I am. Just like that tattered box of broken memories, I have  been tossed to and fro. There are scars that cover my skin. My eyes are filled with tears only because I've needed them so. I hold no value to so many, but there will come a day when I will be of some good to someone. I will remind another of what they can be, of who they are. I will give another the strength to push forward. After all, it's not the pain that matters, but the bruises and scars it leaves behind.

...and through the woods

I never have understood why people find forests and dark clusters of trees so uninviting. I find them awe-inspiring. They present moods, whether dark and thoughtful or those thickets where splotches of light filter through the branches and create patterns on the ground. They cover a passerby from the rain, or let large drops of water sprinkle melodically through their leaves. Being in a forest of trees during a rainstorm is like watching a dance. The leaves rustle, the boughs sway, the rain falls. Even music sounds from the drip, the drop, the plucking of a spiderweb's threads.

In my book, the trees are meaningful. They are not just a piece of background. Lesylia often "goes down" into the grove of trees. But they simply aren't a way for me to create a mood, or establish a setting. They stand for change, whether good or bad. The trees stand as barriers between her and other forms of herself, other realities she becomes as she experiences... well... her life. She passes through a grove of trees in the very first chapter, in the prologue actually, and experiences the first tragedy of her life. Nearly ten years later, she again walks through a forest and discovers the truth, whether she wanted to or not. She is faced with choices and she walks in the woods to make up her mind. And even in one of the final chapters, she runs through a thicket in the middle of a rainstorm to fulfill her destiny, to nearly confront her own death. Yes, the trees are significant things.

I find it no coincidence that they are pointed upward, upward to the heavens. And yes, all plants do this, but the trees always seem to get the highest. Just a bit of insight. Take what you want from it.

Little Bobby's Flarin' Fiddle

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Bobby. Bobby lived in a small house on the outskirts of a large city. His family had little money, and what they had was all used up to pay for singing lessons for Susie, karate for Kendra, and dance for Dayton. And though few people knew about it, Bobby had a secret desire to learn to play the fiddle.

When Bobby finally summed up the courage to ask his parents for lessons, he was shocked to find that they laughed at him. Why would such a silly boy want to do such a foolish thing?

"Why, your name doesn't even start with an F. How do you plan on learning to play the fiddle when your name starts with a B?" Bobby's mother said. "Perhaps we should try you out on a nice bass."

But Bobby was not going to give up that easily. He dreamed of playing the fiddle, and play the fiddle he would. Quietly one morning, Bobby went into the big city and bought an old violin. He took in home in a grocery bag, so the neighbors wouldn't ask. This would be an embarrassment to the community! So, everyday after school, Bobby ran to a large meadow by his house. There, for hours and hours on end, he would play the fiddle... over and over... again and again... until one day, he was quite good. The music was soft and sweet, lilting to the ear.

Now that Bobby had mastered his great skill, he made a declaration to the neighborhood. Surely, since he was now quite good on his fiddle, the people of the community would not mind. But, just as he announced his astonishing news, the people began to throw tomatoes. One old, grouchy man in particular turned around and refused to even notice Bobby existed ever again. Everyday Bobby would beg someone to listen to his fiddle, but they all refused. His parents barred his windows so that he could no longer continue in such shenanigans.

So here we leave Bobby. I'll admit, it's not a good ending, but sometimes the story ends badly. Sometimes there is simply nothing more to say. Should Bobby be content with the knowledge that he can play the fiddle, despite the ignorance of his town? Should he be content to never share his passion with anyone ever? Or would it have been better for Bobby to never learn at all?

This is not some insane, rambling story. It sounds like it, yes, but it's not. This frightening tale is actually based in fact. And if you can't interpret, I disown both of you!! Really, I'm not crazy. It's just been one of those days!!!

Princess, Queen, Angel

Only Ten Months Old

My little foot lingers
Pointed toward you
As I wonder

Will you catch
Me if I fall?
But I take a step of faith
Touching my mismatched sock to the ground

But my little toes are far
From ready to carry
Me toward your waiting arms

The floor flies
Toward my fearful eyes and
I close them but I never feel
The blow of the hard wood floor

I look to see
You smiling
Back at me and then I know
Mommy, you're my hero



Only Four Years Old

It’s been weeks
Since my hair was brushed
I wanted to wear it
In a bun just like you

And if you ever felt
Embarrassed by the pink tutu
I wore down the aisles of the grocery store
You never said so

You always threw
Your head back and laughed
And called me your princess
Your own little princess

