I Guess What I'm Trying To Say Is, I Can't Write A Short Blog

Reality. You can see it coming from a mile away, but it still shocks the crap out of you when it arrives.
It's like having a weird relative. They come in unexpectedly, without anouncement. You're standing there, getting bread and mayo out of the fridge, about to make up a sandwich, when all of a sudden you close the door and there they are. Staring at you with those big, beady eyes.
So you and your relative stand there awkwardly for five minutes, until you finally (FINALLY) think of something to say. "Hi, I didn't hear you come in." Another awkward pause, because they probably don't know how to respond to that. "So... You want a sandwich??" Then they nod and you make them some food.
And there's really nothing you can do about it. I mean, you can't tell them to leave. They're family. And they didn't actually do anything wrong. They're just THERE, and you know you won't be able to get rid of them for hours. You two will sit on your couch and have small talk for the rest of the day. And God help you if you try to do anything else.
Well, that's what happened to me in the last few days. Reality came to me like a huge, freezing gust of wind, just as I was falling asleep, and now I can't stop thinking about it. But I guess I'm okay with everything, because even though this wake-up call is sudden, it's all fairly good things.
Reality Check # 1. I am not as awesome as I pretend to be, but I'm also not as much of a loser as I seem to think I am.
I was writing up a profile for myself on a website the other day and I realized that what I put down wasn't necessarily true. I mean, it was, but it felt like I was leaving parts out. Like I was only talking about half of me.
I wrote that I love reading, and I do it all the time, and that Webster's Dictionary is practically glued to my hand. I wrote that I like to take really long walks by myself and daydream. I like learning things. I like talking personally to my teachers.
I wrote that I am a complete nerd.
Which, granted, is sort of true since I do actually enjoy all of these things. But, I don't know, that's not really me. The image I just painted is a picture of a sweet, little bookworm girl, who dreams of settling down one day with a husband and has only two friends in the whole wide world.
I am not that girl. I am nowhere near that girl. That girl and I would probably not be very good friends.
But then how do I describe myself? Awesome? I am a fantastic writer (I think so, anyway) and I don't feel the need to have anyone's approval, except God's. I have overcome depression and fears that threatened to suck me down into a pit blacker than sin, and I still cling to the sun. I have a ton of friends who are all totally epic and entertaining, and I love hanging out with them.
But that's not an accurate description, either.
It's not that I don't know who I am. I am fully aware of exactly who I am underneath it all, but finding some way of communicating that person, in a lighter form, is proving rather difficult. I don't know which side I am, or which figure everyone sees.
I can hear M&Ms being pored into a bowl from all the way on the other side of the house, upstairs. I talk to myself when I write--like, I seriously say the words out loud as I'm typing them down. When I'm home alone, I like to sing songs to myself at the top of my lungs. I eat a lot of raman noodles (too much to be healthy).
And deep down--so very, very deep--past the skin and the heartbeats and the lies, I feel so dangerously guilty about everything.
Reality Check #2. I am not as unpopular as I think I am.
When I was fifteen, I had exactly one friend. It wasn't that I was a horrible person or anti-social or anything. On the contrary, I was a sweetheart, always smiling and thanking people. Everybody liked me (well, mostly everybody). I just never went out of my way to make friends.
I didn't think it would be a good idea to have a bunch of people around me, because I was planning on leaving for Chicago when I went to college. And I was definitely going to Chicago for college. I thought it would be terribly painful to make a bunch of friends, get close to a bunch of people, only to leave them.
And then I turned sixteen. That school semester, I joined two writing classes; one an actual class, the other a teacherless group. The one class was really fun and I liked it a lot. I laughed and talked to the people there (even had a crush on one of them for about a month), but I knew once it ended, it would end. Maybe I'd meet them again someday, and I did eventually, but only with casual conversation. I wouldn't know anything about their life.
The second group of people, my writing group, are the ones who changed my life. I've actually already written a blog about them, so you can read my gushings there, if you want, but this isn't necessarily about them, specifically.
I want you to fully understand where I'm coming from when I say "They changed my life." Ever since I was twelve years old, I knew I would become a writer. It wasn't that I had any talent, because I had none. I was almost dyslexic. I hated spelling. I loved reading books, but I could not put a sentence together. I couldn't even spell "decide" correctly.
But one day, I looked up a list of professions online and tried out every one of them, doing test-runs and researching them. But I always found something flawed in the idea of me living my life in any of those jobs. "Writer" was about to the end of the list, just before "yodeler" and "zoologist". Not exactly a brilliant, eye-opening moment--nothing as dramatic as suddenly waking from a dream, writing it all down and having that become a World's Best Seller.
But I decided to stick with it anyway. I'd eliminated all the other possibilities. Besides, I reasoned, if I could do enough research and planning, I'm sure I could get the hang of it in no time! Writing words! Doesn't seem so hard!
Boy, was I in for a shock. Let's just say I spent an uncountable number of hours looking up what makes writers great, and how to put a sentence together, and how to make a world, and how to create a story. I've been reading books and blogs and websites about this stuff for years.
