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
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Thursday, November 28, 2013
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
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
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
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.)
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.”
Saturday, November 9, 2013
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
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
Saturday, October 26, 2013
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
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
Friday, October 18, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, October 11, 2013
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
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
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