I always looked up
To you and saw what a Queen
Must be like

So I made you a crown
From old paper and crayons
And I was glad that princesses
Grew up to be Queens because

I wanted to be you


Only Sixteen Years Old

I won’t lie
We don’t always agree
But you’re the first
I come to with everything

You pinned my hair up
Buttoned my dress
And as we sat there together
I could feel you looking at me

Did you feel this was a turning
Point in my youth
That I was finally grown

Or did you watch
With an wiser eye
Seeing all the mistakes I would
make in my life

The doorbell rang and you almost
Jumped but answered
It with a smile

No interrogations were made
You held Dad back
The way you looked at him
Made me laugh

And as we left you looked
At me and I prayed
That you saw a little
Of yourself looking back


Only Eighteen Years Old

You bring out the last
Box and throw it in the car

You apologize for your hair
Tied back in that red bandanna
But to me you’ve never
Looked so beautiful

We both speak slowly
Trying to delay
That single word
That final word

You wrap me in your
Arms. A tear falls
From your eyes

I wish there was something
I could say, you whisper,
Some pearls of wisdom
I could offer

You’ve given me everything
I need, I whisper back

But even as I drive away
I am afraid


Only Five Years Old

The hospital had smelled
Of sickness and death

Here at home was where
You belonged

Your face looks so pale,
Your eyes so empty

It feels like now I should
remember all the beautiful
Times we shared

But all I can think
Of is the future, looming
Ahead without you and I can’t see
Without the light

Your fingers move slowly
Covering my hand
How cold they feel!

And I’m again
A five year old girl
Needing your comforting smile
To whisper what to do

I’m still just a princess
Not ready to be Queen


Only 1200 Seconds Old

Did you hold her close
in your angel arms?
Sing her to sleep

I hope you let her hear
You laugh, see
Your smile

I hold the world in my hands
And it’s funny
That the world
Is so very small

Her eyes flutter
And I don’t want to move
Let her sleep

Maybe she’ll grow up
To be a musician
Or a writer
Or a dancer

I want to protect
Her keep her safe
There’s so much darkness
And she needs light

A smile turns
The corners of my mouth
And I look up
Past the confining walls

I lean in close
To her baby ears
I know what you’ll grow up
To be I whisper softly

A Queen

A Chesire Grin

No really, I can't think of any title that would suit this post, especially seeing as I have no clear plan of what this is going to even be about. Okay, so it has been forever since I've written anything... FOREVER!!! Ah yes, my public, you are missing me terribly. I know. No fear. I'm back.

I graduated High School. I feel that is worth mentioning, though both of my readers I think already know this. Still, it is a miracle to me that it actually happened. I am so grateful for all the people who have been with me through all of this. I may not have done High School in the conventional way, but I had strong people helping me through. I may not have experienced the traditional "High School Moments", but I don't feel like I've really missed anything. I hope I will feel the same way in twenty years, thinking of the glory days. (My glory days though will have to come in college, as my glory days of high school were mostly spent in hospital rooms and hooked up to oxygen tanks.)... Just sayin'!

Okay, so with college up ahead and a job search currently underway (if you know of a job, I could REALLY use one as I am broke), I have been less rigorously searching for agents. I did, however, receive a rejection letter that made me laugh a little (this is definitely the first one that made me do that). This is how it went.


Dear Ms. D'Arc,

At (redacted), we appreciate you submission to us of your novel, Jhevalia. Unfortunately, we found we were not able to accept it due to the fact we do not believe it is our kind of manuscript.

I personally had difficulty with the fact that your characters do not seem believable. You have a writing style and even the concept of your book could be very enthralling, but your first few chapters at least were much too squeaky clean. People simply aren't like that. I thus found it impossible to believe.

BLAH BLAH BLAH ect.


I had to laugh. First of all, I was really tempted to invite her down to Utah, to church. Then again, I'm wondering if she saw my letter came from Utah and was trying to show a "sheltered little Mormon girl" what the world was really like. And secondly, I'm writing YA (young adult). I can't imagine that most parents look especially hard to find books for their kids that are slimy and crude. But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they scour the shelves looking for anything but something squeaky clean!! Heaven forbid my children don't get to read about horrible main characters who care nothing about themselves and behave in gross, scummy ways!! Anything but that!