So at sixteen, I figured I knew at least the basics about how to be a writer. But the thing is, I didn't. I didn't have enough connections with people. I didn't have enough personality. I realized that I hadn't grown a single day past my first attempt to put words on paper.
I was a square.
I was a box and everybody else was a circle. They all knew how to draw a picture in someone else's head and how to speak with words I'd never heard before. They could think sideways.
And I wanted to be like them.
So I made friends. I made all of them my friends. I purposefully went out of my way, worked as hard as I could, rode my bike five miles in the rain, to meet with them. To share with them. I promised myself that as long as they still wanted me around, I would always be around. Writing is the most important thing in the world to me, and if I want to be any good at it, I need to be ready for anything they've got planned.
Which is why I never have any plans for myself (except maybe the long-term stuff).
And you know something?? They like me. They really like me. They're not pitying me as much as I sometimes believe they are. They're not talking bad about me behind my back (at least, I hope not). They want to hang out with me and get to know me.
And that's a really, really good feeling, to know that the people you love, love you back.
Reality Check #3. I am not going to college in Chicago.
For years (years and years and years), I had planned to go to Chicago for college. That was my dream. Period. It was perfect, because I hate driving and there is a lot of public transportation in Chicago. I plan on living there when I get out of college, for at least a good number of years, so if I went to school there then I'd already have good connections and roots there.
And I love Chicago. I am in love with Chicgo. Everytime I even think of Chicago, I get all breezy and happy and my heart starts fluttering like a moron. I feel so stupid when I'm there, but it's the only place I'd want to be. The buildings that kiss the sky, the streets that are everywhere, the noise of the constant traffic. No man could ever compare.
It just feels so beautiful, and no one else in the world agrees with me. You're all looking at your computer screen, thinking, "Is she insane??" But, you know, nothing is perfect until you fall in love with it.
I went up there to look at a college that I really liked. I pored over the names and profiles of good schoold that are in the middle of the city. Even though my best friend, who was supposed to go with me to college, decided to wait and not go for a few years yet, I still wanted it so badly.
But then I took my SATs.
It's not that I'm stupid or was sick that day or am just really bad at taking tests. I actually did get a good result from the SATs, better than I expected and better than I'd ever gotten on a standardized test before. Just not good enough for any of the colleges I wanted to go to, in Chicago.
I remember reading my scores online, wondering what it all meant, when Mom leaned over my shoulder and explained it. "You got pretty good scores," she told me. "But, honey, I don't think you can get into that college with those."
I sat there, staring at the computer, for about ten minutes straight after she left. All the deadlines for applications in my schools were about a week away. Too late to take it again. And even if I did, I knew I would not get any better on my score.
So I turned off the computer, went upstairs into our bathroom, and cried my heart out on the floor. I guess I was setting my hopes too high, and when you reach for the sky and miss, it's an awfully long way to fall.
But, of course, like every night that is followed by the dawn, something amazing happened. Something I'm pretty sure God had a hand in. The next morning, I deleted my accounts and connections with those other colleges and started looking into someplace local. And guess what? I didn't feel bad about it at all. I didn't miss those colleges. I didn't suddenly burst into tears when I thought about them or burn my stomach up with self-loathing about why I didn't get a better score.
I was fine with it. I was over it. And now I was moving on.
It was the most surprising thing I'd ever experienced. I LOVED those schools! All my hopes and dreams hung on the idea of attending them. They were perfect! But after that first night of shock and depression, it was like I didn't WANT them anymore.
I just got accepted into a college here in town. And I was really, really happy about it, too. I will always miss Chicago, and I'm still planning on living there someday, just not for college.
Reality Check #4. Everything is really hard right now, but in five years, it'll just be a memory.
And memories can't hurt you unless you let them. Time heals all wounds, or so they tell me. I'm hoping against hope that it'll dull things a little, at least. Not necessarily school-wise, but home-wise. I seem to always have some sort of problem with my siblings or with my sleeping patterns or with my loniness vs. unsociable behavior.
I am just a teenager and right now everything feels like it's the end of the world. But, see, I know that, and yet, I can't seem to stop myself from hating every second of it. Because every second feels like forever. I get so lost in the monotony of it all and forget how very busy I really am.
But one day, it won't be like this. I simply have to keep reminding myself that nothing lasts forever. Sometimes, that's a comfort and other times it's terrifying. After school and scholerships and boyfriends, my life will finally begin.
One day, I'll have a tiny, little apartment in the middle of Chicago. I'll have a mattress on the floor as my bedroom and three cabinets on the far side that I'll call my kitchen. No food in the fridge, no clean clothes, no time to work on appearances. All I'll have is a computer to write entire worlds in and a wall completely covered in snippets of paper--stories and quotes and pictures of random chaos.
It might sound horrid to you, might sound like a prison to you, but to me, it sounds like home. There's nothing else I want more than that apartment. My own space, however small. My castle. My temple. My dream life.
Reality is not always such a bitch. Sometimes, that quirky cousin isn't such a bad person after all, and maybe it is possible to carry on a conversation with small talk.

