I've been feeling musicy lately. Ha, musicy looks like juicy.
Hello random, I'm Mariah.
I'm getting my wisdom teeth out on Thursday, making blogging my only form of communication. So, as a warning, just disregard anything I say for the next week, especially if it's worse than my random tangent above.
Wouldn't it be weird if people actually lost their wisdom if they got their wisdom teeth removed? You could make sophisticated jokes about them (that is, if you still have your wisdom teeth) like "Oh, he doesn't have wisdom teeth" with lots of eye rolling and giggling. Okay, maybe that's a bad example, but I really hope that you get my point. Because otherwise I'm just blabbing on, and on, and on, and on...
I think on Thursday I might post something from my book again. We'll just have to see how loopy I am first.
I just noticed how much I use exclamation points (in post titles, anyways). It's like jeez, Mariah, are they going out of style? Maybe I'll use them all up and we'll have to create something else to take their place.
P.S. I know you didn't play that song. Do it now before I send ninjas with tire irons after you.
I have decided, however, that Anthropologie is my new favorite store. Sadly, I can't afford anything.
Maybe I should start a "Save Mariah From Ugly Dresses Fund" so that I can buy the pretty things I lust after. I think it's worth a shot. Especially if I got a celebrity to support my cause. They would be on a commercial, showing clips of me wearing ugly dresses. "Please, don't make Mariah wear ugly dresses. Ever. It's a crime against humanity," is what they would say. And then people could call in with pledges.
I was going through some old notebooks last night (and when I say notebooks, I mean more than any ordinary amount of notebooks. Putting notebooks in plural form doesn't do any justice. It should be notebooksss or notebookses or something else) when I found an awesome story that I probably wrote when I was nine or ten.
And the best part is, it comes with illustrations too. Just keep in mind how old I was when I wrote this when you start laughing.
So, without further ado, I present "Barbie Meets Godzilla!".
Barbie Meets Godzilla!
It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and Barbie was shopping for the latest outfits. Then, out of the blue, there was a Godzilla invasion!
Horrid cries came from the shoppers as Godzilla bared his teeth. Barbie ran out of the mall trying to get to her car, but it was too late, Godzilla had smashed it. Then, he grabbed Barbie tightly and left with her.
Godzilla took Barbie back to his lair and locked her up in a small, but comfortable, room. Godzilla stomped away as Barbie wept for herself, and for being late for her date with Ken.
Over the days as Godzilla plotted an evil scheme, he grew fond of Barbie and hated the fact she was locked up. So he invited her to a fancy dinner one night to show he wasn't all that bad.
After the fancy dinner, Godzilla decided to let Barbie go in a few days, even though her liked her. Barbie was ecstatic when she was told she could leave soon, but also sad she would have to leave Godzilla.
After Barbie was packed and ready to leave, she kissed Godzilla on the cheek. Godzilla was surprised when she said she would visit him once a year. She even invited him over for dinner. Godzilla was very happy.
Even though Barbie married Ken some years later, she still visited Godzilla every year to keep her promise. After Barbie had children they called Godzilla Uncle Godzilla because they went with her on her trips. Everyone was happy, including Godzilla.
I know, it's a real tear-jerker. Godzilla just wants to be loved! I think I should rewrite this story and make it a million times more awesome and then post it here. Yay, more homework!
Wow, I just realized that I completely missed all the St. Patrick's Day festivity on my blog. To make up for it, I present a picture of my face, in Irish form:
I painted this for an oil painting class as a heritage project. We were supposed to paint ourselves how we would look if we lived in our country of origin. Apparently, if I was living in Ireland like my ancestors, I would have curly red hair and wear dancing outfits all the time.
So I've started reading Rebecca by Daphne duMaurier, and it's making me feel crazy jealous. The imagery in the first chapter alone is insanely swoon-worthy, mostly because properly formed sentences make me giddy. Seriously, throw a good sentence at me and I'll treat you like a rock star.
This is what it sounds like when the main character describes a pathway in her dream:
"Nature had come into her own again and, little by, little, in her stealthy, insidious way had encroached upon the drive with long tenacious fingers."