Wow, I had a little more contempt built up there than I'd realized. Strange. In any case, I'm not going to dwell on it any more. These agents are from New York. Maybe they can't imagine a day where a line of swear words aren't repeated hourly. Maybe there is a lot of scum in their surroundings. It just made me terribly sad. I've always known the filth sold. I always knew that slime and sleaze were gobbled up on the rack. I just never knew there would be such a prejudice against something clean, against characters who stand for morals such as courage and purity. Yeah, that is really saddest part of all. Maybe the worst part is I knew it all along, on some level.

I do have to make those decisions now though. I have to firmly promise myself never to give in, even when the cost is high. Maybe someday I will find an agent whose interested, who promises publishers and contracts. And it will be so easy to be swept away in the thrill of the moment, to maybe let him/her change parts of my book that make it just what I don't want it to be, what my standards can't let it be. I have to make the decision now to keep my values high and to never raise them, no matter what the cost... no matter what.

I'm reminded of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (the book), when she meets the Chesire Cat (my absolute favorite character).

Chesire Puss, asked Alice. Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here? That depends a good deal on where you want to go, said the Cat. I don't much care where, said Alice. Then it doesn't matter which way you go, said the Cat.

Oh, I totally have a title now.

The Bane of My Existence, The Thorn in My Side, The Pebble in My Shoe, The Fly in My Ointment (AKA... my book)

I can hardly stand it any longer. It's tortuous, day and night. I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop dreaming about it. I actually have devised a world in which I cannot escape. I would love to have someone else consider my novel genius and offer to publish it for me... sure! But the chances of that actually happening are so slim I can hardly stand to think about the possibility anymore. What should I do? Well, the simplest thing to do would be to forget about it entirely. And believe me... I've tried.

I am literally haunted though by my book. It occupies a great deal more of my thoughts than I would like to admit. I love my characters, so much that it's agonizing to have to keep them secret. I want to share my story, for it is my story that I tell. I've written simply a fantastical morph of the life that I've seen, with some embellishment (if you know me, you see already I am so good at that in real life).

This is a rant and nothing more. But I honestly can't stand the way my book stalks me. It will be something I will always love. I know that. But until I can share it, I don't think I'll ever be able to just let go. (I already know that's what a lot of people expect me to do. They think because I'm young that this is a phase. It is no phase. They are polite sure, but most (even many in my family) don't really believe I have a shot at the presses. And maybe they're right...)

Discouraged? Yes, but mainly because I recently received a rejection note saying this agent just wasn't drawn to the sample pages she requested. She dismissed me through boredom. I'm just trying to rebound now. I really do feel like one of those old single women who at the age of sixty nine lives with twenty cats. I'm talking about the women who always put themselves out there, but are constantly rejected. No one wants them. That's what it feels like to be in the "slush pile" (another idiotic agent/author/publisher/writing world term). Goodnight, America!!

Jhevalia

Lesylia Grey was eight years old when her mother sent her running through a dark forest all alone. The next morning found Lesylia asleep in a meadow and her parents dead in their car from a supposed crash. No one could explain it and no one tried.

Now, on the brink of her eighteenth birthday, Lesylia is being thrown to one more relative and returning to the place where it all happened, the cold landscape of a small Alaskan town. But living in the darkness takes its toll.

Dreams begin invading her mind, presenting five oddly dressed beings that, like her, all have sparkling silver eyes. Reality though will take a turn when her dreams come to life, revealing a magical race, one to which she belongs, one from which her parents ran away, and one that now needs her help.

With the five others in her coven, Lesylia must come to an understanding of the power that rests in her blood, the reality she sees in her dreams, and the dark secret of her mother’s locket. Lesylia must lead an army into Jhevalia to fight against The Order, her parents’ murderers, to save her own mortal world from complete annihilation.

But as they near the battleground, Lesylia’s psychic power foretells the brutal slayings of every member in her coven and she is left with a choice. What would she be willing to sacrifice to save them?

Query Shark

I was so naive at the beginning of this process. I thought to myself... Self, I will write a book and spend every waking moment on it for nearly four years, send it to a publisher and spend my days looking through glass windows at my name in print!! Okay, so while I was not quite that optimistic, I certainly didn't think I would go for nearly eight months of standard form rejection letters. Enter query shark.

I read about query shark in this month's Writer's Digest magazine. I was so excited. Janet Reid is a literary agent at Fineprint Lit based in New York City. Well, apparently she hosts a blog for young hopefuls such as I who all too often receive standard form rejection letters as opposed to actual replies. On her blog, you can submit you query letter and she will slash it to pieces (literally... there is a reason her blog is called Query SHARK!!!). I have not submitted my query letter as I am a 100%, born and raised coward, but reading all the posted shreds of query letters and her responses has made me re-organize my own quite a bit.