The Lords of the Middle Air

This is the half idea that came to me this morning for the Stage. It's not very good, it's not finished, and it doesn't really tell you anything. But maybe it'll spark some controversy and some other ideas. Inspiration comes from everywhere, right?

She was late. She should have been there at least a half an hour ago. The Dawnwalker was going to be very upset with her when they finally met, but she couldn’t have helped it, really. She had taken the advice of that idiot Silversmith and rode a ship through the Inter’verse Winds. He had assured her that it would get her to her destination faster, but it had been a catastrophe. Next time, she’ll just walk, thank you very much.
She couldn’t wait to get her hands around that moron’s neck. He was going to regret lying to her. He was going to regret ever meeting her.
Her hair was a mess, her scarf was askew, and her jacket didn’t sit right on her back anymore. Not to mention, her shoes were drenched.
She stalked down the rusted, crumbling hallway, passing door after door. None of them had any numbers or significant markings on them—they all looked the same. This was one of those places where you could only get to where you were going if you knew your way around. The Walkers liked it that way because they hated being bothered by strangers.
When she came to the appropriate door, she grabbed the knob and pushed it open. She didn’t knock or announce herself. There wasn’t any need. He knew who she was and why she was here. And he would probably be angry if she interrupted his procedure.
He sat in the middle of the room, kneeling down on his shins. The floor was covered in small candles, all lit up, in no particular order or pattern. He chanted a whispered mantra about the contrasts of light and void.
About a foot and a half away from him was a girl, trapped inside the invisible barrier of a large arcane circle. Enochian symbols were written on the floor and on the ceiling above her head, outlining the poor girl’s prison walls.
The young girl starting screaming at her to help, to get her out of there, but she didn’t move. She could see the girl’s mouth forming words, could see the terror and desperation in her eyes, but no sound was heard.
“You’re late,” the Dawnwalker spoke out loud. He turned his head and looked up at her, treating her to the full sight of his strange, scarred face. Meaningful lines and tattoos covered his features (even his eyelids), and his smile was ghostly.
She stood her ground, refusing to show how unnerved she was. Dawnwalkers creeped her out, no matter how much she used them or spent time around them. There was just something so wrong about beings who marked up their own faces that badly.
“I know,” she replied. “Got caught up in the Winds. That’s why I don’t look as pretty as I usually do.”
His smile grew ever so slightly wider as his eyes scanned down her body. Ew. She mentally shuttered. She shouldn’t have said anything. She needed to learn to curb her tongue better.
“Okay. Let’s get on with this.” She huffed a breath and took a few steps toward the girl in the circle. She was pretty, the obvious perfect sacrifice.
This was a new venture, a path as of yet unexplored by the general population. Using Dawnwalkers was common enough, but there were few people willing to brave a chat with the Ones that she would be chatting with.
“I’m sorry about this,” she said to the girl. “I know that doesn’t count for much, but under the circumstances, it’s really all you got.”
The girl’s lips moved fast, asking questions.
“Look, it’s nothing you did,” she replied to the silent inquiry. “It’s not like this is about you. It’s just the way things go sometimes. I need to talk to someone extremely larger than this dimension and we need a conduit.”
Now the girl was crying and pleading.
“If we hadn’t chosen you, we would’ve picked another girl, and she would be going through the same thing you are. That doesn’t really change anything in the grand scheme of things, does it? It’s nothing personal. I promise to make them kill you quick.”
The girl lowered her head and cried, running one of her hands across her face.
“If it’s any consolation,” she whispered. “I’ll make your death mean a lot more than your life ever had.”
Then she turned around and walked to the other side of the room, rubbing her mouth. She had never done this before. Maybe this was the one road she shouldn’t follow. Maybe she should just call this whole thing off.
But, no. She couldn’t. She had to make this work, had to have an answer. There were a lot of people counting on the results of what was about to happen.
The Dawnwalker was staring at her, reading her thoughts like the pages of a book. His grin reached from ear to ear, and she wanted to smack it right off him. But that would require her touching him.
She waved her hand in their direction, a motion for the séance to begin. He turned around and proceeded with his magic.
It was a few minutes before everything started to take effect. Contrary to popular belief, nothing in the room glowed or flew around or shook. Nothing outside the circle seemed to be changing at all. There was no sound. Which was eerie and ominous, in and of itself. She might’ve preferred to see a little chaos.
Inside the circle, however, was a nightmare. The girl was screaming and writhing and gripping her head. She threw herself against the walls and kicked at nothing. Her eyes squeezed shut and her fingers twisted oddly.
There was a few seconds that passed that seemed like she was trying to peel something off her skin, or wipe away a substance that was adhering to her body. Then she breathed in a huge gulp of air and froze—eyes shut, legs separated, arms at her sides, fingers stretched out as far as they could, everything straining.
The Dawnwalker turned back to his client and said, “The sound-barrier is severed. You may converse.”
She took two steps closer to the circle and eyed the girl. “Who are you?” she asked.
The girl spoke with a slack-jawed expression, her eyes still closed. “We have many names. We are known by many peoples and many generations. They all speak of us, yet they do not know us or know that we are one and the same.”
“I’ll ask again,” she said. “Who are you?”
“We are the dark. The shadows at midnight. The Secret Scions of Limbo. We are the Caretakers of the Unborn and the Banished. We hide between the walls of the Inter’verse and watch all those who go there and never return. We are the Lords of the Middle Air.”
There. That was what she had been looking for. She would’ve smiled at her triumph, had it not cost her so much already. “Good,” she replied. “Then you can help me.”

