Christmas Media, or Why I Hate Libraries

I hate libraries.

They should be renamed Hives of Temptation, or at least post signs outside their buildings that say things like, "WARNING! This building poses extreme danger to your current reading list! If you have a set plan concerning the books you're going to read over the following months, STAY AWAY! ESPECIALLY if it's Christmas!"

Yes, there I was, in the children's section of the library, when a small Christmas book display caught my eye. At first the only book I saw was A Christmas Carol, which I thought was odd, because that's really not a children's book at all, so I foolishly went over to see if it was adapted or abridged or something.

I never did find out, for alas, a second after arriving at the display, my eye was caught by the crazy beautiful front cover of a book called The Legend of Holly Claus. In another second, I'd made my next mistake: picking up this book to look at the synopsis, a move which not only made me want to read the book but also revealed the book that had been positioned behind Holly Claus, a book with an equally beautiful cover and that screamed early-1900s called The Box of Delights.

Holly Claus is about Santa Claus's daughter, who has to journey into Victorian New York in order to break a spell on her homeland, Forever (Santa Claus is the King of Forever. Look me in the eye and just try to tell me that isn't one of the awesomest things you've ever heard). The Box of Delights is about a young boy who is given a magical box "which allows him to travel freely not only in space but in time, too" (so, basically, he has a TARDIS) that a witch and wizard who head a gang of criminals want. Already, these synopses were weakening me.

Then, upon further inspection, I discovered two more interesting things: one, Holly Claus, while not written by her, has been welcomed into the Julie Andrews Collection, which, according to the notation on the back of the book, "encompasses books for young readers of all ages that nurture the imagination and celebrate a sense of wonder"; two, The Box of Delights has a glowing review by C. S. Lewis quoted on its back cover.

Dash it.

Anyway, in case you hadn't gathered this yet, every argument I could present to myself was in vain, and, disregarding my reading list and the number of unread library books I already had, I checked them both out.

Interestingly, this occurrence fits in beautifully with what I was already planning on posting about today - Christmas media. I briefly mentioned it in my last post, but I'm expounding on it now. Much of my Christmas spirit comes from Christmas movies and books and music. It figures, too. I created this blog and themed it as I did because I have a thing with fiction. I love movies. I love books. I love TV shows. I love stories. I'm not sure why. I just always have. Hearing stories is my favorite pastime; composing them is my favorite form of expression. And around Christmas, I feel like I can't get enough of Christmas-themed stories.

Accordingly, I had my best friend in the whole wide world over last Friday to accompany me in a heavenly enjoyment of Christmassy-ness. We watched It's a Wonderful Life (it was my first time seeing it), The Nativity Story (which I hadn't seen in years), How the Grinch Stole Christmas (which was as wonderful as always), and White Christmas (which I think might be my favorite Christmas movie) (might be) (maybe) (I have a lot of trouble picking favorites).

While we're at it, let me just say really quickly that my favorite Santa Clauses ever are James Cosmo in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Edmund Gwenn in Miracle on 34th Street, Mickey Rooney in Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and Alec Baldwin in Rise of the Guardians.

There's so much good, spirit-boosting Christmas media out there. There's also some heartbreakingly un-Christmassy media in existence. It can be so unpleasant watching commercials around this time of year, because they're all so materialistic and exploitive. Christmas is when you get stuff; you need more toys. Then there's all the awful, mindless, doddering Santas, like the fainting one with the obviously fake beard in the M&M's commercial, or the one in the new Gordman's commercials. And that's not even addressing new Christmas "comedies" that I never have and never will see. You know the ones I'm talking about. I shouldn't have to name them.

Like many of my posts before, this one doesn't really have a point. Just that I love Christmas, and I love the stories that strive to capture Christmas, to belong to Christmas, to make you feel like it's Christmas. When you sometimes feel like you live through stories, as I do, having stories that make you feel deep down that Santa is real and Jesus still loves you is joyfulness itself.

To conclude, here is a somewhat unrelated but still very Christmassy quote that I really really like: "A gift from a stranger is a small miracle, a selfless act done without reward, and it's at the heart of Christmastime, this simple act. This is where Santa Claus lives, you know, in the quiet act of kindness to a stranger. That's why he sneaks into the house and why we never catch him at his act. We can't, the moment is gone if we catch him: a work of the heart indeed requires no witness but, perhaps, God... To play Santa Claus you must become the Holy Stranger, the hidden Gift Giver, and that, ultimately, has nothing whatsoever to do with a Disney film or the Coca-Cola Bottling Company." - Kevin Murphy

Merry Christmas, everyone.

~Pearl Clayton

     

The End of November

Welp, November's over, and I didn't finish my novel.

I'm sort of disappointed, but..... it could have been worse. At least I've surpassed my final word count goal, so as soon as I update my count in an hour or so, I'll get all the goodies and back-pats the site awards. And really, when I think about how much more needs to happen before I'm done telling the story, I get rather excited, because I realize that this book could end up being forty or even forty-five thousand words, which is practically a publishable length! HOORAY FOR CREATIVITY!!!!!

And I'm definitely going to finish it. I'm not the sort of person who leaves things unfinished. But I'm probably going to take a break of a week or so, because these last few days have been a bit brutal. I've been pushing myself hard, trying to finish, trying to at least hit my goal. It hasn't helped that I am very self-critical, and I feel that the quality of my writing has been steadily decreasing as the month goes on. I suppose you could say things like this aren't supposed to be easy, and that struggles makes achievements all the more rewarding, and I'll totally listen to you. After a short writing hiatus.

