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.