For anyone who has ever considered getting ANYTHING published (in which case you really will need a query letter), I URGE you to visit her blog here.

Moments of Grace

Ah, more philosophy!!! It seems to me that all I spout on here is moments of realization and my own personal eyes on the world, life, and just about everything else connected with it. I can't help it though. Here is my outlet, so if this doesn't interest you, shield your eyes or click off the screen (flip the switch).

The last few weeks have been dark, which is probably why it has been so long since my last post. Then again, maybe if I had posted something more recently, things would have seemed less horrible. In any case, things were bad. I had been to countless doctors, trying to figure a few things out. And while the sun was beginning to shine more brightly and the trees and flowers were blooming once again, I felt myself coiling into the darkest corner I could find. Everything has been attacking me lately, even such benign things as deadlines, money (I should probably say the lack thereof), my future, and my past. Saturday was the anniversary of my mother's death (though anniversary just doesn't seem like the applicable word here).

Every year around this time, when life again is forming and the sun stays up longer and the crickets chirp louder and the birds begin to sing early in the morning, I can't help but think of her. The late warm evenings bring to recollection every old memory of barbecued chicken out on the trampoline when my dad was out of town. And while these memories are all so very sweet, they leave a sharp pain somewhere inside my heart that continually throbs.

These things were invading my mind constantly over the past few weeks, making my heart throb like never before and leaving numerous tear drops on my pillow at night. I was in constant, tangible pain. And then I took a picture, one picture that changed it all. I never take pictures... ever... so it was a rare occasion for me to use this feature on my phone, but I was playing with my cute niece and felt it was important that I capture the moment. Sitting on my lap, she looked up into the camera with me as I took several hurried shots.

I looked at those pictures for probably fifteen minutes after taking them, moving from one to another constantly until I had every image burned into my brain. As I looked into my eyes, it was almost as if I could see a part of her there, like I was reflecting her in some way from me. Now, I don't look like my mom. At least, I never really thought so. And that has always killed me inside because of all things, I have always wanted to be reminded of her when I looked in the mirror, see some part of her in my eyes or mouth or chin. And on the fifth anniversary of her passing, sitting on my grandmother's front porch with my little Trish, I saw something.

I doubt if anyone would see what I saw when looking at those pictures. I highly doubt that there really is any similarity captured in that photo. Nevertheless, I was shown this for a reason, like she was reaching out herself to comfort my throbbing heart. It's as if she was reminding me that I have the potential to be everything she was: open, kind, loving, emotional (it's a gift), brave, and so very tough. I have the ability to become that way inside of me... Me!

I was reading a portion of my book the other day when a short passaged jumped out at me. I mean, it flew from the page.

“But then, in the most unexpected of times, we find those small redeeming moments of grace, shadowy glimpses of bliss. And though small and often far spaced apart, those moments make everything else bearable. There are even times when the joy is so profound that we would gladly take on anything more just to keep it a little while longer.”

I have felt my share of pain, but it will only make the joy more sweet. I deal with daily regrets and heartache, just like anyone else out reading this right now. And I can pack my pain around with me on my shoulders, using it to push others away and causing misery everywhere I go. Yes, that is an option. Then again, I could use it to brighten my life. I could use it to appreciate every smile I create or every laugh I can utter. I can use it to bring myself to the kind of person I want to be: kind, loving, joyful, compassionate, and emotional (I was once told that I have the ability to cry over things that matter to me. Believe me. I already have this one down!!)

This one picture on the SIM card of a cell phone was MY redeeming moment of grace, my shadowed glimpse of bliss. Through all the sadness and pain, I was given a gift beyond measure. I was given love.

On Faith and Believing

Often, I find myself looking for proof that a loving Heavenly Father exists. Unfortunately, in my head, this sometimes means that I start telling myself how this is my time. I've dealt with things, horrible things, and so naturally this is my time to get what I want, what I need. In some ways, I know this is a small part of why I've really put all my effort into finding an agent. In my head, I'm thinking this is finally going to be my break. A montage flashes across my mind of me accepting publishing offers and feeling the joy of writing and the satisfaction of sharing it with the world. And for some reason the Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head song is always my backup music, though that is nearly unimportant.