For now, my new mission is going to be awakening my Christmas spirit. Tomorrow I'm going to go and see Frozen (Disney's new animated movie), which isn't technically a Christmas movie, but it does feature a lot of snow. And then I'm going to decorate Christmas trees with Christmas music on full volume, and before long I'll be watching White Christmas and How the Grinch Stole Christmas and The Toy That Saved Christmas and all the other Christmas movies my family owns. In addition, this year I'm planning on watching It's a Wonderful Life for the first time ever (in case you couldn't tell, much of my Christmas feeling is wrapped up in media, and I see absolutely nothing wrong with that) (I also read Christmas books, like Raphael and the Noble Task, which is an insanely good book that is criminally difficult to find).

So off I go to utilize my final hour of November before I plunge headfirst into December-induced Xmas madness. Have a wonderful December, everybody!

Sincerely,
Pearl Clayton

Random Thanksgiving Musings

Every year for as long as I can remember, my family has spent Thanksgiving morning watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. When I was littler, we would have strange pastries called butter braids for breakfast as we watched. They were composed of flaky crusts encircling fruit or cream cheese centers, topped with drizzles of frosting. And, although I never liked any of the fillings, I ate them gladly, because the frosting was delicious, and because it was tradition.

Nowadays, we eat cinnamon rolls and doughnuts for breakfast as we watch instead, and that's not the only thing that's changed. My childlike enjoyment in the parade has vanished. Either that, or the quality of the parade has steadily decreased (which is an entirely valid possibility). Whatever the case, I am now mostly bored by the endless stream of floats I've seen before ridden by boring pop stars lip-synching to tinny, auto-tuned, and horrifically generic songs, and the balloons..... they're big, and some of them are impressive, but I see nothing special in them. The past few years, including today, I've only stuck around to see Santa, the only part of the parade that for me has remained magical and majestic. He gets me into the Christmas mood and brightens up my day every year.

Now, here's an interesting fact about me: I stay up really late every night. Like, really late. It's hard to explain why. There are various reasons. The point is, being homeschooled, I can usually also sleep in late. But today I got up at 9 to watch the parade. And, after two and a half hours of unbelievably boring genericness, I was feeling tired. So I decided to close my eyes for a minute, assuming that my dad and sister would tell me when Santa showed up.

They didn't.

I slept through Santa.

I almost cried.

Thrice.

It wreaked havoc on my mood. All the holiday spirit I had amassed while watching the parade melted away in a second. I already hadn't really wanted to go to the family-and-friends face-stuffing party we were attending, and now I wanted nothing better than to just stay home. But I went, because I didn't really have a choice in the matter. For quite a while, I went through the motions, eating a little and participating in boring conversations (an exhausting exercise for us introverts even at the best of times).

And then, when we were all sitting around the table after dessert, something amazing happened.

I got into a fandom discussion with a friend of my mom's and a twenty-year-old guy whom I had never spoken to before.

We talked for I don't know how long, covering gobs of stuff: Doctor Who, Merlin, Star Trek. Much to my shock, I even discovered that they're both familiar with my primary fandom, Mystery Science Theater 3000 (MST3K), which I've always considered to be quite obscure (if you've never heard of it, you should go look it up right now) (and also RiffTrax, which is basically a revamping of it). The guy and my mom's friend briefly discussed Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which I've never watched but might just have to now. We vainly tried to explain what we were talking about to my grandpa, who was thoroughly lost but still kind of trying to participate. I felt animated. I felt excited. I felt better than I'd felt all day.

I felt thankful.

I'll freely admit it; despite being a Christian and having been one all my life, I've had my moments of skepticism when reading stories of divine intervention and providence and God's hand guiding every moment of our lives. I mean, acting in the big things, sure, but in recent months I've tended to raise an eyebrow at the thought of God getting involved in minor, day-to-day events. But this has got me thinking: maybe it's all still true. Maybe God sends little sorrows and disappointments into our days because such things make the little happy discoveries and moments of rejuvenation feel all the more fulfilling.

If it is true, God certainly enjoys being unpredictable. If I had thought anyone was capable of making my day end well and giving me a few ounces of holiday cheer, I would never have guessed it would be my mom's college friend and the nerdy son of my grandparents' acquaintances.

So..... today, I am thankful for happy surprises.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

~Pearl Clayton 




   

So, About NaNo

Hello.

I'm sure you all remember (or at least, I hope you all remember) that I'm participating in NaNoWriMo this year. I know I promised excerpts and other updates and that this post is long overdue. I've been kept reasonably busy by school, and last week my computer was infected by a virus, which left me unable to access my document for a couple days (not to mention a little freaked out and slightly unwilling to continue working).

Despite everything, my manuscript is currently almost 21,000 words long (YAY ME!), and I have ten whole days left to work in. If I get about 1,000 words a day (fingers crossed) I'll hit my wordcount goal, which is very exciting. At this point I think my biggest concern is that I won't be able to finish the story by November 30th, but hey, I can continue working after the month's over. All in all, I'm feeling pretty confident.

But enough about my concerns. You probably want an excerpt. Well, it took me a while to decide what section I wanted to sample here, but after some deliberation I decided I might as well be horribly vain and upload the section where I introduce the character who's loosely based on me. She's actually barely in the book, but this should give you a feel of my writing style and the basic traits of the main characters. Feedback is very welcome as long as it's not too dream-crushing. I hope you all enjoy! (Oh, by the way, it's not specified in this excerpt, but Beast is a horse.)

Her eyes fixed on their hiding place, and slowly she smiled. “Greetings, travelers,” she said genially in a wavering voice. “Please, come in. It’s not often we here receive visitors.”

            Slowly, reluctantly, Aliss emerged from her place in the trees despite Lutroft’s attempts to stop her. Beast followed Aliss, and Lutroft was forced to accompany them, although he hung back warily, his eyes skating over the strange creature that had beckoned them.