Being a Writer Is Like Standing on the Edge of Sanity and At Any Moment You Could Fall

I have an idea.
To those of you who are fellow writers, I’m sure you understand the dire, irritating situation this puts me in. It’s not abnormal for me to have an idea, mind you, otherwise I wouldn’t be a very good writer. In fact, ever since I was thirteen years old, I’ve been working on at least five different stories at a time.
I have plenty of ideas on a daily basis. Anything from a movie quote to the title of a book can set off an idea; they’re a dime a dozen. If I ever feel a little useless and I need some inspiration, I can Google ideas or plots or what-have-you and find whatever I need.
But sometimes, writers can get caught and strangled by their own lifeline. Sometimes we get ideas that sink into the crevices of our brainpans and burn themselves into our minds like acid. They come at us sideways out of nowhere and sit on our shoulders for days, constantly nagging us to work on them.
If you have nothing better to do and you really need an idea, then this little goblin monster on your shoulders is your friend. He will stay with you during the midnight hours and fill up your notebooks with surprising, engaging story-material.
Unfortunately, writers like me never have a shortage of stories. Which means, me and this idea are at odds with each other. I do not have time to focus on it right now; I don’t know if I can give it the attention it needs.
Don’t glare at me like that, small little goblin creature. I am trying to carve out the format for the rest of my life! I don’t know where I’m going to be in five months! You are an awesome idea, and I would love to work on you, but you deserve to be free. You deserve a writer who is free.
Stop giving me the puppy-dog eyes!!
Another big problem with this particular idea is that it’s not something I can work on alone. The entire foundation for it is based on the accountability of other people—-namely, my friends. If I’m going to work on this, I’m definitely going to need all of them.
And they lead very busy lives, especially now. Everybody’s trying to find a job, half of them are leaving for college at the end of the summer, and the rest of us have a ton of school. I know almost better than anyone the demands of life and the downfalls of being involved with too many things.
Plus, scheduling is a major concern. This idea is on a pretty big scale and it’ll have some serious variables. I’m hoping to get as many people as I can to join—-friends and friends’ siblings and friends’ friends—-and it’s practically impossible to get them all together at once.
And I don’t even know if anyone will find this idea interesting. It’s almost not even an idea at all, it’s a idea-skeleton. I couldn’t really explain it to them because I don’t have it formatted yet. It’s not concrete enough to sell. It’s mud.
But the whole point of the idea is collaboration, so therefore I can’t format it without their help. I can’t move any further than I already have without ruining the idea. Which is part of the reason why I like it so much.
I like it because it would be fun. It might be educational. It would show talents in a new light. It would stretch imaginations and utilize everyone’s career paths. It would bring all my friends together in uncharted territory, forcing us to trust each other, with the main goal in mind.
It could be the next step in Wasted Paper’s evolution—-or at least, one more thing to look forward to. For me and a few others, it could be our senior project.
But I don’t even know if it’ll survive everyone’s scrutiny. In order for a bill to become law, it has to pass through both the House of Representatives and the Senate, and all their committees. Before it can be signed and presented to the public, it has to be rewritten to everyone’s approval, voted on numerous times, and be signed by the President (who could still veto it). This is much like the process I envision this idea going through.
But it’s a really good idea, I think. I can’t stop my mind from wandering back to it, imagining how it would pan out, what everyone would say, and what I would do if they liked it.
It’s okay if they don’t think they’re up to it, though. I wouldn’t force it on them. This idea strictly forbids that. I’m going to bring it up to everyone next Friday at Wasted Paper, so don’t freak out. You’ll find out soon enough.
I just sort of have this idea.