There is so much in this world that frightens me. On a global level, I cannot even begin to detail the crazy, awful things happening in today's world. On a personal level, I'm fearful that all the heartache I've felt will mean nothing in the end. See, I try to figure out in my head why all this happens to me. However, because I do not posses divine knowledge, I can't see that far ahead. On a personal level, I see the people around me dealing with their own lives as well that are all too often full of the same pain and uncertainty. On a personal level, I fear living in this world where so many live to hate and tear each other down. On a personal level, I'm scared I will waste my life away believing I am one thing when I am another completely. And yes, I know that again I'm making absolutely no sense.

So why do I read my scriptures and kneel in prayer? Why do I continue to attend church and sing hymns about love and peace and redemption? I could not answer in any way that would prove anything or make sense to anyone but myself. Feelings cannot be shown on paper on even written eloquently enough in this instance to describe just what I mean. But I know without a shadow of a doubt that He lives and has a plan for me. I have seen time and time again flashes of understanding, moments when even I can see a reason for a certain trial, for a necessary task.

I read books. I watch movies. I talk to people. And I cannot begin to comprehend the torture of living without any faith in a plan, in a God, in a loving being who watches over us and perhaps even cheers us on at times. And I should really be content to live the rest of my life in failure because I DO know that He lives. And I would not trade that knowledge for any number of published novels or Pulitzer prizes (Just for the record, however, I would be willing to take both).

A few chapters into my second book in the Jhevalia series, one of my characters asks the other if they believe in a divine creator. In response, the other looks out at a beautiful living world and responds that he doesn't know, but imagines sometimes that there is a reason and an explanation for the beauty that surrounds them all, for the glory of living and laughing and crying and loving.

In conclusion, I would like to list the things that I KNOW:

I KNOW:

Heavenly Father lives
He has a plan for me
He has a plan to use me for the benefit of others
There are angels watching over me
Oftentimes, my dreams are much more than just that... dreams
The scriptures will be a guiding tool for the rest of my life
There is really so little that separates us from those beyond the veil
We are given people in our lives at certain times to catch us when we fall

That which is good never ends... not really... not life and certainly not love

When It Rains...

This is personal, probably more so than anything I've written here to date. I just feel compelled to say something. It rained today. The skies clouded up and the rain fell, soaking the world below.

Rain is so unpredictable. It falls in buckets. There is no way to shelter the world from the drops descending rapidly from the sky. At least in the case of snow we are left with a soft layer of pureness, of white. But when the rain falls, no such beauty is left behind with us. Instead, we find ourselves with drenched clothes and dripping hair. And this time, as in any other time, the rain seemed to fall only for me, only to bring back all that it reminded me of and that I had tried to forget.

Rain is heartache to me and not only that, but it is the essence of what a breaking heart feels like. My heart broke while the rain fell. I wasn't ready for it. I was much too young. And yet, the rain didn't seem to care. I sat there that night and watched it fall, that first night when I was completely alone. But it wasn't the clouds or the darkness that compelled me to stare, but the thoughtlessness of the rain that fell. It did not seem to care whose life it would tread upon. All was fair game. And I cried that night as I realized that just like the rain, my life was breaking apart and falling to the ground just as those individual drops.

I don't mean to bring a spell of a melancholy kind to any reader who may read this at some point in the future, but I can't help it. The rain always reminds me of an April nearly five years ago... five years. The rain fell that night and so many afterwards as a thirteen year old girl tried to piece together the reality of death and loss and imagining the rest of her life without the one person that made hers worth living.

The rain has no compassion. It's likely the rain will make us stronger. It's probable that because of it, our lives will flourish into new possibilities that may not have otherwise existed. But once it falls, there is nothing that can take it away. And so much can be lost forever... so very much.

So I sit here and watch the rain falling in its peculiar way and a part of my heart aches. See? I promised many of my blogs would be of little or no interest to you. I simply felt compelled to write. To smile, I often sing. To smile, I often strum my guitar. But to feel joy and often alive again, I write!

It is still raining...

L-O-V-E

Love. It must be the most defined, analyzed, thought upon topic in the world today and maybe rightly so. People swear it off, pray for it to come, and feel just about everything in between about it. No one is immune from its grasp, however, even in the most wall-building soul.

I want to say right up front that I'm not only speaking of the marry me and share my name, ride into the sunset on my white horse, and I was never complete until I met you dear kind of love (yes, you know who you are). At least not singularly. I'm speaking about the love shared between family members, close friends, and often people you've met only a short while ago. When I was in the hospital on one occasion, there was a little boy who occupied the room next to me. Of course, I didn't know what he had but could see it was serious. He was only probably about six years old and already had yellowed skin. And apparently he had been admitted for three months when I came into the hospital. Did I love this little boy? Yes, and not only because we shared a wall or similarly horrible hospital food, but because my heart went out to him just as if he were my own child or nephew or brother. And what else is that but love?