            Aliss was shocked by how young she was. From a distance, her unsteady stance and soft voice had made her appear elderly, but she seemed to be barely older than Aliss. Aliss expected her to shy away from Beast, like most people did, but instead she gasped excitedly upon seeing him, quickly approached him, and gently placed her hand on his nose. And rather than unceremoniously tossing his head to dislodge her hand, as he normally would have, Beast kept still, allowing the strange girl to stroke his head.

            “Such a fine creature,” the girl murmured. “Which one of you does he belong to?”

            “Her,” Lutroft said quickly.

            Aliss smiled. “He doesn’t really belong to anyone. But I suppose you could say I’m the one he listens to.”

            “Lucky girl,” the stranger said, smiling. Aliss noticed that, while the girl’s accent was Sineergian, it sounded somewhat forced. Still not looking at Lutroft or Aliss, she asked, “What brings you into the forest on this fine day?”

            “We’re trying to get to Istengil,” Aliss explained, ignoring Lutroft’s violent headshake. She could tell from his expression that he’d also heard the strange falseness in the girl’s inflections.  

            “Well, you’re again lucky,” the strange girl said. “You’re only five days away. Four if you ride this beauty.” With a final approving stroke, the girl finally turned away from Beast and sat down beside the fading fire.

            “Oh, that’s wonderful!” Aliss exclaimed exultantly. “Isn’t it, Lu?”

            “Why is your head covered?” Lutroft asked suddenly. Aliss shot him a disapproving look.

            “My dress is my business just as your dress is yours,” the girl replied, keeping her attention on the fire. “Would you like to stay and breakfast with us?”

            “Perhaps,” Lutroft answered before Aliss got a chance to accept. “What’s wrong with your eyes? And who’s ‘us’?”

            “Lutroft, really,” Aliss scolded. But inside she had been wondering the same things. There was nothing immediately unsettling about the girl’s eyes, except for the fact that they were blue, and of all the people one might expect to come across hiding in a wood, a noblewoman wasn’t even on the list. Yet somehow, beyond that, there was something else, something… off. And while Aliss thought it was safe to assume the girl was including the person in the makeshift house in her statements, that person wasn’t necessarily the only other one around.

            Turning her gaze on Lutroft, the girl gestured toward the shelter and replied, “Us is me and my friend, Erykah, who is resting at the moment. And to answer your other question, there’s nothing wrong with my eyes.” Here she stood and walked up to Lutroft. “My eyes are as just as good as those deep brown orbs you and your friend have-” she stopped abruptly. She’d turned to face Aliss as she spoke, and now she froze, looking at Aliss as though she hadn’t seen her before. Cautiously, the girl stepped over to Aliss and reached up, as though to touch Aliss’s eyes.

            “Inme tatago,” she whispered reverently. “Look at you.” A smile played at her lips as she finished, “You’re a Neer.”

            “And you’re a Llenyen,” Lutroft said harshly, stepping forward and yanking back the girl’s hood. From it her hair tumbled loose, long and thick and coppery red. And in that moment Aliss realized what was wrong with the girl’s eyes: they weren’t deep blue like the common noblemen’s or icy blue like the eyes of royals. They were in between the two shades, a soft, steely blue, almost gray.

            For a moment, the girl stared at Lutroft in blank shock. And then, suddenly, she began laughing.

            “Ah, yes, woe is me,” the girl said, her voice having lost its Sineergian accent and slipped into a Llenyen lilt. “You Sineergian folk have such clean blood. You’re all either blond or brown-haired, depending on your station. You’ve never blurred class lines enough to create variety of appearance. Someone like me has no hope of blending in.” With that, she proudly released the rest of her hair and arranged it carefully on her shoulders before asking, “Well then, Sineergian boy, are you going to kill me just because my hair’s prettier than yours?”

            “What are you doing in Sineerg?” Aliss asked quickly, before Lutroft could say anything.

            The girl scoffed. “What do you think?” she shot back. “We’re running away.”

            “From what?” Lutroft queried.

            Looking at him a bit bemusedly, the girl said, “Stay and breakfast with us and I’ll tell you.” Seeing Lutroft’s hesitation, she added, “I won’t poison it, I promise.”

            “We accept,” Aliss answered for them.

            “Excellent,” the girl said. “I hope you two have food, because we certainly don’t.”

Sweet Sixteens: Spindles and Stons

Where did the idea of a "Sweet Sixteen" originate, I wonder? What is so special about the sixteenth birthday, specifically in the life of a girl? Has anybody else ever wondered about this? I feel like fifteen makes more sense as a special birthday, because it's right smack in the middle of the teenage years. Or, if whoever came up with this idea desperately wanted the phrase to be alliterative, why not Sweet Seventeen? What's so special about sixteen? And, most importantly, did this idea spark or spring from the fact that sixteen is the most famous fairytale princess age ever?

You should know who I'm talking about based on this post's title: Aurora. Briar Rose. Sleeping Beauty. My favorite princess when I was little. Whatever you want to call her. On the eve of her sixteenth birthday, she pricked her finger on the spinning of a spindle wheel..... wait..... am I saying that right? Oh, who cares. She pricked her finger on the spinning of a spindle wheel, and DI-- fell into a deep sleep. Maybe for one hundred years. Maybe for about two days. It depends on whom you ask.

Disregarding the whole spindle/deep sleep incident, she really had a pretty sweet sixteenth birthday. There was fireworks and dancing, she finally got to meet her parents, there was a boy and a first kiss involved..... What more could a teenage girl want?

As it turns out, a lot more.