Covered In Blood

*(This is actually a poem I wrote for a story of mine. It's kind of about what the main character feels as the plot unfolds on him. Poor kid. I do some crazy things to this guy. This poem is a lot more literal than you might initially imagine.)*

Hunt for me and kill for me
I’m cursed again as you scream for me
What am I that you want me so?
I refuse to die for you or release my wings
So I’ll never surrender or be crucified
Surrounded by the whip-lash effect of selfishness
Commit suicide to understand my pain
Covered in the blood of angels

I’ll forget again what you did, but not forgive
Separated by a wall of pompous, unholy light
And I think I’ll have to die once I smash you to the ground
I’ll awake again when the Dawnworld needs me
My flesh will sing again when the sky is full with moons
And when my duty’s done again, my soul will start to break
But I won’t be stopped or destroyed
Surrounded by beauty and carelessness
Kill yourselves and be me for a day
Covered in the blood of angels
So come at me
And come for me
Hunt me down and bleed on me
Chase me for eternity
Never be as free as me

Covered in wings made of death and fire
I think I remember how to speak and weep now
After I win this battle I’ll need to die
This is the only way I know how to hide
Woe to you and blessings from above
I hope they rain your actions, the muck, down on you
I’ll be sure to murder you with all of my hatred
My uncontrollable rage at being dead for your sake
This is only the beginning
I’ll stop the world from spinning
But I’ll never give or be sacrificed
Surrounded by fury and desperations
Martyr yourselves and know what it’s like
Covered in the blood of angels

I Opened the Envelope and Found My Heart Inside

I just opened a letter. It was addressed to me, from me. See, a few months ago, I went to a CFO camp with some friends of mine. One of the exercises there was to write a letter. It didn’t have to be to you, it could be to God, but it was just about writing down your feelings. The next morning, you were to fold it up and stick it in an envelope and put the envelope in a box. They promised to send the letter back to you in a few months, so that you could see how much you’d changed. So for months, I'd been dreading ths.
I just received mine. And just cried for a half an hour.
This is what I read:

Dear God,
As I was walking home from Chapel tonight, I looked across the parking lot and saw a sunset. I thought “Isn’t that so pretty?” I don’t know why but I felt so empty. The cool, refreshing wind, so rare in late July, blew and swirled around me and all I could notice was how cold it was. And I don’t know why. I don’t know why I do anything, anymore.
And I miss Mommy so much. Why don’t I ever really talk to her? Why don’t I ever tell anyone my real feelings? If I can’t go a week without her, how am I going to survive college?
I want to be a writer so bad. I’ve worked so hard for it. There’s nothing else. Please.
Why am I still mad at Dad and Grace and Naomi? I want to forgive Daddy, but he scared me so much. What happened to me and Gracey? Why can’t we get along? Why won’t Naomi hang out with me? I want her approval so much.
What if I don’t stop lying? I just feel like I can’t. I’m locked up. I am not as cool as I pretend to be.
I don’t know if this experience has changed me forever right down to my core. I don’t want to say that it has, because it probably hasn’t.
I’m so scared of everything. I’m so tired. I’m so lost. And I just know I’ll wake up tomorrow and shrug it off. But I really wish I wouldn’t.
Your Prodigal Daughter,
Gemma

Interesting thing is, on the other side of the folded sheet of paper, God wrote back:

My Dear Gemma,
The reason you’re crying right now is because you do feel. You feel all sorts of things. That’s how I made you—to laugh, to cry. And you do these things. Just because bad things happen doesn’t mean good things don’t happen.
Rose is missing you, too. She’s in her bed, falling asleep, and she’s sad because she knows that you’re not there to tuck her in. She wants you to tell her things. She’s your mother. She won’t forsake you. She could never hate you, no matter what. I know you want to protect her, but you’re hurting her worse by keeping the situation from her. Children should always talk to their mothers.
I work in mysterious ways. You don’t need to know everything right now. You just need to be open and accepting. Don’t be afraid. You need to trust Me.
You’re mad at your family because there are issues between you that you don’t talk about. You need to explain your emotions to your Dad, and forgive him, without just shoving it off. Grace was your closest sister, but then you two grew up and stopped telling secrets to each other. You need to mend that gap. You need to try. Naomi is very busy, but she wants to hang out with you, too. Talk to her.
Stop pretending to yourself, stop pretending to others, and everything will fall into place.
You can’t shirk all these feelings and expect a relationship with Me to work. I don’t fit in any of your boxes. You really need to mean it. I can’t control you. I can’t give you concrete evidence. But when you are ready for Me, I promise you. I will be here.
You Patient, Vigilant Father,
I AM

Don’t know why, but I felt like sharing that piece of me on a blog site that is open to the entire world, and yet, hardly any of them will read it. Maybe you will use this information for a purpose. Maybe you will use this information as blackmail. Whatever you do, I don’t care. Just use it.