So love, we know what it is. And yet, perhaps the eternal question of life is why do we set ourselves up for it? Even in the relationships in families or between friends, love always brings about heartache and pain. Love is the sole reason for people becoming lonely. If there were never any love, they would never know compassion and the joy of sharing time with another individual. So why do we continue to seek after it, even if we pretend not to? Even if we build these pretentious walls around us to somehow protect what we are, we still want it and are ready to snap it up when it comes our way, sooner or later.

We can't live without it. It is the force that keeps people in tune. They say that when you exercise, the number of endorphins increases in your body, making you happy and clear-minded. When we interact with others and share our lives with them, I believe the exact same thing happens, only on a hundred-fold scale. This blog has little purpose more than to assure the world that loving others, even if it means being separated from them, is so vitally important. Without it we are lost. If we lose that human connection we all share, we have little hope left. I take that back. We have no hope left. No Hope...

Whispers

Hello all!!! Okay, so at least hello to maybe the three that are following me, if that. Still, there is something theraputic about speaking to an unknown audience even if no one else is listening.

I really have the best news I ever thought possible. I am brainstorming and even starting to write my second novel!! And I'm not even talking about the sequel to Jhevalia, but a completely different book. I am sooooo enthusiastic about this new project. More importantly, I'm finally starting to feel like an author. At first, I was just the author of a certain story with characters I have been acquainted with for nearly five years now. But this proves that I have other ideas and could make a living thinking of new ones. I am just so thrilled.

In this new book entitled Whispers, I won't disclose too much except that it is a futuristic novel about government with a hint of fantasy and science fiction. I am so excited to write something this deep. It goes through the necessity of real, loving communication and the dangers of a all too powerful government. I cannot believe how exhilarated I am about writing this new story. And no, I have most definitely not forgotten about Jhevalia and my beloved characters. I just two days ago sent out another five queries. I have already received one negative response, but that still leaves the number at six left. I guess we'll see what happens.

I got accepted to BYU last Tuesday and have been on cloud nine since then. I'm so excited for college life. It's going to be amazing!!! The only sad part is that I wanted to major in creative writing, but they do not offer such a major. I suppose I will major in English with maybe an emphasis on literature. Not sure yet.

My Goal: To find a suitable agent before I start BYU in the fall. I'm simply not going to take no for an answer. I feel different now. It's like coming up with another book has proven that I am truly an AUTHOR!!!

And Here She Comes, Sporting Dry Wit and Bitter Habits

I think that when concocting the idea of creating a blog, I had this picture in my head of sharing all my woes and triumphs with my millions of readers (and... laughter) until one day I would find someone who loved my book, sold it to a publisher, designed a cover, and then the world would natually love my book and flock to the store just to get their very own copy. I'm beginning to realize that just may never happen. Perhaps the only readers of this blog will ever be me and the occcasional family member who decides to take a glimpse (I don't think any of them have read more than my first one).

Okay, so what to do with that information. How can I somehow learn a valuable lesson that makes all the heartache worth it? Yeah, I'm not so sure yet. I guess I've always gained hope from the fact that my book is the one thing I have never given up on. I have never even put it aside for more that five weeks. And even then I was thinking of it constantly. However, going for a dream in that concentration for nearly four years now is just so exhausting. Sure, there have been other things in my life, but I can't even begin to count the days when writing that book and gaining a future from it have been the only things getting me out of bed.

Dreams are exhausting. I can now understand why some people stay in their dead-end job. It's safer there and nothing can really hurt them. Sure, they may be discontented, but it's comfortable. And yeah, if anyone else really is reading this besides my family, you may not think I have any idea of what I'm talking about at the age of eighteen. And maybe I don't. Then again, maybe I'm aware of much more than is given credit to me.

I'm ranting. This I know. Then again, it is the exact reason why I started it to begin with. I need somewhere to share my heartache when I know it isn't always wanted to be heard by the people around me. Now, I'm not complaining. I just know, by the looks I get and responses I'm fed, that it's hard for them to be continually lifting my spirits and hearing constantly of my fears. I understand it really. I just wish someone would listen to my fears as validated. Yes, I know I have my life ahead of me. The only problem is I can't imagine doing anything else besides writing. I can't fathom leaving the house at seven and sitting at a desk until the world is as bleak as L. Frank Baum described Kansas in his book, The Wizard of Oz.