Like, a whole Dark murderous World of more.

At this point, you're probably wondering what made me want to write about Sweet Sixteens (well, actually, I doubt you were, but for the sake of my narrative flow let's assume you were). Well, I'll tell you: last Friday my best friend in the whole wide world turned sixteen. She hosted a massive party with all sorts of illustrious and borderline crazy literarily-minded guests. We played one of those murder mystery dinner games where anybody could be the murderer and everybody's trying to solve the crime (I was the murderer, by the way, so, um, fear me and stuff). There were no fireworks, there was very little dancing, and absolutely no mention of boys except those of the famous and/or fictional variety.

Then, on Thursday (or perhaps I ought to say Thor's Day), she received her birthday gift from me. It was pretty low-key.

Sorry. Bad pun.

Moving on.

Yesterday, Thor: The Dark World was released in theaters. But we saw it on Thor's Day as part of a 3D marathon that included the first Thor movie and The Avengers. We laughed, we fangirled, we cried internally, we fangirled, we ate popcorn, and above all we fangirled. It moved us. After all, the first two movies were as amazing as they ever were, except that they were better because they were in 3D, and The Dark World..... gourd. It was..... just, oh my gourd. Fantastic. Marvelous. (See what I did there?) I still have a Dark World high. I can't stop thinking about it. I keep thinking about Tom Hiddleston and Christopher Eccleston (they're the Stons mentioned in my subject line). Hiddles I've loved since the first Thor movie. Eccles I've loved since Doctor Who, maybe even before that (I'd seen him in two movies before I started watching DW). Seeing them both, hearing their voices..... and the special effects..... and Hemsworth's glorious Thor voice..... and the storyline..... and the comedy..... and..... just GOURD.

See, get it, it's Jerry Gourd and he looks surprised, so.... I keep saying oh my gourd..... because I'm..... surprised..... oh, alright, fine, I'll stop with the wordplay.

Anyway, it's gotten me thinking: what has set us apart? Why is it that most girls want big girly parties when they turn sixteen, and we want murder mysteries and superheroes, clues and Christophers (did I mention that Chris Evans has the most wonderful cameo in the history of cameos in the Dark World? 'Cause he does), friendship and fangirl spasms? Why is it that, in a room full of fanboys who actually read the comic books and girls who came just because Chris Hemsworth is pretty, it felt like we were the only two literally gasping for air? Is it a birthright or the way our parents raised us? Or has God (you know, the one God who doesn't dress like that) (kudos if you get the reference) just chosen to bless us with marvelous nonconformity?

I've got to start planning my sixteenth birthday now. I've only got six months. (Insert smiley winking face.) Unfortunately, I don't know of any amazing movies coming out around it. I guess I'll have to think of something else. Something random. Something unexpected. Something that's never been done for a Sweet Sixteen before. Mystery. Magic. Music. Marvel. Mayhem.

Spindles and Stons.

~Pearl Clayton

National Novel Writing Month

I don't know if anybody's aware of this, but it's almost November (I know, shocking, right?). Well, every November an event takes place that is only known of a certain community. That community is a strange, elusive, and frightening one: the literary community.

There are those in this community who call November National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short. Next month, thousands of adults all over the world will challenge themselves to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. There's also a Young Writers Program where the participant can set their word count goal. Both programs have a website where word counts can be tracked, chat sessions can unfold on forums, and other people can monitor a participant's progress and heckle them when they're falling behind.

Why November? Perhaps because the weather is turning colder and people are more likely to sit inside, and if they're stuck inside, they might as well be writing. Perhaps because writing provides a diversion, an encouraging distraction from the cold tragedy that is the dying year. Perhaps because in November comes the midnight of the soul, and everybody knows that the greatest works of composition come from tormented spirits.

Or maybe because "November" and "novel" start with the same four letters, so November seemed like the best fit for a novel-writing month.

Anyway, I'm participating this year. This will technically be my third year participating, although the first year I did it I didn't use the website and I ended up not finishing the thing I was writing or coming anywhere close to my word count objective. Last year participation was an assignment in a Composition class I was taking, so not only could all sorts of other people see how many words I had, my grade depended on completing it. My manuscript (which I completed) hit about 29,000 words (which was over my goal, since I use the Young Writers Program).

This year I'm homeschooling, so I'm afraid that I won't be motivated enough to finish, but I'm still on the website, which provides a fair amount of oomph. Also, my mother's participating this year too, so we're planning on sort of being each other's accountability partners. And if my best friend, Aloisa, who's still on the fence about participating this year, decides to, it'll provide even more motivation ((evil grin) no pressure, Loie).

That's about all I came to say. I refuse to share any secrets about my story, except that it involves a brave girl, her less brave friend, a horse whose name I haven't fully decided yet (which is kind of causing me panic because it's important), a road trip, a war, and a cameo by a slightly neurotic character who may or may not be based on me. Oh, and it sort of mentions a bird that looks something like this:

 
I might post an excerpt or two on here once I've got going, if any interest is expressed.

Creatively yours,
Pearl Clayton 

   

The Purpose of Fiction

When creating a blog, it is necessary to choose a name, something that will theoretically sum up the basic idea of the general content of the posts the blogger intends to make. When I started up this blog a month ago (speaking of which, YAY! Monthiversary blogpost!), "Everything Unreal" was the second name idea I came up with (the first being something along the lines of "Faerie Stories").

Why?

Well, because I love fiction. I love stories that aren't true and unrealistic or adapted editions of stories that are true. I planned on basing all my posts on fictional stories that I'd read or watched or written. And the reason I ultimately chose "Everything Unreal" over "Faerie Stories" is that I enjoy different types of fiction, from Sci-Fi to Historical to Mystery, not just fairy tales.