Stupidity Should Be Painful

Well, actually for me, it IS painful.
It's painful because I MAKE it painful. When I do something really stupid, I bang my head around and smack things and generally go into an epileptic fit. People watching take giants steps back and make slow, steady movements toward the phone, to call the psych ward.
Like most of humanity, I don't know why I do stupid things. It's not like I do them on purpose. I myself try extremely hard to be cautious enough, aware enough, to know when something is stupid, and thus direct my path away from that. People who know me know that even though I do a lot of crazy things, I don't do them foolishly. I always have some sort of backup plan.
So as much as I wish I could sit here and write about how completely awesome I am and how I never make mistakes, I just can't do that. Not that I have a problem with lying, because I do that all the time. But lying is not an option for me anymore, since the topic of my stupidity concerns this blog.
So here it goes.
I will not be posting up the second part of the last blog (the one about my writing group). I wanted to, I really did. In fact, I had pages and pages of postage-material, and was almost finished with it.
But then I accidentally deleted it all.
All of it. All five pages full of personalities and concentration and imagination. Five pages full of hours and hours from my life that I will never get back, and now I can't remember what I wrote. I was and still am so distracted by other writing projects I need to get done.
So I can't rewrite it. I'm sorry to those of you who were looking forward to seeing my reactions to you. I might write about you someday in the context of our Wasted Paper group, but I don't know when.
Don't worry too much, though. I'll probably still write about you, I mean, you ARE a part of my life and you will be mentioned eventually. I'll just have to write you in some other experience I've had. Be patient with me, please, this is my first time doing this.

Wasted Paper (Before It Was 'Wasted Paper')

When I was very young--too young to realize that the earth is hurtling around the sun at 67 thousand miles an hour, or that ants don’t have souls—-I experienced an event that shifted the entire focus of my life. Ever since then, I can feel the universe singing to me that there is something wrong, that half the things I do are unnatural. I was not originally designed to think this way. I wasn’t supposed to feel this way.
As time passed, I began making my choices based on what had happened, and acting accordingly, and I found out very early on that I needed to make reasons for everything I do. I needed to give myself reasons to stay and reasons to laugh. I could only be angry over certain things for certain reasons, and I was never allowed to leave my little homemade perimeter.
I was twelve when I decided that I would become a writer. It wasn’t that I had any kind of talent—I couldn’t put a sentence together to save my life. I thought I was dyslexic. But I knew that eventually, once I hit the teenage years, that I would want to commit suicide. Even at that age, I could already feel my tendency toward it, the allure of death. But I needed to stay alive and for that, I needed a reason.
So writing has become my everything. It’s what I breathe, it’s what I think, it’s what I eat. I took a class on it when I was thirteen and learned that the best teacher on how to write was experience. I spent most of my free time researching websites and reading books and blogs by published authors—all about writing. My head was filled to the brink with anything I could learn about the written word: pronunciation, spelling, sentence structure, dialogue, world-building, character profiling.
When I was sixteen years old, I read a blog by one of my favorite authors, saying how much she enjoyed her writing group and how she thought it was an essential part of becoming a good writer to have one. Having a support group that doesn’t gripe at you for going on and on about a project you’re working on is an exhilarating experience and lets you grow in ways you wouldn’t have otherwise.
That was it. The challenge of finding a group of people who loved writing as much as I did grew up in my chest, but every time I thought about it, I’d get really sad, because I didn’t know anyone who would start it up with me. I had been a sweetheart and a little too apathetic for the few teenage peers that I had known, and anyway, I didn’t really know them very well.
A few weeks passed with this longing in my stomach, burning like an ulcer, when I found an email from Mom about this guy named Ted Remington, who worked over at Saint Francis University, and wanted to start up a writing group. She wanted to know if I’d be interested in joining.
I swear, there was this crazy moment when the clouds parted and I heard angels singing and the Voice of God saying “You bet your ass you’re going to sign up for this thing!!”
Okay, maybe that last part was me. But there was singing.
Our writing group began in the late September/early October time of the year, and I was introduced to some of the most influential people in my life. They were and still are ridiculously awesome and easy to get along with and I am still friends with all of them to this day, two and a half years later. The group has grown and morphed substantially during its lifetime, but I’m not sorry about any of it. In fact, I’m probably happier with it now then I was when it started (and I was ecstatic about it then).
So welcome to my circle.
If any of them read this, I hope they’ll find it at least a little entertaining. Most likely, they’ll think it’s hilarious.
For those of you who don’t know me or them well enough, this is my collection of observations throughout the last few years.

Let’s begin with Sensei. You remember, Ted Remington? He didn’t want us to call him teacher, since he didn’t really plan on teaching us anything, and “Mr. Remington” was too formal. He suggested Ted, but I couldn’t call him that. All I could think of was “Teddy Bear” which created a certain amount of awkwardness. I decided to call him Sensei (I’m obsessed with Japanese culture) and the name stuck.
He confessed to us early on that he had actually wanted to start this group in order to have an excuse to read his story to a bunch of kids on a weekly basis, and maybe get some criticism. So instead of this being a class, where we would sit and do what he tells us to, he wanted it to be more of a group focus thing. Something we’d all enjoy.
What was funny was that he’d been worried that he wouldn’t get any participation from us and that we’d all just get together and have nothing to read. He was afraid we wouldn’t put any effort into this. We were teenagers, after all. We responded to that by laughing at him and telling him that he had obviously never worked with Homeschoolers before. We worked very hard on our projects and loved our group sessions with a passion (I did, anyway).
Unfortunately, after a few months, the “class” had to end, and Saint Francis needed the room space back. You wouldn’t believe the dank, dark endless pit I could see looming in front of me at the concept of having to lay this experience to rest. Thankfully, they all felt pretty much the same way, so we decided to keep in touch by email and continue meeting in the local library with our stories.
But Sensei couldn’t keep going with us. He had to work on other classes that were starting up. I have no idea what he’s been doing lately, but as I write this I realize that I should probably try and meet with him again.

