Me, quite simply and frank

I've been looking over recent posts as of late, and realized something rather funny. I sound hopelessly pretentious in so many of these, like I have the secret blueprints to life and I'm divulging them slowly in measured doses for your own good. One of my similar posts from over a year ago actually made me laugh out loud because of how know-it-all-ish I sounded. It made ME want to slap ME.

So today I'm going to try writing the truth, uninhibited and frank. Wish me luck. Fantasy and fiction I write well; reality is a horse of a different color!

I secretly love rainy days.
If socially acceptable, I would never wear shoes.
If possible, I would dry my hair in the sunshine every day.
Very few things make me happier than being the reason for someone else's smile.
Nothing cures me of sickness and sorrow like a good, nonsensical laugh.
I lie more to myself than to anyone else.
I crave pickles on a monthly basis
I hold everything in until there is no room to put it all.
Then I pick up a pair of boxing gloves and go at a punching bag until I'm sobbing uncontrollably.
My mother is my guardian angel
I often imagine my life as one big musical
I tend to pocket call people when I'm singing at the top of my lungs to the radio.
When I'm cooking, I dance and sing into a wooden spoon.
I'm inwardly afraid of what people think; not of what I'm doing, but who I've become.
I always look for meaning in my dreams; even the crazy, drug-induced ones. (legal drugs, that is)
There is this paralyzing fear that comes over me when I think of losing anyone else that I love.
I love going to a popular college hangout and watching people on awkward first dates.
I believe cooking and eating together can mend a broken family.
I secretly revel in awkward conversations.
My friends are my light; my family my armor.
I see bits of the future in my dreams.
I tell people I have no realistic goals for my future career, but all I want to do it write.
I secretly still believe I can write and publish books. Honestly. But I hate sounding naive, so I don't let anyone know it. 

The Seventh Year of Christmas

The stockings are hung by the chimney with care.
But there's a smile, a laugh, a voice missing there.

I may cry the day I take the tree down, but then again; I cry when I stand it up and decorate it too. So how am I to be trusted? Christmas is just one of those times of year, a time when I'm not in full control of the way I lash out or of the tears that fall at the most inconvenient of times. And this season now marks the seventh Christmas I've had to spend without my mom; the woman whose eyes twinkled brighter than any light around the holidays.

And it's funny to look back at the shattered thirteen-year-old girl I was seven Christmases ago. I refused to look at the Christmas tree, locked myself in my room sobbing for hours on end; I couldn't hear a Christmas song without breaking into tears and shrieking at anyone within an audible range. All I wanted to was to lock myself away from my family and anyone who had the audacity to smile or say anything pleasant. I mean, how dare they? I even tried to focus on the selfish nature of what presents I would receive. And I tried to fixate on that and forget everything about what Christmas had always meant to me. But even as I waited for my turn to unwrap a gift, there was nothing exciting or anticipatory about it. All I felt was pain... and emptiness.

I listen to Christmas music now, almost as a religion. I take any chance to wander around looking at Christmas lights. I spent hours decorating the house until it's aglow in twinkling lights and garland. I've been cooking and planning for a straight week to prepare a true Christmas dinner for my 12 family members who are attending this year. And I do it all for her; I do it because if she were here, she would be cooking and decorating and blasting Christmas music all over the house. I do it because taking on her responsibilities brings me closer to her than I ever thought I could be after her death; closer than I'd ever dared to hope.

I sit on the couch, staring up at the tree. It's been a long day of shopping and running from store to store maniacally. The ham and pies wait patiently to be baked; the presents to be wrapped. But I only stare into the ethereal glow from the Christmas lights. A heaviness in my chest almost brings tears to my eyes, but something stops it. It's a numb kind of fuzziness that warms my veins and tingles the ends of my fingers. Almost as if someone unbeknownst to me is wrapping their arms around me; someone I can almost feel.

Just a Dream

I know the dream. Darkness surrounds me. A hollow wind whistles from above. Haunting tones rise and fall from one minor note to another. I’m lost in the vastness of nothing, the darkness of nowhere. I search for the light. There must be light somewhere.

            The shadows fade. A small girl slumbers, lying across the back seat of a car. Still in sleep, she pulls a ragged teddy bear close to her cheek.

I try to bring myself out of it. I can’t watch. Not again. Seeing two familiar figures sitting in front, my heart seems to stop.

            The man holds the steering wheel tightly, eyeing the dark forests lining the road. In almost a maniacal way. The woman twists and tugs at the locket around her neck. She moves her eyes from her wringing hands, to the wet highway ahead of them, finally resting on the little girl sleeping soundly behind her.  

            “We won’t be able to explain this away.” The man speaks in a deep, gentle voice. Large drops of rain patter against the windshield.

            The woman nods. “I know. I think it might be time…” She pauses. Her eyes dim. Her back arches unnaturally. A lifeless look in her eye, but the man doesn't notice. He never even looks her way. 

I try uselessly to push myself away.