At least, that's what I thought when I started blogging.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the purpose of fiction, the reason that people write books and make movies, their motivation in telling the stories they tell in the way that they tell them. In fact, if you scroll down you'll see my last post, a piece about landscaping in which I pretend to be polite as I express my annoyance with a few modern taletellers. These thoughts about fiction's function in our society have been provoked and intensified by several different recent experiences, which I suppose I might as well outline below.

First of all, in my landscaping post I mentioned watching a silly movie and reading two of the works of Orson Scott Card. I feel like I don't really need to dwell on the movie anymore, except to drive home the point that I think all such films starring non-actors portraying non-characters and essentially lacking plot are inexpressibly annoying and have no purpose whatsoever, but I will write more about OSC. Yesterday the class for which I was reading Ender's Shadow met to discuss the book. It was a lengthy discussion covering many points, but one brief exchange particularly applies to this post. The teacher asked us students what we thought Orson Scott Card's feeling about Battle School is. Does he view his creation, the main setting of the book, as a positive institution or a negative one? We seemed to come to the consensus that he considered it to be a bad thing, at which time one of my classmates asked quietly, "Then why did he write the book?"

See, that's what I've been wondering since I started Ender's Game.

Later yesterday, my mother and I got into a brief conversation about R-rated movies. If I remember correctly, the conversation was brought on by my mention of an upcoming movie called 12 Years A Slave, which is apparently based on a true story about a free Northern black man who was kidnapped by Southerners in the early 1800s and forced to work as a slave for the next twelve years. I brought it up because I think it looks goodish and therefore have a vague interest in seeing it, but will be unable to because it's rated R.

Now, in the case of this film, the R rating is probably caused by excessive amounts of violence toward slaves, and quite possibly by scenes of a sexual nature as well (as in, um, rape-y sexual; some of those slave owners had some pretty severe issues). But seeing the rating on a trailer for it got me thinking about other movies, movies rated R thanks to frequent, completely unnecessary uses of questionable language or overly gory violence or sickeningly clothesless immorality; the very same movies that constantly seem to be winning Academy Awards and high IMDb ratings and critical acclaim. My mom said that frequently the winner of a Best Picture Oscar will win, not because it was really the best movie made that year, but because it was shocking or weird. So, is the purpose of fiction to shock and confuse us?

But the primary inspiration for my recent ponderings on fiction's calling is another book I've been reading, also for a school assignment. It is called 'Salem's Lot, penned by Stephen King. I finished it earlier today, and my relief in doing so was great.

The basic plot of the story is this: there's a small town in Maine called Jerusalem's Lot where almost every citizen is corrupted and nasty. They're all drunk, having affairs, killing small animals to relieve stress, spying on people through binoculars, abusing children, or just being unspeakably nasty because they can. One fine day, two creepy guys move into the creepy haunted house overlooking the town, and then people start dying. And then the bodies start disappearing. And in the end, it turns out that one of the creepy guys is a centuries-old vampire who has started turning the townsfolk. Then, by the end (spoiler alert) all the unpleasant people in town are rampaging vampires and the very few bearable people in town are dead. The only two survivors are the two characters obviously based on Stephen King (no, seriously; I'm surprised they weren't named Stephen and King).

So now I'm asking myself: what was the point? Was it supposed to be thoroughly entertaining? Well, I wasn't entertained. Were the readers supposed to be scared? Was it meant to jumpstart debates about..... stuff? Is it intended to teach some moral lesson like "Don't be as revolting as these people because otherwise the vamps will get you"? Was Stephen King trying to explain to the world that in the case of a vampire attack he would be the sole survivor?

Whatever the case, I don't even want to think about what Stephen King's landscaping contributions would look like.

I guess it's rather silly to question why fiction is created. Obviously, the creator always feels they have a story the world needs to hear. Even those who create things just for the money wouldn't create something they didn't think they should create (well, I'm only assuming that, but I prefer to think the best of people whenever possible).

I think the real question is not why people create fiction, but why people experience fiction. Why do people read Orson Scott Card and Stephen King and watch movies without plots or movies full of gratuitous everything? Who creates the demand? I know why I read and watch fiction; I seek to be entertained. I watch things and read things because I think I will feel happier and more fulfilled when I'm through with them. But I often feel like I'm in the minority on that point. It seems like a great many people choose what fiction they will familiarize themselves with and then come back to again and again and re-experience based on a desire to be scared or shocked or flummoxed or flabbergasted and yes, technically I'm just listing a bunch of synonyms but I wanted to showcase my impressive vocabulary.

I still love fiction. There are gobs of books and movies and TV shows and characters whose very names cause me to squeal and giggle childishly. Because for me, the purpose of fiction is to cause squeals and giggles of delight and to improve the mood and revitalize existence. To misquote Jane Austen, let other eyes dwell on guilt and misery, if that is what they desire. I'll be over here with my fairy tale books and superhero movies. Bye now.

~Pearl Clayton

PS. If this post was kind of garbled and silly, please don't hesitate to let me know in the comments. I was a bit out of it and rather emotionally compromised for most of its composition.  
 

  

Those Who Should Have Become Landscapers

Professional landscaping is truly a noble profession. Nay, it is more than that: it is an art form. Just imagine how it must feel to hold the future of someone's lawn in your hands. When a person or a company or some other client engages your services, you immediately know that the decisions you make as you design the area of land they give you will affect there professional appearance, their neighbors' opinions of them, and possibly even their own self-esteem for years to come.