Okay, so all that was probably the bitter portion of my title. I am really not a bitter person, though. I love life in general. I love my family more than I could probably ever aptly describe. I love to laugh (and I usually do... often at practically nothing at all). I love meeting new people and seeing different places. I want to travel more than almost anything else when I get older. I have a great desire to see the Swiss Alps and the Eifel Tower. I long to go somewhere in the heart of Europe and get lost for a few months in the beauty and culture. Again, another reason why I need to get this book sold.

Okay, so the dry wit thing. I know I don't sound all that hilarious on print. I don't understand it really, but I'm actually quite amusing if you can get me in person. I love making people laugh. If I hadn't found writing as my ultimate passion, I just may have gone in the entertainment biz (I could have been a clown...). Now, even I'll admit. People often don't understand my humor. I'm slightly offbeat. Every once in a while, though, I can put people on the floor (quite literally).

Okay, so here's to this Sunday evening. I have nothing really more to say except that I check my email every ten minutes (I wish to goldfish I was exaggerating), praying that someone will have said something in return. I'd rather have a rejection at this point that stand any more of this waiting. I'M GOING CRAZY!! And here I leave you...

To Write Or Not To... nevermind

I spent two hours late into the night typing away at my computer, starting the first chapter of my second book. Now, this wasn't the most convenient of times. It was one o'clock in the morning and I had just spent the last two and a half hours watching Sherlock Holmes in the Fairbanks Regal Cinemas. But it was those quiet, early morning hours that brought me something special. I learned how to write again.

I have spent the better part of the last few months sending out queries, reading rejection form letters, and stressing about the ones still out there. Last night I remembered why I started writing in the first place. It's amazing actually. I regained all that I lost sight of over these last several months. Not only is the beginning of my second book very exciting and almost shocking, but writing about these people again is just like reacquainting myself with long lost family or friends. I love them. I root for them. I cry for them. I laugh at them. And yeah, it may seem odd to have such a close relationship with fictitious characters, but creating them, their habits and their passions, their stories and their struggles, all after people I have seen and known, even things I have experienced myself, it ties them to me irrevocably.

Alaska is cold, though that’s no surprise. It really is so strange being up here again. Even just sitting around the house is odd and going to church was even more bizarre. It’s almost like I have two homes now and each one I feel at ease in for different reasons. Living up here last year was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. I’ll tease about my life up here, sure, but only because there were a lot of adjustments I had to conform to. In all honesty, meeting these new people from other sides of the country was fantastic. I loved the new experiences and different ideas. The frozen, beautiful landscape was a great inspiration for my book setting. All in all, it was the place for me to be at that time. I loved living with a family, becoming a sister to my niece and nephews. I have never regretted my decision for one moment.

Okay, so that was a really long tangent there. This blog today really doesn’t have a point or maybe even a theme. It’s pretty much just a bunch of jumbled thoughts. Then again, if you have ever spent considerable time with me, you know how my head works.

So here’s to the new book. Here’s to BYU (who sent me my acceptance letter on Tuesday). Here’s to my future and dreams I hope to keep afloat while I continue through these next few years. I’m terrified and excited; chomping on the bit though a part of me is hesitant. My life is truly about to begin. This is it.

To Write Or Not To Write… maybe that really is the question.

Jolly Old St. Valentine... wait... uhhhh

Valentines Day. It's the center of great dispute that probably goes past any other holiday. There are those who hate it fervently, referring to it as a sick excuse to parade a relationship. On the other hand, there are those who love the chance to show how significant their other truly is.

My fondest memories (note the sarcasm) of Valentine's Day bring me back to life in Junior High. It's hilarious to remember all those little tiny people giving flowers and making promises. Then again, there were the others, people who at the mental age of two never had a girlfriend/boyfriend. To show their personal independent nature, they wore badges to proclaim to everyone that they were ignoring this heart-filled holiday.

I don't believe I take either side in this never-ending battle. I have fond memories of making valentines for my classmates in Elementary School. Everyone got one from everyone, in that way provoking no one to jump off a roof from lack of love and attention. On the other hand, perhaps this ooey gooey holiday is centered too much around those with boyfriends and girlfriends. And maybe all those people out there who feel alone and unloved from the lack thereof should take a minute and look around. Cut out some construction paper and make dorky looking valentines for your parents, your friends, your neighbors. Perhaps we should all make this holiday a time to remember the people we care about and those who care about us. We should remember all those who have pushed us to become what we are and who continue doing so for our future's sake... Heaven bless them.