And no, I didn't make any punctuation or grammar mistakes when retyping that sentence. I'm totally flushed with jealousy and admiration! Here's another good paragraph:
"The rhododendrons stood fifty feet high, twisted and entwined with bracken, and they had entered into alien marriage with a host of nameless shrubs, poor, bastard things that clung about their roots as though conscious of their spurious origin. A lilac had mated with a copper beach, and to bind them yet more closely to one another the malevolent ivy, always an enemy to grace, had thrown her tendrils about the pair and held them prisoners."
Awful track practice has left me in a stupor. Bleh.
Can't think of anything to write. Instead, I think I'll just post something I've already written.
Here's an excerpt from The Not-So Meet Cute. It's from the middle, so I guess the fact that you don't know what's happening makes it a teaser. I'd post something from the beginning but I don't own it since I sent it out for a scholarship.
Anyways, feel free to critique. This is one of my favorite passages, so be nice and don't steal it.
Thanks! Oh, and by the way, the story is from Piper's point of view, and she can read minds.
The wall looked so plain, I thought as I stared at the one in my room. I lay on my bed, uncomfortable but unwilling to move, staring at my blank walls. There used to be pictures on them, but they had come down long ago.
I felt sorry for myself. I had nothing to do on that rare, sunny day on March. My parents were gone, I didn’t want to see my friends…I was basically wallowing in self-pity. I recognized this, but wasn’t going to address the situation.
Slowly, resolutely, I sat up. I had decided not to lie in my bed all day listening to my neighbor’s thoughts (apparently Howard was having an affair with his podiatrist, Rhonda). Next, I stood up, which was an accomplishment I previously didn’t believe possible.
Then, a sudden irrevocable urge hit me like a cement truck. I had to see his face. The randomness of this internal demand shocked me, but I wasn’t going to argue. I licked my lips, feeling hungry to see a picture, any picture…
My physical hunger led me blindly through my house and to my car. I couldn’t believe the nerve I had to do what I was doing. I knew how stupid it was, however, but I wouldn’t let myself answer to my conscience.
I drove cautiously, wary of the craving that consumed my actions. Obviously, my thinking wasn’t clear if I was on my way to his house---his old house.
I pulled into the driveway and everything appeared as I had left it over a month ago. My arms were shaking like an alcoholic’s would while waiting for their first sip of liquor, that long-waited release…
I could barely hold the keys in my hand after I reached for them; they made metallic clings in my unsteady hands. Taking a deep breath, I reached for the right key and shoved it in the keyhole.
Dust had settled in the house, and it was stirred up when the door swung open. Swirl-y patterns filled the light shaft from the open door as I inhaled the scent of abandonment.
Anxious, I tiptoed toward the kitchen in search of pictures I had seen last time I was in the house. I became filled with melancholy memories, but pushed them down when they threatened to surface.
I peeked into the kitchen discreetly, almost expecting to see the old family that had lived there using it again. Unfortunately, there was no such luck. Just an empty room lay before me. Everything was as I had left it---rather, how they had left it. I shivered, feeling unwelcome in the unused space, but I walked into it anyways.
I grabbed a stack of pictures from the kitchen table and pulled them close to my chest as if they might slip out of my hands. Feeling tangible, photographic evidence that this family really did exist eased my fluttering heart. However, remembering that I actually had no idea what had happened to them made my throat close up.
I ascended the creaky, well-worn stairs to his room, but stopped when I reached the door’s threshold. Did I dare enter the room of so many painful memories, the room where I had previously drained myself of tears? I suddenly felt very lucid, realizing how stupid my whole adventure was. Why was I indulging myself in self-pity? Knowing I’d probably risk a mental breakdown, I opened the door to his room, eyes closed. Only when I had settled myself on his bed did I reopen them. My breathing became strangled when I saw the seemingly vast room unfold before me. I actually became dizzy, and had to put my head between my knees to ease my haggard breathing. There was an aching chasm between my lungs that continued to rip apart as I remembered him. Tasting salt on my lips, I cursed myself for crying again. I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry for him anymore.