A few nights ago, my mother and I watched a movie that was, in my opinion, very stupid. It had no real plot, nothing resembling a satisfying ending, a host of unnecessary scenes, and a few characters who spent most of the movie meandering around looking and behaving like the unfortunate victims of Dementors' kisses. People would ask them questions, and for long periods of time they would, rather than replying, pout listlessly at things as the audience (or at least, as I) was driven mad with boredom and irritation.

As I watched, I couldn't help thinking about the film's director and writer, and the author of the book the film was based on. What a tragedy it is, I thought, that this trio happened to become a director, a screenwriter, and an author, rather than three landscapers. During the long spaces in which absolutely nothing was happening onscreen, I filled the time imagining what their endeavors would look like when completed. The half-finished walkways, the abundance of colorless and odorless flowers, the feeling of dullness, indifference, and lack of interest that would surely permeate any area they had attempted to beautify..... truly they and the world have missed out on something glorious through their poor career choices.

It wasn't this film that first inspired landscaping-related thoughts to come into my mind, however. For school this year, I am reading the book Ender's Shadow by Orson Scott Card. To help me prepare, a few weeks ago I read Card's first literary infliction, Ender's Game. Now, I am well aware that there are many people who find great enjoyment in repeatedly perusing OSC's Ender books; but I find that all throughout reading Game and now starting Shadow, I've been unable to help thinking what a great landscaper Orson Scott Card could have made.

Really, it's almost heartbreaking to think about the sheer fulfillment he could've brought to his life and the lives of his clients. Rather than creating characters so foul and repulsive I wish they would all just die in agony, he could've been strategically arranging flower beds until they were perfectly suited to the task of garnering hate-filled glances and wrenching sobs from all who were forced to view them. He could have channeled his clear hatred for humanity through healthier outlets than writing, such as crooked fountains and asymmetrical pathways. Rather than placing ugly, jagged words in unpleasant sentences, he could have been laying ugly, jagged stones in upsetting, zigzagged lines. Oh, how much this poor world lost on the day Orson Scott Card chose to become a writer!

Of course, I'm not saying that everyone should go into landscaping. Some people are genuinely better suited to other art forms. But to those who do landscape, who bring beauty to the world and joy to themselves using flora and stone, I say, I salute you!

-Pearl Clayton

Forgetfulness, Nostalgia, and The Wretched Ones

"There isn't really anyone left to take pictures with at the end of Les Miserables," said the man who directed and produced the show. Well, that or something to that effect. It was Friday night, at a little dinner theater in Fort Collins. No one told me where my dad was taking me beforehand. I'd had a few guesses, but only in my wildest dreams did I imagine I'd be getting to see a live performance of Les Mis for the first time ever. Before Friday, I'd only ever heard soundtrack versions or seen concert performances.

"Dinner and theater are two words that, when put together, mean that neither will be very good," Dad said, quoting some comedian or other modern philosopher whose name he couldn't recall. This night proved him wrong. The food was delicious, and the performance was..... indescribable. I'll venture to say that it had the best Enjolras, the best Eponine, the best Little Fall of Rain, and the best Valjean (except for Colm Wilkinson, but I think it's unfair to compare other Valjeans to him because they would always come up lacking) I've ever seen/heard. And it was wonderful to finally see it staged and acted and everything. I couldn't be happier.

But, at the same time..... it hurts just a little knowing that I'll never see that particular performance again. I can't recreate the way their voices sounded in my head. I don't want to forget the lighting and the echoes and the spotlights and the high notes and harmonies, but I know I will. It is the inescapable and tragic fate of human frailty that, eventually, all things will slip away from our memories and leave us grasping desperately at pockets of mental history that emptied when we were looking the other way. And those things we only witnessed once, with no chance to drill them into our minds and force them to stay with us, will likely be the first to go. That's why I've been dragging myself mentally back to Friday night at every opportunity I get all weekend. I don't want to lose it. Ever.

It makes me think of a quote from a great book I'm reading. In his final moments, a dying man sees something that makes him remember an incident from his long-passed childhood. "I told myself I would remember it forever," he says, "but time goes on and the world fills up with things to remember, things to do, calls on your time, calls on your memory. And you forget the things that were important, the real things."

Today my mom and I went to the library we frequented when I was younger, and through something I said and her energetic disposition we ended up in the children's section looking at movies she used to check out for me. It's such a strange feeling, being in that children's library, remembering how much I loved to paw through the stacks until I found a book or five that looked appealing, remembering watching those videos, but no longer remembering much of any of the stories they told.

I'm probably decades too young to be fretting about losing memories, but I think I've always been that way, loath to give things up. I want to take all the things that are important, the real things, from Peter Rabbit videos to tragic French epics and everywhere in between, and bundle them up and protect them from age and maturity and the passing years. But I know I can't. And so now the fight becomes resigning myself to losses, learning to treasure the real things while they last and learning to relinquish them when their time has passed.

But that's a struggle for a different day.....

~Pearl Clayton     

Dear Timothy Dalton,

I am most seriously displeased with you.

Oh, what, you want me to explain why? Well, aren't you persnickety.

Well then fine. I'll explain why I'm displeased. But first, a little backstory.