And then there’s me. I think I talk too much to the people in my writing group. I say a lot of crazy, weird things that I probably shouldn’t, just because I sometimes try a little too hard to keep their attentions. I have to sometimes pretend I know exactly what they’re talking about, but all I’m doing is smiling and nodding and saying “Ahhh” and “Oh, yeah” at the correct moments.
As previously stated, when we had to move out of the University, we went to the library. At first it was an all-together effort to send out emails about our schedules and work with each other to find a middle ground in which we could meet. This went on for a long period of time, before I began realizing that they weren’t sending those emails out to everyone, just to me.
Why they were only replying to me and not broadcasting it, I have no idea, but I began to broadcast it for them, and before I knew it, I was orchestrating which emails would get sent where—-who, how, and when.
Strangely enough, I never really realized what was happening until, one day when I was sitting at the computer, typing up and sending out emails to everyone about meetings and schedules. My older sister Grace came up behind me and asked what I was doing. When I told her, she chuckled and said "You know, it’s kind of like you’re the one running the whole group, like you’re their leader."
I laughed and continued writing the email. And then a second later, it hit me. "Aw, crap. It IS a bit like I’m running the show, isn’t it? They’re going to be so mad at me..."
But I figured they’d think it was funny, if nothing else, so I put that whole conversation in the email. One of them wrote back that I was now dubbed El Presidente, and I haven’t been able to live it down ever since.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the power play, just a little bit.

Valerie was only thirteen when we started—the youngest one. She is a quirky little fuzz ball, I’ll tell you what. She’s always giggling at something and she’ll just unexpectedly start talking on top of you, because she can’t wait to get it out of her head and see what you think. She’s pretty crazy and tends to say whatever comes to her lips first, but at the same time she holds so much of herself back. She has to, with everything she goes through on a daily basis.
Valerie always wanted to be an actress. She was in a young adult theater production program here in town, and was pretty good at it too. It was so entertaining, watching her up on stage, because she’s a bit twitchy but so adorable.
Poor Valerie, though. She has self-confidence issues and she doesn’t control where her thoughts lead her sometimes. And she doesn’t always think good thoughts. As a group, we all tried to give her our help and advice, but in the end, I don’t know if we did alright by her.
Her parents transferred her to a public school more than a year ago now, so she can’t attend the writing meetings anymore. I take classes over at her school, so I see her every now and then. We stop and chat for a while—-I look at her clothing style and laugh hard, she informs me that I still have a hole in my chest where my heart used to be, and am I ever going to get that looked at?—-before I shoo her away to her next class.
If any of you are wondering, I think she’s okay. She’s still pretty funny. Her eyes still shine. But she told me once that the soap thing is not working for her anymore.

Ria is one of those few people I judged too soon, before I really got to know her. I panned her out as being a romantic. I didn’t actually have a reason why, I just thought she looked like one of those girls. It was the shape of her face, the way her cheeks glow red when she laughs, and the way her short curly hair bounces ever-so-subtly. She always dresses in such warm outfits. Even when they’re not; they just LOOK warm on her.
If I were to ever draw her in a picture, she would be in the middle surrounded by huge, human-sized balls of yarn, pillows everywhere, maybe a few kittens, and a bunch of features. I DON’T KNOW WHY.
She’s actually pretty sharp and quick witted. Among all of us, she is always the first to give super good criticism. And she’s always right about the criticism.
I remember our first group meeting, I was super nervous and got stupid and I’d said something to impress them all, and it worked (they all laughed), but Ria came back at me with something so much better, without so much as blinking. I felt so stupid afterwards, but so in awe of her at the same time.
I don’t think I could ever see her angry. I can’t even imagine it. I’ve seen her focused before and confused before, but never annoyed or apprehensive. She exudes happiness and false cuddliness whenever I see her!
I say false cuddliness because she is actually not the cuddly, romantic type. She doesn’t like romance stories. She blushes profusely, all the way down to her fingertips, at the mention of kisses. I’m the one more likely to talk about romance than she is, and I am so not a romantic.
Sadly, she hasn’t been coming to a lot of our writing meetings lately, because we’ve been scheduling them at all the wrong times for her. Our personal schedules don’t collide very often and when they do, I try to get as many of us to get together as I can. But hopefully soon we’ll be seeing her more often.