 Minutes pass, but finally the woman’s fingers twitch. The color floods her face. She sounds a garbled cry. With a shuddering voice, she whispers, “They know where we are. They’re coming.”

The engine protests as the man flattens the accelerator. Everything outside darkens into a black blur of looming silhouettes.

The woman turns to her daughter, now awake and waiting still. Their eyes lock. The little girl’s smile morphs into a sleepy yawn. The woman opens her mouth, but nothing comes.

            A green light explodes across the horizon.  Crashing, it illuminates the darkness with an eerie tint. The squealing brakes force the car to a jolting stop at the edge of the road.

The man and woman leap from the car. Their dark figures meet, huddled in the pouring rain. The man takes his wife’s shoulders, pointing to the black forest rising up beside them. The woman shakes her head, over and over. Tears fill her eyes.

            “You have to go on ahead. I will be okay.” The man’s voice only touches the cracking thunder. His gaze falls to his daughter, pushing her door open and sliding from the car. She stands soaking wet, still clutching tightly to her ragged bear. The man sighs, “It isn’t me they want.” The woman follows her husband’s eyes.

            “We’ll meet you at the cave.” She keeps her face to the ground. “Just be there, alright?” Taking the little girl’s hand, she pulls them off the road, down a muddy slope, and toward the darkness of the trees. Never looking back.   

They enter the forest, and a wet chill clings to their skin. The woman tightens her grip around her daughter’s hand. Everything around them stands dark and looming.

            A soft gleam of moonlight leads them to a tight clearing. A long, shrieking howl echoes from somewhere up ahead. The little girl draws close to her mom.

The woman’s body stiffens. Her eyes glaze over.

The girl tugs on her mother’s arm. “Mommy?”

The woman’s eyes flutter. She turns in circles, maniacally searching the darkness. As if suddenly realizing her daughter, she tries to smile. Kneeling on a patch of frozen mud, her eyes are level with her little girl’s.

            “How much do you love me pumpkin?” The woman’s eyes again fill with tears

Her daughter smiles. It’s a game they play, and she knows what to say. “I love you up to the moon and back down again… a bazillion times.”

            Something of a sob or squeal sounds from the woman’s throat. “What would you do for me?”

            The little girl pauses before answering, searching her mother’s eyes. “I’d do anything for you.”

            The woman brushes back a stray hair from her daughter’s face. “Okay, because I really need you to.” Something stirs in the trees. The woman jumps, but does not turn. “I need you to go on ahead without me. Straight ahead, there’s a cave. You’ll be safe there.”

The girl opens her mouth to protest, but her mother hurries on. “I’ll be right behind you, pumpkin.” She stops. A sigh escapes her parted lips. She brushes a finger against her daughter’s cheek. “No matter what you discover, just remember. I did what I did to protect you.”

The little girl trembles. “I can’t leave you.”

Here in the wood, the rain is silent. Nothing stirs. Only the sound of their hushed voices carries into the air, their labored breaths.

            The woman swallows hard. “You can’t stay with me right now, sweetie. I have to do something. But once it’s done, I’ll find you. I promise.” The woman’s fingers move to the locket around her neck. Slowly, hands shaking, she unclasps the chain.

She secures it quickly around her daughter’s throat, though something like a cry erupts from her chest.

            “Make me a promise, Sylls.” The woman’s voice is hardly a whisper. “Promise me. You’ll never take it off. No matter what happens, you’ll wear it always. Until I can find you. Promise me.”

The little girl looks from her mother to the locket, and nods slowly.

A strange glow filters through the trees. The woman turns. And when she speaks, her voice is flat, emotionless. “You have to go now.”

The little girl doesn’t move; she can’t. A howl echoes through the wood. The woman turns back to her quivering child. “Go!” She doesn’t raise her voice, but it echoes powerfully.

The girl stumbles as she turns. And she runs, not knowing what else she can do.

            Acidic tears eat at her skin. She sprints recklessly through the trees, tripping over every stone and branch that crosses her path. Hours seem to pass before breaking through the last of the branches. A wide, grassy meadow sits at her feet.  

            A single scream shatters the stillness. It echoes through the night air for an eternity. The little girl falls to the dewy grass, rubbing the frozen ground against her cheek.

She searches for tears, but they don’t come. Nothing’s there, only emptiness. She waits silently as a breeze picks up against the leaves. No words said, no shots fired, no blood spilt. And yet…

She knows.

I jump awake. Strange sounds, soft whispers, a deafening hum. I sit up, searching the space around me before realizing my circumstances. Wheezing gasps fill the silence. And I realize they sound from my chest. I lower into my seat. Beads of sweat inch down my face, into my eyes. I lean against the window. The icy glass cools my forehead. And I shut my eyes, forcing two hot tears down my cheeks.    

The plane lurches, rousing several passengers from their sleep. Looking down, I realize my fingers have found their way up my neck. They cling tightly to a red jeweled locket, glimmering softly in the cabin lighting. And I try to steady my pulsing heart. As I cling tightly to the locket I’ve always worn. The locket I’d kept close to my heart… ever since that night. 

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.