Resolve strengthened, I sat up again. The room was still empty, but I was no longer haunted by what had been. Looking down, I saw my arms were still wrapped around old pictures of them. I slowly loosened my grip and began examining them. Happy moments captured on film lay before me. He was smiling, posing, fake. The one picture I found with a genuine smile ended up in my pocket. Hunger sated, I rested on the bed and looked at the wall. I was back in the same predicament that I had been in at home. Why did my life feel like a never-ending circle of disappointment?
My friend, who will forthwith be referred to as Wifey (don't ask, it's a long story), told the funniest, lamest joke today. I won't retell it because it's pretty corny, but just know it has to do with Rice Krispies.
I'm not really sure why I just mentioned that...
Anyways, I found a picture of a girl that looks sorta like what I imagine Piper, the main character of my book, looks like:
Piper's eighteen though, and has green eyes (a rare combination). And her hair is naturally red. Okay, so the picture isn't perfect, but it's the closest thing I can find. It would be funny if I always walked around with a camera though, and said to random people "Can I take your picture? It's not for anything creepy, I promise. I just need it to look at when I'm writing." Weird. I've attempted drawing pictures of Piper, but without an image directly in front of me I have trouble drawing from my mind.
I like the big eyes look though. Not like in Pretties, but large enough to attract attention. Oh, and freckles. Piper has lots and lots of freckles.
I recently read a not so recent blog on Carrie Harris about first sentences in a story. This made me laugh, because the first sentence in The Not-So Meet Cute is a little unusual:
"Eww! I stink!"
Here, maybe I should give you the next few sentences too, just to give some all-important context:
I groaned. The boy sitting next to me in Calculus obviously had odor issues. I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t able to read his thoughts. Okay, I would’ve noticed. He was sitting upwind of me, and he was pretty ripe. I tried to scoot my desk away from him nonchalantly.
What can I say? I'm just trying to grab the reader's attention! I'm not gonna go all Lolita and make everyone gouge their eyes out:
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.
Now that's something to say eww to.
(P.S. Carrie has a snarfy contest you should check out!)
So, a few days ago, BFF Gonzizzle (a.k.a. Sonador) got me thinking about our disastrous Creative Writing class last year. Our teacher was a loon and, as such, she provided us with ridiculous assignments. For example, we wrote poems based on paradoxes, but she never really explained to the class what a paradox was, so we pretty much got away with whatever we wanted. Here's an example of a "paradox" poem that Sonador and I wrote (well, mostly me):
Paradoxes are as useful as pickles. Innuendos are more important to learn, because, seriously, you need to know what it means when someone offers you their pickle.
Yes, that was dirty. Our teacher never actually picked up on that, or that we never actually used a legitimate paradox.
Here's an example from our visual comparison poems:
Bubble letters are obese words. Their curves bulge out in every direction. Pudgy and pale letters lack symmetry, and remind us of fat, dead men.
See, we really did get away with anything. That poem was written to be read as a PSA. Why anyone would need more information on bubble letters is beyond me.
I don't know why that's particularly exciting, I just thought I'd mention the obvious.
What to say...what to say...besides that my computer is being a you-know-what. Eww, that sounds like Harry Potter when they say you-know-who. Stupid. You see, in my story, when people don't want to say other people's names, they give the person they're talking to a meaningful glance, and that person happens to know what that other person is glancing about. Way cooler. And confusinger.
Ha, I'm reminded of my journalism class when we had to take a poll, and mine was about best methods of communication. "Winking" was one of the options (an inside joke for a friend). Sadly, it only received two votes. I should've put glancing as an option.
Wow...I just had to look back at my writing and figure out how I got on the subject of winking. Like when you have a train of thought starting with pasta and ending with a lamp. Totally unrelated things. Unless you threw pasta at the wall to see if it was done and it hit a lamp instead (which could happen to me since I have terrible aim).
Once again, I apologize for all this randomness. Actually, I haven't apologized yet, so I apologize for the first time instead.