Whenever I think of Eliyah, I think she’s probably the most practical of us all. She has this tendency to keep her voice level and remind us all to be quieter, since we meet in the library. Thank God for her! I’m sure we would’ve been kicked out a long time ago if not for her.
In the beginning, she hadn’t had any idea what this group was going to be about (really, none of us knew) so she had brought what she’d previously worked on when it came to writing: school work. I can’t remember exactly what it was, but it was an essay about a type of fossil, some sort of bug, and it had actually won an award.
So my first impression of her was that she had award-winning renown, she knew about prehistoric animals, and she was level-headed. Intimidation galore.
FFUUUAAAAHHH. That was the sound of my inferiority complex expanding.
Once we had subconsciously established ourselves as a story-and-poem-writing home school group, she decided to push herself in a new direction and write what she had never written before. She wanted to follow our lead and she now writes poems mostly, but is working on a few stories that we might get to hear whenever she quits rewriting them and just reads them to us!
It’s so great to hear her poems, because they’re so dark and morbid, and she’s so sweet and happy. She says she’s writes them at weird hours of the night, though, which I think explains everything, and insists that’s the only way she writes something she likes.
I wouldn’t know the difference, though, since I’m such a pushover, I love everything she reads.

Caitlin is the coolest person I know. Not the AWESOMEST person, mind you, not even my favorite person, but the *coolest*. She doesn’t so much as walk into a room as swagger towards wherever the couch is. When she sits, she slumps down and props her feet up on the coffee table. She’ll look at you and laugh with you one second and the next second she’ll stare at you like you’re the dullest person in the world to her.
If ever I had to pick which of my friends were destined to become a rock star, it would be Caitlin. I knew that about her when I first met her, even before she helped create and become one of my favorite bands of all time.
One of the funniest and most annoying things about Caitlin is that she knows how cool she is, but she always insists that she’s crap. She’ll go on and on about how terrible her writing is, or how monotonous her reading is, when she’s actually pretty good. I don’t know why she feels she has to bother, but every time we sit down to read our stuff and it’s her turn, she will, without fail, remind us that she is a terrible reader.
WE KNOW ALREADY, GET ON WITH IT!
I love her to bits, though. She’s one of the few people who are always like "We need to have a writing meeting. RIGHT NOW." She told me once that since I’m always the one scheduling the meetings, but she’s always the one *telling* me to schedule the meetings, that I was like Jesus and she was like God. I’m the one everybody sees, she’s the one in the background making things happen.
Boy, did I go off on that girl. We sat and argued (laughingly, of course—all in good fun) for about fifteen minutes over this concept. I’ll have you know, I schedule LOTS and LOTS of meetings without Caitlin’s help, thank you very much. I just happen to be busy quite a bit these days and I need some reminders, is all.
I don’t know exactly when it happened but I think I had known her about a year before she started up a band with one of her other friends (now one of my friends), called Kelly & Caitlin. They do gigs around town and are freaking amazing, and whenever they come up with a new song, they’ll sing it for us in writing group first, sort of as a test-run.

Angel is definitely not someone you forget once you’ve met them. She’s fast-paced and driven to succeed, almost to the point where sometimes I worry about her. She’s always the first person to volunteer for anything, even if it’s crazy, and if she sees you not volunteering, she WILL FORCE you to join her.
Overachiever is an understatement with her. She’s a fantastic writer, but she also wants to be a director. And an actress. And she likes to be behind the camera. Basically, she wants to someday make a one-woman film, starring herself. I would say she is a seriously braggart, except that she CAN do all of those things. And as creative as she is, the movie probably wouldn’t suck as much as it would if it were anybody else. I would spend eight and a half dollars at a theater just to see what Angel’s come up with, which is probably why I’ll go broke buying all her movies when they start coming out.
She mostly writes fan fiction, but not the stupid kind. I’ve always been wary about fan fictions, because once you finish, you can’t do anything with them. They have no bearing on the real world, but hers are better than that. She writes hers so far removed from the original story that it’s based on, that it seems like a completely different story. In the last year or so, she’s been working on several original worlds, but we all sort of like her older characters more.
That’s another point about Angel. She writes multiple stories simultaneously. She lives so far out in the middle of nowhere that in the time it takes her to get into town, she could have written five chapters in three separate stories on her laptop.
She always has something to say about whatever is being discussed, mainly because she knows half of everything in the universe. She’s a walking encyclopedia of weirdness. We could be talking about sea-lions and she would know something about them that we didn’t know. Apparently, Angel’s brain is ten percent larger than the average human’s.
I think one of the best things about Angel, though, for all her boisterous intelligence, is that she never seems to put up a front for anybody. When it comes to her appearance or her attitude, she never sways too far from her equilibrium for too long. God made me who I am, she would tell me, why should I need to hide it?
I’d never fault her for that thought process, but I can’t say I share it.
I am incredibly fond of her, I’ll admit it, even though we argue over everything. She likes orange and hates red. Red is my favorite color and nothing rhymes with orange. She listens to weird/dreamy/pop music, I listen to rock. It is pronounced "Bel-ee-AL" not "Bel-EYE-al".
Me: I KNOW THIS CRAP! I’VE DONE RESEARCH ON IT!
Angel: I’VE READ THE ENTIRE INTERNET!

And that’s about it for Wasted Paper’s original members. Tomorrow, I’ll work on the rest of the bunch and have it posted up soon. Hope you had fun. Sorry about the length.