Some years ago, I don't know how many exactly, I watched the 1997 TV movie Jane Eyre starring Samantha Morton and Ciaran Hinds. I didn't like it. At all. Later, I watched the newest version of the story, starring Mia Wasikowska and Michael Fassbender. I didn't like that one either (to be perfectly honest, I barely remember anything about that one). Then I read the book. Then I watched the 1997 version again, and I disliked the story more than ever, for one simple reason: in every single one of these versions, book included, I hated Mr. Rochester, felt that he didn't truly love Jane, and therefore found it very easy to deem his offenses against her unforgiveable, which in turn made the end of the story really annoying. I'll freely admit that at one point during the reading of the book I thought up a lengthy list of similarities between Jane Eyre and Bella Swan, including:

*Both are small and not particularly strong, with brown hair and eyes
*Both are fairly intelligent characters who are likeable at the story's beginning
*Both fall in love with a very strong, passive-aggressive, moody freak named Edward who loves selfishly and is harboring a terrible secret that should logically bring a permanent end to their little romance
*Both lose all trace of a personality, become fixated on Edward, and end up marrying him despite all the reasons why they shouldn't

And see, here's the thing, Mr. Dalton. I was happy to dislike Jane Eyre. I enjoyed comparing the story to Twilight and scoffing in disgust when Internet comments said Mr. Rochester was one of the most romantic heroes in history. When I started watching your precious, poor quality 1983 miniseries, I wasn't doing so because I thought I was going to enjoy it; I was watching because I thought it might be rather unintentionally funny, as so many thirty-year-old telecasts are.

And dash you, Dalton, you made me like Rochester. My biggest complaint about the story is that he knowingly tries to make the woman he claims to love go against the law and her own morals, and your ridiculously appealing performance almost made me forget that. Ugh.

Of course, Zelah Clarke helped. You can't take all the credit. It was disconcerting seeing Jane Eyre smiling and laughing and being coy and teasing, but I liked it. It's nice to have your main character appear human for a change.

I guess I should mention your exceedingly upsetting appearance. Was it really necessary for you to be all tall and green-eyed and glorious-haired and adorable? Rochester's supposed to look like a stumpy mutant. It would have made you so much easier to hate.....

Well, that's all, loser. Don't think for a second I'm going to be watching your version of Wuthering Heights. I don't need a love for Heathcliff in my life.

Or do I? Blasted temptation.....

Sincerely,
Pearl Clayton

I mean, seriously, look at him, he's so dang pleased with himself.....


       

BUGS! Because..... um..... Because I Can!

You know those days when you just feel completely random? Well, today I'm going to write a long blog post completely lacking any sort of organization or thesis all about the role of insects in stories that don't star insects (in other words, I won't be talking about A Bug's Life). Why?

Well, actually, I do sort of have a reason for it. Today, in one of my classes at school, we were talking about standing armies, which, my brain being the jumbled mess of fantasies and poorly wired synapses that it is, reminded me of the ending of a book I read once. The book stars two men who, at first, are the best of friends. Then, through a complicated series of rumors and bad ideas and epic misunderstandings which I don't remember (I didn't like the book very much) one comes to suspect the other of plotting against him. Considering how close they once were, they decide to meet and talk things through. However, they're still not sure about each other, so they both bring their huge armies to the meeting. They then sit facing each other with their armies behind them. Both armies are too far away to hear the conversation of the two men.

In the meeting, everything becomes clear and the two men happily declare themselves friends again. Then, just as they're getting ready to ride off into the sunset together, a soldier on the front lines of one of the armies spots an insect (I think it was a wasp or something equally unsavory). Said soldier, being a complete idiot, decides that the best course of action is to swing his sword at the insect. Alas, the other army doesn't see the wasp (or whatever it was); they see only the glint of a swinging sword, so they charge. A daylong battle ensues. As the battle nears its conclusion, the two friends-turned-sort-of-enemies-turned-friends-again meet up again. Delirious with exhaustion and the negative effects of the wounds they've sustained, the men end up killing each other. Then we get an epilogue so cryptic it might as well not have been included, and the book's over.

Remembering this irritating little story got me thinking about bugs, and I went, "Hey! I should write a really lame blog post all about bugs in stories!" It took me a surprisingly long time to think up any other examples. Then I remembered LoTR.

If there are any insects mentioned in the Lord of the Rings books, they're utterly insignificant. This makes that weird flying thing that looks like some sort of upsettingly oversized moth that serves as a messenger between Gandalf and the eagles all the more fascinating. Especially since they keep showing it. It (or another insect like it) even makes an appearance in the new Hobbit movie. I guess it's (they're?) supposed to be some sort of eagle communication bug? Maybe it has (they have?) a symbiotic relationship with the eagles? I don't know. I still like it (as long as it stays onscreen; I'll readily admit that I have a bit of an issue with large insects).

Then I felt really mad at myself for not thinking of Thumbelina earlier. This movie, like Anastasia, was made by Don Bluth. My parents hate it for some reason, but I greatly enjoy it. It's goofy and maybe a tad bit disjointed, but hey, it's a kids' movie, and I've seen far worse films that fall under that category. Anyway, anybody who knows the basic story of Thumbelina knows that she's the size of someone's thumb, so I guess people thought it would make sense to put bugs in a movie about her (what everyone apparently failed to consider is that this means the beetles and the bumblebee in the movie are bigger than human thumbs, but like I said before, if it stays onscreen, I can handle it). The most prominently featured bugs in Thumbelina are a sleazy beetle named..... um..... The Beetle, and a bee named Buzz that the handsome fairy prince rides around (naming pets isn't his strong point).

Thumbelina also has a bunch of rather odd characters called the Jitterbugs who wear clothes and go fishing and read newspapers. I totally want to meet the guy that came up with them. Can't you just see the conversation? "I have a great new idea for the Thumbelina movie!" "Cool, what is it?" "A race of bugs who wear clothes, go fishing, and read newspapers and stuff!" (This is where the other guy just stares blankly at the writer.)

So..... BUGS! Yeah, I told you there wasn't going to be any kind of thesis. If I really wanted there to be a point to my rambling or a method to my madness, I guess I could say that there's a positive and a negative side to everything, even enormous insects. Oh, and if you see a wasp and want to kill it, use something besides a sword.