On a post script note, I have still heard nothing from the other three who have my manuscript. "The Other Three". Now there's a phrase that chills me to the bone. In any case, maybe this really is the end of the road. I have already received an acceptance letter to BYU-IDAHO and BYU's is due (whether rejection or acceptance) next Friday. Maybe all of this is a sign that my writing should be put aside for a while. Maybe my future is calling and writing that book gave me everything I needed to answer. Maybe the act of writing this story has given me more than publishing it ever could. Maybe these things are true and maybe not. Either way, these thoughts have kept me sane through the many long, torturous months I've seen.

Happy Valentine's day... Happy year of 2010... Happy, Happy, Happy (Sometimes you've just got to repeat it over and over until it's an emotion you feel)

On Hands and Knees

Four rejection letters down. How many more to go? Can I even stand this process any longer? Ah, there's the true question. And I don't know the answer. With every no comes the very sharp reality that I may never find anyone who sees the potential in my book as I do. I may never find an agent who is devoted to my characters, concerned for their welfare, and swept away by the fantastical setting. And what will happen if I don't? Will I have the ability to simply shelve my manuscript and forget it's there? See? This is going to be a lighthearted posting today!

I dream about my characters, my world. They talk to me. And when I put them down on paper, they often seem more real than many things in this world. I sound crazy. I know. But I think that kind of connection is unavoidable when someone writes the way I do. With my imagination, I am swept away in a fantastical world that perhaps no one can truly understand as I do.

Okay, so that's the beautiful, imaginative part of writing a book. And now that it's over completely, I am forced to compete with the millions of authors in the same boat as I, trying ever so desperately to catch the eye of SOMEONE!!

Maybe I should start my second book. I mean, I've already planned it to do so at some point. I just always thought I would try to market the first one all I could before trying my hand at a sequel. But I just don't think I can handle this part of a writer's life. Does that mean I'll give up? No, at least not for now. I want to explore just a little more, see if I can tear up any more pieces of my heart before putting my manuscript on that little shelf that I spoke of earlier. Maybe I will start the sequel, providing that time allows for it. I'm itching to continue her story (my main character) as much as my own... through her.

That's all I have for today. Rejections, rejections, and more rejections. Maybe, though, I will someday find an agent and all this heartache will seem so unnecessary. Maybe I will even look back on these times and appreciate all I've learned from it. In any case, I'm not giving up quite yet. You haven't heard the last of me and so on and so forth.

In the Beginning

I begin this blog today with a simple word... wait. A word that has always followed me, chomping on my heels, I find it thoroughly disgusting. Waiting is all I ever seem to hear. From the time you finish a novel to the point when you send it to an agent, to the point where no one responds for weeks and weeks and weeks. Wait. Just wait.

Then again, too often I believe, the world has forgotten how to wait entirely. We are constantly pushing, it seems, for a way to more easily communicate, eat, clean, travel, and even express love and affection. And while I am constantly in wonderous awe at the technological advances our world has made in even the last ten years, I often feel the regret of knowing that instead of telling someone you're thinking of them, we are more apt to shoot them a text. When seated together in a room with family members or even friends, more than half of them are most likely typing away on a keyboard, enthralled with an electronic game, or deep into a conversation where nothing is being said, but relayed on the keypad of a cell phone.

As probably obvious from the title of this blog, I am a teenage author, unpublished to this point. I started this blog for just one reason, to hopefully at some point in my blogging, reach out to anohter like myself. Writing is like oxygen to me now (which is a veilled ironic statment, if you knew me). However, being only seventeen years old with a completed, full-length fantasy novel in my lap is heart-wrenching. And though rejections I've seen, I continue to send out my queries, praying that someone will take interest in the story that changed my life forever. And doing that alone takes every ounce of courage I can summon, while at the same time finding myself extremely naive to have the gall to contemplate that I could ever compete with professional, adult-age authors in the publishing business. Still, I continue forward because I know full well that keeping this book hidden in the dark corners of my closet would bore right into my soul. I couldn't do that, so obviously I continue to torture myself by tempting every agent in the business to give me the same, mundane form rejection letter. Even so, a small flash of hope rises in my chest the moment I send out another letter, another query, another synopsis, another freakin' sample chapter.

Naive? Absolutely. Forever unpublished? Possibly. Still, there is no way I will give up before I ever start. I refuse to let this chance go by without putting all my energy into making my wildest dreams come true. Can't you relate?