Farewell!

-Pearl Clayton

Princesses Continued: So Which One's My Favorite?

Alright, fear not, readers, not all of my posts are going to princess-related. They just seem like an easy place to start a fiction-based blog, considering the fact that oftentimes princess movies are the first movies young children, especially those of the female variety, are exposed to. Anyway, my post of a few days ago got me thinking: maybe readers will want to know which princess is my favorite (actually, chances are you don't care, but I'm going to tell you anyway).

Now, if you were to ask me who my favorite Disney princess is, I wouldn't have a definite answer. Generally I say Snow White, although I don't have a specific reason for it. I guess I like her because she was the first, the original, the definitive princess. I also like Mulan and Merida, who are technically Disney princesses, but I don't like to say either one's my favorite Disney princess, because Merida isn't really Disney and Mulan isn't really a princess.

However, while I don't have a favorite Disney princess, I do have a favorite animated, kids' movie princess: Anastasia.

 

Anastasia is different from a lot of other animated princesses in a number of ways; for one thing, her movie is based on a true story rather than a fairy tale, but more on that later. She's clever, she has her sarcastic moments, she doesn't let anyone push her around, etc. I also really like the rest of the movie. I think it has great music and characters and visuals and..... well, you probably get the point. Suffice to say that it's my favorite of the Don Bluth movies I've seen.

 

Now for the one thing that absolutely fascinates me about this movie. I don't know if it's the fault of the public school system or America's overblown pride in itself or if it's nobody's fault, but I know basically nothing about Russian government before the Communist Revolution. (Or after. Sheesh, why do we never learn about Russia in school?) I'm totally ignorant of the nature of Czar Nicholas's rule, his laws, his customs, everything. I've only gleaned from various sources the vague idea that most people seem to see him as a cruel dictator; or really, that people see the entire Romanov line as a bunch of nasty rulers. Maybe I'm wrong. My point still stands.

 

My point being, Czar Nicholas isn't portrayed as an evil horrible dictator who deserves to be killed by Bolsheviks in this movie. He's only seen a few times, and always as a doting father and a beloved son who is sorely missed. Have no fear, I don't consider this movie to be anything like an accurate historic account (fun as it would be to believe that the Bolshevik Revolution was jumpstarted by a bunch of rabble-rousing green glowing demons who came out of a glass relic possessed by a soulless former priest) but still.

 

I tend to think of America as being strongly anti-monarchical. Sure, we make princess movies and watch royal weddings on TV, but most Americans strongly believe that rule by the people is the only fair, freeing approach to government. The kings and queens we idolize are all either perfectly good, like in Disney movies, or ruling over another country. That's why I find it so interesting and appealing that a supposedly tyrannical dictator is portrayed as a good man and his daughter a princess for little girls to look up to like any other.

 

Also, I like that the ending to this story is happier than the real one. Sometimes it's fun to escape from history.

 

Oh, and did I mention she's redheaded? Fun fact: my hair is red (well, red enough) (the picture on my profile isn't actually a picture of me, in case anybody was wondering) and it is my opinion gingers don't have enough positive representation in the media. It's always nice to see a fantastic character with red hair.

 

Anastasia.

 

Thank you.

 

-Pearl Clayton     

Let's Open With Princesses

Hello there. Welcome to my web log. Now, to begin with, I have a smallish confession to make: I have no idea what I'm doing. Oh, sure, I have a thousand enthusiastic and/or embittered rants to turn into posts and no shortage of willingness to turn an Internet webpage into a public diary. I'm really only intimidated by the rather complex layout of the website and rather in doubt about my ability to make my posts look presentable. Not that I'm expecting a ton of people to be reading this.....

But you're not here to read about my myriad insecurities and technological shortcomings. You're here to read about stuff. And trust me, this blog should have no shortage of stuff. And, as should have been suggested by the title of this post, the stuff to be discussed in this post is: princesses!

Have you ever noticed the strange nature of our society's fascination with princesses? Little girls (and some older ones) (like me) love watching Disney's princess movies. Plenty of emotional women and very..... um..... special men have obsessions with England's past and present princesses. Kate. Diana. Victoria. Both Elizabeths. We love them, which I find to be a rather funny trait in Americans, since we totally lost our princess-watching privileges when we told Britain to shove off back in the 1770s. Luckily Britain's pretty forgiving (possibly because we've developed a new reputation for allying with them during pesky worldwide wars).

Meanwhile, there's a whole other, ever-widening pool of people, most of them feminists, mothers, or feminist mothers, who say that princesses set bad examples for young girls, telling them that if they're thin and beautiful and dress a certain way they'll find their handsome princes and live happily ever after.

I, for one, still really like princess movies and see absolutely nothing wrong with them. Little girls are a lot smarter than we give them credit for; or at least, the ones I know are. Disney princess movies are fun to watch because they're musical and colorful and have fabulous villains (note: if you start following this blog, you'll probably see a post or two just about villains; yes, I'm one of those girls). True, I tend to dislike the princesses themselves, but oftentimes the movies are great. I even find myself torn on my opinion of The Little Mermaid, which features my least favorite Disney "heroine" (chances are you'll be hearing more about her), yet still contains Disney's renowned quality in songs, visuals, and side characters. And historical princess movies (like the ones about Victoria and the Elizabeths and Diana and an upcoming one about Grace Kelly) (eep!) tend to be entertaining as well as informative.

That about does it. Thanks for reading. I'm guessing and hoping that the writing and direction of my posts will improve overtime (meaning I think this one's rather rambly and pointless) (yeah, I know, again with the insecurities). I thrive on feedback, by the way.

Sincerely,
Pearl Clayton